In The Name Of Desire: a prayer unfinished

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Chapter One

Their Mood board

“The First day of a new beginning always feels the same—full of possibilities, yet haunted by the weight of expectations”

It is a bright new day! British International University is bustling with life students streaming in and out of the school gates, offloading food from different car boots, screaming and hugging long-time acquaintances. The air is thick with laughter, the luggage shuffle, and the occasional honk of impatient drivers trying to navigate the chaos.

I can’t shake off the feeling I got when I resumed as a fresher, it renews every new semester. Trying to redecorate my room for the third time, arranging my groceries in the kitchen and trying to sign off on important documents in the appropriate offices. That is how every first day of the semester feels like. 

But this semester feels different.

I tug at the hem of my loose graphic tee, adjusting my sneakers as I weave through the crowd. My oversized shirt hangs comfortably over my shorts, the cool morning air brushing against my legs as I move. Studying Theatre Arts at one of Nigeria’s biggest universities is a dream that many couldn’t afford. But I could. My brother is a superstar.

With his success comes certain privileges like tuition at a school this prestigious, effortless connections, and a name that carries weight in the right circles. But it also comes with a shadow a reputation that follows me before I even introduce myself.

People expect things from me. Some assume I’m talented by association. Others whisper about nepotism. Very few take the time to see me for me.

As I step into the main campus building, a group of freshers giggle behind me, their excitement infectious. It reminds me of myself two years ago wide-eyed, hopeful, ready to take on the world. Now? I know better. Dreams take work, and people will always watch, waiting for you to fail.

I exhale, adjusting the length of my shorts. This semester needs to go smoothly. No distractions. No unnecessary drama.

And then, as if this damned School is already testing me, I see him.

Tall. Composed. Out of place.

Even in a crowd of hundreds, he stands out. There’s a quiet intensity to him, something rigid, like he’s holding himself together in a world he’s still figuring out. The sharp angles of his face, the way his gaze sweeps the environment studying, assessing tell me everything I need to know.

He’s not from here.

For a split second, our eyes meet.

Something is unsettling about the way he looks at me calculated, detached.

I scoff internally. Whatever. I have bigger things to worry about.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and walk past him, letting the moment dissolve into the noise of campus life.

Chapter Two

“Some silences speak louder than words. And some stares say everything a person refuses to say out loud.”

The first two weeks of resumption are always lecture-free. Old Students need it to re-immerse themselves in school and New students are learning where their departments and Faculties are in this large compound.

The course list for the semester was just posted. I scroll through, scanning familiar titles until my eyes land on something unexpected Hausa Literature.

I blink.

I hadn’t anticipated this, but maybe that’s a good thing. It’s a new chapter literally. I’ve always been ignorant about other cultures, but this could be interesting. A chance to see things from a different perspective.

It’s why I chose Theatre Arts in the first place to tell stories, to understand people, to step into worlds beyond my own.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact that I have paperwork to sign before anything else.

I tug at the tip of my oversized jeans, glancing down at my see-through top. I decided to dress casually today. It’s subtle not too revealing but the literary, effortless aesthetic is there. 

Cute. Casual. Artsy.

Perfect for a day like this.

The HOD’s office isn’t particularly busy. A few students linger in the hallway, chatting in low tones while some professors move in and out.

That’s when I spotted him.

The guy from yesterday.

Even in an unfamiliar crowd, he stands out. His posture is straight, calculated, like someone who doesn’t let himself blend in. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something sharp and detached about the way his eyes roam the space.

I hesitate for half a second before stepping toward him.

“Hey,” I say, stopping at a reasonable distance. No need to scare the foreigner.

He barely acknowledges me.

I clear my throat, forcing a polite smile. “Do you know where the HOD’s secretary is?”

He looks me up and down.

Slowly.

His gaze drags over my top before flicking back to my face. Then, without a single word, he sticks his earbuds back in and turns his head away.

My smile drops instantly.

Huh? 

I narrow my eyes, exhaling sharply through my nose. He’s one of those guys.

Rude. Arrogant. Too self-important to answer a simple question.

I resist the urge to curse under my breath and simply hiss, turning on my heel.

Fine. I’ll figure it out myself.

As I walk away, my irritation simmers. It’s too early in the semester to be dealing with people like him.

But just before I turn the corner, something makes me glance back.

His eyes are on me.

Not on my face.

Not in the papers in my hand.

But at my top.

There’s no smirk, no frown, just a hard, unreadable stare.

