Cracks in the mirror
704 Words
Tinashe slammed the clinic door behind her harder than necessary.
Not because she was angry — okay, maybe a little — but because the memory of Ken’s cocky grin and that “Next time, maybe I’ll get a kiss” line had followed her all the way from the café, clinging like perfume.
“I hate how charming he is,” she muttered, tossing her bag on the desk.
Chipo looked up from the reception desk, eyebrow raised. “You’re back early. Coffee not hot enough?”
“It was fine.”
“You’re flushed.”
“It was the weather.”
Chipo tilted her head. “Mmm. Was the weather Nigerian and six foot three?”
Tinashe threw a pen at her.
---
Across town, Ken brooded on the balcony of his suite, a half-drunk whiskey glass sweating in his hand. He was trying to focus on tomorrow’s pitch deck and finalizing the Harare expansion plan.
But all he could think about was Tinashe’s mouth. The defiant curve of it when she smirked. The way her voice had dropped a little when she said “Thank you for the coffee.”
She was a walking contradiction — all steel spine and warm heart, intellect and fire wrapped in honey-brown curves and locs that begged to be touched.
And then there was Musa.
That smug “friend” with the camera who had hugged her like he’d done it before. Too comfortably. Too... territorially.
Ken hadn’t even realized how tightly he was gripping the glass until it nearly slipped from his hand.
He needed to see her again. Not in a café. Not in a suit. Just… her. Raw and real.
---
He got his chance the next day.
Tinashe was restocking supplies in her private office when the knock came.
She opened the door, fully expecting a courier. Instead, Ken stood there, holding a box.
“I brought you something,” he said.
“If it’s another offer letter, I’m not in the mood.”
“No,” he said, stepping inside. “It’s a sterilizer part. I made a few calls.”
She frowned. “You said you wouldn’t interfere.”
“It’s not interference. It’s… initiative.”
She exhaled, crossing her arms. “You don’t get to solve problems with money and call it kindness.”
He stepped closer. “Then tell me what would count as kindness. Because I’m trying. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that day. And I’m not used to this—” He gestured between them. “Feeling like I’m chasing shadows.”
Her heart stuttered.
She looked away, suddenly vulnerable. “You don’t know what you’re chasing.”
“Then tell me.”
Silence.
Then, softly: “My father built this clinic from nothing. Brick by brick. After he passed, it nearly collapsed. Everyone told me to let it go. Sell. Move to London. Start fresh. But I stayed. I rebuilt it.”
Ken’s expression softened. “That’s powerful.”
“It’s personal.”
“And I would never disrespect that.”
She looked up at him now, seeing something unfamiliar in his eyes. Not cockiness. Not ego. Just... sincerity. Frustrating sincerity.
“I don’t need a knight, Ken. I’m not some damsel in dental distress.”
“I know,” he said, voice husky. “You’re the storm. I’m just trying not to drown in you.”
Her breath caught.
Suddenly, the space between them crackled.
He reached up, brushing a stray loc from her face. His fingers grazed her cheek. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
His other hand hovered near her waist, not quite touching. Their lips were inches apart.
“Tinashe,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes.
Then—
The office door burst open.
Chipo stood there, wide-eyed. “Oh! Sorry! There’s a patient emergency—he bit his tongue clean through and he’s bleeding all over my keyboard!”
Tinashe jumped back as if scalded. “On my way.”
Ken stepped aside, jaw clenched.
As she rushed past him, he caught her wrist gently. “This isn’t over.”
She didn’t answer — but she didn’t pull away either.
And that, for him, was everything.
---
- Writer
