Chapter 6: The Laptop Meltdown
Zara arrived at the office at 7:52 a.m.—early for her standards, especially after the emotional gymnastics of the previous night. She'd barely slept. Chidi's blocked profile still haunted the edges of her mind like a ghost she couldn't fully exorcise, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw that red dress on someone else's body.
She clutched her takeaway coffee like a lifeline and dropped into her chair. The creative floor was hushed—only the low hum of the AC and the occasional keyboard clack from the early birds. She powered on her laptop, determined to polish the mood board before the 11 a.m. client check-in call. One last chance to prove she wasn't the "aggressively average" designer the last client had called her.
The screen blinked awake.
Then froze.
A pop-up appeared in stark white text against black:
**Critical disk error. Files may be corrupted or inaccessible. Run diagnostics?**
Her stomach dropped.
"No… no, please." She clicked "Run diagnostics." The wheel spun. And spun. And spun.
She refreshed the file explorer. The project folder was there, but when she double-clicked the mood board PSD, Photoshop threw another error: **File format not recognized. Corrupted data.**
Zara's hands started shaking. This wasn't a small glitch. This was everything—the color palettes she'd spent three nights perfecting, the reference images she'd hunted across Unsplash and Behance, the client notes she'd typed at 3 a.m. while crying over garri and tears. Gone. Or at least buried under digital rubble.
She slammed the laptop shut. Opened it again. Same nightmare.
Tears burned hot behind her eyes. She blinked them back furiously. Not here. Not in front of the glass-walled conference room where Mrs. Adebayo could see.
She grabbed her phone to call IT. Straight to voicemail. Of course the one day she needed them, they were probably in a meeting about "department restructuring."
Footsteps approached from the hallway.
Zara looked up.
Kian Okoye stood there in a simple navy polo and dark jeans, camera bag slung casually over one shoulder, holding two takeaway cups from the downstairs café. He was early for the location scout—too early—but the sight of him made something in her chest loosen just a fraction.
"Morning, duet queen," he started, that easy half-smile already forming. Then he saw her face properly—red-rimmed eyes, clenched jaw, hands gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping her upright. The smile vanished.
"Who died?" he asked quietly.
"My entire career," Zara whispered. "Laptop just ate my project. Files corrupted. Pitch redo is tomorrow. Mrs. Adebayo already gave me the 'one more miss and we talk about your future' speech last week. I'm done."
Kian set both coffees on her desk without asking. One was labeled in Sharpie: **Extra sugar, no nonsense – for the girl who screams ballads.** He'd remembered her karaoke rant about weak drinks.
"Sit," he said, voice calm but firm. "Let me look."
She didn't argue. She slid her chair aside; he took her place like he belonged there. Plugged in his external drive, opened a terminal window, started typing commands she only half-understood.
Zara hovered behind him, arms wrapped around herself. She tried not to notice how close he was—how his shoulder almost brushed hers, how he smelled faintly of cedarwood and fresh coffee. Or how steady his fingers were on the keys while hers were still trembling.
Minutes dragged. She paced a small circle behind her chair. He muttered to the screen: "Come on… there you are…"
"External backup?" he asked without looking up.
"I… maybe Google Drive? I think I dragged some versions there last Thursday."
He nodded, asked for her login (she gave it without hesitation—desperation had deleted her boundaries), and started pulling autosaves.
Twenty-three minutes later—Zara counted every one—he leaned back.
"Most of it's salvageable. Lost a couple adjustment layers and one reference folder, but the core mood board is intact. We can rebuild the rest in under an hour. You're not dead."
Zara let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Relief hit so hard her knees almost buckled.
"You just saved my life," she said, voice cracking.
"Technically your job," he corrected gently. "But yeah. Happy to help."
She looked at him—really looked. No cocky grin this time. Just quiet focus, the same kind he'd had when he harmonized with her on stage without making her feel small for cracking on the high note.
Before she could think better of it, she stepped forward and hugged him. Quick, impulsive, arms tight around his shoulders.
Kian froze for half a heartbeat—then wrapped one arm around her waist, the other gently across her back. He didn't squeeze too hard, didn't make it weird. Just held her like he understood exactly how close she'd come to breaking.
When she pulled back, cheeks flaming, she mumbled, "Sorry. That was… emotional damage."
He chuckled low. "Anytime. Seriously. No apology needed."
They sat together then—him in the spare chair she dragged over—and rebuilt the missing pieces side by side. He suggested bolder contrasts ("This pops more on dark mode"); she pushed back ("Brand guidelines say muted earth tones!"); they compromised on a hybrid palette that somehow looked better than her original. Banter flowed effortless, like they'd been collaborating for months instead of days.
By 9:45 the file was cleaner, sharper, stronger.
Mrs. Adebayo walked past, glanced at the screen through the glass partition, and actually paused.
"Looking sharp, Zara. And Mr. Okoye—you're early."
"Just pitching in," Kian said smoothly. "Team effort."
Mrs. Adebayo gave a rare approving nod and continued down the hall.
Zara turned to him. "You really didn't have to do all that."
"I know." He stood, stretched, rolled his shoulders. "But I wanted to. Plus… lunch is still on, right? Jollof debate. I brought backup evidence—my grandma's recipe pics on my phone."
She laughed—the first real, unforced sound since Chidi's story dropped like a bomb. "You're on, Okoye. But if you defend turkey over fish one more time—"
"Fish gang till I die," he cut in, winking. "Pick you up at 1 outside. Don't ghost me, Zara."
"I won't," she promised.
As he walked away toward the scouting meeting room, Temi materialized like she'd been waiting in the wings.
"Babe," she hissed, eyes wide. "Did I just witness you hug the snack guy? And he fixed your laptop like some tech god? And you're smiling like you swallowed sunlight?"
Zara shrugged, still buzzing. "He's… useful."
"Useful?" Temi snorted. "That's code for 'I'm falling and I'm terrified.'"
Zara didn't deny it.
Her phone lit up with a new message from the dating app.
**KianOkoyeSnaps:** Just checking—no more meltdowns? See you at 1, hero mode deactivated 😏
She typed back: **Thanks to you, crisis averted. Bring your best fish arguments.**
For the first time in what felt like forever, the disaster didn't feel like the end.
It felt like the messy, beautiful beginning of something else.
End of Chapter 6