I roll my eyes and keep walking.

If he has a problem, that’s exactly what it is -his problem.

Chapter Three

Some conversations are not spoken, but felt— in the weight of a name barely whispered, in the silence between questions, in the way eyes linger where they shouldn’t.”

I should cook.

I really should.

But my bed is calling me, and my assignments are glaring at me from my laptop screen. I don’t have the energy and time to dice onions and wait for rice to soften.

So here I am in a tight, cropped white tee, no bra, because it’s evening and I couldn’t be bothered. My loose joggers sit comfortably on my hips, and I slide my hands into the pockets as I make my way to the canteen. It’s just food. In and out.

The air is cooler now, a soft breeze brushing against my skin as I step inside. The canteen is half-empty, most students preferring to eat in their hostels by now. A few people sit at scattered tables, talking quietly, focused on their meals.

And then my eyes land on him.

He’s at one of the corner tables, sitting alone, a plate of food untouched in front of him. His posture is relaxed but closed-off, ear pods in, fingers lightly tapping the surface of the table as if his mind is elsewhere.

I could ignore him. I really could.

But after our last encounter, something in me itches to fix it, or at least make it less awkward. Maybe he’s just shy. Maybe he’s not as rude as he seemed.

I can handle a simple introduction, right?

Why am I doing this?

I straighten my shoulders and walk over, stopping just beside his table.

“Hey.”

It takes him a moment to register my presence. When he does, his eyes lift slowly, reluctantly. Dark. Unreadable.

I press on, offering a small, disarming smile. “I figured we should start over. I’m Folami.”

He watches me for a beat too long, as if deciding whether to acknowledge me at all. Then, barely above a whisper

“Anwar”.

His voice is lower than I expected, softer, as if saying his name out loud is a chore.

I almost roll my eyes again. Why am I doing this again? 

At least he answered this time.

I shift my weight slightly, glancing at the kitchen counter where my order is still being prepared.

“So, Anwar…” I test his name, trying to pull him into conversation. “You’re new here, right?”

Granted, dumb ass question. 

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t deny it either. Just blinks slowly, as if my presence is a test of his patience.

Still, I don’t let it discourage me. 

“What are you studying?”

A long pause.

Then, flatly—”Visual Arts.”

I hum, rocking slightly on my heels. “That’s cool. I study Theatre Arts.”

Nothing. No reaction.

I sigh internally. He’s not making this easy.

The silence stretches, and just when I consider giving up and walking away, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I glance at the screen. My brother.

I step away slightly, answering the call.

“Hey, young man.”

He chuckles on the other end. “Young man? I am older. Look at you, wide mouth ass.”

I roll my eyes, already knowing where this is going. He always calls to check in, but it usually ends in him teasing me about something.

“How’s school going already?” he asks.

I glance back at Anwar, who’s now picking at his food absently, his gaze flicking between me and his plate.

“Fine,” I answer distractedly, turning away slightly. “First week is boring, just running around signing documents.”

“Have you eaten this evening?”

“Getting food now.” I lower my voice playfully. “I wish I were back home, I want chefs at my disposal.”

He laughs. “So spoiled. Should I send you something?”

“Yes, you should!” I hissed quietly. 

“I thought you were independent now, anyways, you will see something soon “

Before I can argue, my order is called. I mutter a quick thanks to my brother and end the call, stepping toward the counter to grab my plate.

When I turn back to Anwar’s table, he’s looking at me.

And not like before.

His stare is hard, focused, unmoving, eyes lingering for just a second too long on my top before flicking back to my face.

Heat prickles my skin, but I force myself to act normal. It’s just a look.

I clear my throat and nod toward his barely touched food. “Not hungry?”

He blinks slowly, like I just interrupted a thought. Then, in that same quiet, restrained voice”Not really.”

I hesitate, but I know when I’m overstaying my welcome.

Yea, should totally head out.

I nod. “Well… see you around, Anwar.”

This time, he doesn’t put his earbuds back in.

Doesn’t ignore me.

Just watches as I walk away.

Always staring huh?

Chapter Four

Some people build walls with silence, others with words. Either way, the message is the same—keep out.”

Some days just aren’t meant for school.

I stretch lazily in bed, staring at the ceiling as the early afternoon sun spills through my curtains. I should probably drag myself to class, but why bother? It’s midweek, and I have better things to do than sit through lectures.

Like picking up my car from the repair shop.

Like shopping for the Hausa Literature class, because my lecturer has decided we need to “immerse ourselves in the religious aspect of the culture” and show up next week in Muslim robes.

I yawn, finally peeling myself out of bed. A quick shower later, I pull on a cropped white tee and a fitted white skort, slipping into sneakers before grabbing my phone. Just as I sling my Dior bag over my shoulder, my screen lights up.

My brother.

I smirk as I pick up. “What do you want now young man? You never call just to check in.”

His chuckle comes through. “Why would I? I have serious things going on for me here, you don’t know anything about that.”

I roll my eyes, settling onto the edge of my bed, letting out a small chuckle. “Very rude. You talk to other people like that? Or it’s just me.”

“Mm. Sure.” There’s a pause before his tone shifts. “You busy?”

“Not really. I’m heading to the repair shop to pick up my car.”

“Oh? Your car is bad? You need money for that?”

I scoff. “Do I look broke to you?”

“You always look broke.”

I gasp. “I’m going to rein in what I want to say.”

He laughs but doesn’t argue. Instead, my phone vibrates against my palm. A notification.

I blink. “You sent me 500k for a car repair. Tell me, what do you really need me to do?”

“As if you are a useful partner in crime.”

“Take it back.”

“No.”

I groan, rubbing my temple. “Yes, I am. It’s your fault for never needing my services.”

“With how stubborn you are, I wouldn’t take my chances.”

I sigh, knowing it’s pointless to argue. If there’s one thing my brother loves doing, it’s winning arguments and getting on my nerves.

“Fine.” I shake my head. “But I’m using part of this for shopping.”

“Obviously. That’s what it’s for.”

“So you admit this wasn’t about my car.”

He chuckles again, low and warm. “Just be at my listening party on Friday. You’re on the guest list.”

I blink. “Wait. Listening party?”

“Yeah. New music. Private venue. Lagos Island. Come dressed like you have sense.”

I scoff, slipping on my sunglasses. “If there’s free food, I’m there.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“Love you too.”

He laughs before hanging up, and I grab my bag that I dropped during the phone conversation, stepping outside.

Then I remember my car is still in the repair shop.

I sigh and pull out my phone, ordering an Uber.

The mall is half full, the air crisp with AC, students and working-class shoppers moving through the aisles. I step into a boutique, scanning racks for a Muslim robe that fits my style.

Something loose but flattering. Maybe embroidered.

Then I see him.

Anwar.

I swear he’s gonna think I’m stalking him now. 

My steps slow, just for a second.

Maybe it’s the way he looks today a fitted black polo, tailored slacks, a sleek leather watch on his wrist. Maybe it’s the way his short hair curls, slightly tousled, like he ran a hand through it absentmindedly. Or maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time, I notice him in a way I didn’t before.

Something about him is… almost effortlessly put together.

I shake the thought away and glance at what he’s holding.

Feminine accessories.

Not cheap, trendy ones. Classic, elegant pieces. The kind a grown woman would wear.

A mother, maybe.

That alone softens my impression of him.

Then his voice cuts through the quiet.

Low. Direct. Almost amused.

“Why is someone like you here?”

I freeze for half a second before turning to him.

His eyes meet mine, dark and steady, but unreadable.

Excuse me?

Dumb question huh

I tilt my head, irritation bubbling. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t rush to explain. Just lets his gaze drag over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s measuring something about me he doesn’t quite understand.

Something prickles at the back of my neck, but I refuse to be unsettled.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. 

“Forget it.”

For a moment, his stare lingers not mocking, not curious. Just watchful.

Like he’s waiting for me to react differently.

I don’t.

Then, just to make a point, I walk past him, not sparing him another glance.

He doesn’t stop me.

Good. Because I have nothing else to say to him.

Very slow in the head for real. 

Chapter Five

“Some connections are not spoken, but felt—in a name whispered like a prayer, in laughter that slips through guarded walls, in the echo of a word almost said right.”

Monday already.

It feels like the weekend barely happened, and now I’m here standing in front of my closet, staring at the Muslim robe I’m supposed to wear for Hausa Literature.

Well, it’s very different from my style I must say.

I run my fingers over the fabric. I sigh, deciding there’s no use stalling. With my car finally back, at least I get the privilege of wearing heels today without worrying about walking halfway across campus.

I rush to the kitchen to make scrambled eggs, going to open the shower in the bathroom while the water heats up. After my quick shower, I ate and fumbled with my attire a little, as I had never worn this before. Added my last coat of lip gloss, I wrap my head loosely with the scarf attached to the robe. 

Lip gloss—check. Heels—check. Doubt about how I look in this? Also check.

I shake the thought away and step out, heading to class.

The classroom is empty when I get there.

I frown, stepping back into the hallway just as a course mate strides down the corridor.

“Hey, is class cancelled?” I ask, stopping her.

She barely slows down. “No, it’s in the general hall downstairs. Joint class today.”

I blink. Joint class? Since when?

Following the stream of students, I head downstairs, and sure enough, the general hall is almost half full with familiar and unfamiliar faces.

I settle into a seat, waiting, as more students trickle in. Twenty minutes later, the lecturer finally steps up, microphone in hand.

“Today is a joint class of every type of art, and I am very happy that almost all of you are dressed as instructed.”

A few girls around me grumble about the outfit, but I just giggle. I get it. 

This is definitely out of the norm for most of us.

“For today’s session, we are merging Hausa Literature with Theatre Arts, Film and Media Studies, Music Production, and Visual/Fine Arts. We are going to examine the Hausa culture from every perspective that matters.”

That explains the larger crowd.

Apparently, the last class I missed was rehearsals for some students, because shortly into the lecture, the first performance began.

A group of students step up to demonstrate ‘Rani’ or ‘Leilei,’ the temporary tattoo tradition common among Muslim women.

After that, Arabic songs blast through the speakers, filling the hall with a rhythm that feels so different from what we’re used to hearing on campus.

Then come the paintings. Beautiful, striking portraits of women in Hijabs and various coverings, each telling a story of identity, tradition, and beauty.

The hall buzzes with quiet appreciation, the atmosphere shifting with each new layer of culture being uncovered.

Then the lecturer speaks again.

“I think we’ve had a great session so far. As a final touch, I had the idea of an impromptu spoken-word piece in Arabic. A few students have volunteered, and luckily, we have a student with Arabic as his native language. Let’s welcome Mr. Anwar Al-Husain to the stage with claps.”

My eyes widen.

What?

I straighten slightly, my gaze flickering toward the front. He’s in this class?

Of course, he is. He studies Visual Arts.

I stay still, hoping he won’t notice me in the sea of students as whispers ripple through the room.

“Is he Nigerian?”

“He looks Lebanese.”

“He’s so fine.”

I exhale, shaking my head. They’re not wrong.

Then he starts reciting.

And for the first time, I hear Anwar speak in full sentences loudly, clearly, passionately.

His voice carries through the hall like water over smooth stones, steady and rich, layered with something deeper than just words. His accent, his pronunciation it all sounds effortless, like the Arabic was meant for his tongue.

It’s mesmerizing.

I barely realize I’m leaning forward until he finishes and walks back to his seat.

Nonchalant. Composed. Like he didn’t just captivate an entire room.

After class, I head toward the parking lot, adjusting the scarf slightly, still not used to all this extra fabric.

That’s when I see him.

Anwar.

This time, he isn’t cold. He isn’t detached.

He’s standing near my car, eyes sweeping over me not critically, but almost… appreciatively.

His gaze lingers in a way I can’t quite define, and then—

“Hello.”

Low. Almost cautious.

I blink, caught off guard.

Did he just greet me? Voluntarily?

I school my expression, raising an eyebrow. “So you do know how to say hello.”

Something almost like amusement flickers across his face, but it disappears before I can be sure.

I cross my arms, tilting my head slightly. “Your recitation in class was… impressive.”

He nods once. “Thank you.”

“I actually tried to repeat something you said.” I clear my throat, recalling the phrase I’d tried (and failed) to pronounce earlier.

“Subḥānallāh.”

Anwar’s lips twitch. “That was not it.”

I frown. “Yes, it was.”

His head tilts slightly, and he repeats it effortlessly. “Subḥānallāh.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s exactly what I said.”

“You said ‘Soo-pana-lah.'”

I purse my lips. “Same thing.”

For the first time, he actually laughs. A quiet, short chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

And I’m too shocked by the sound to process anything else.

I don’t know what makes me say it, but before I can overthink it, the words are already out.

“You should come to my brother’s listening party this Friday.”

Anwar blinks. Not expecting that.

“Listening party?”

I nod. “He’s releasing new music. It’s a private event, but I’m inviting you.”

He exhales slowly, and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to shut the idea down immediately.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he holds my gaze for a moment longer, then he simply nods.

Progress.

Chapter Six

Desire and disdain—two sides of the same blade. And when it cuts, it leaves behind wounds you don’t understand, only feel.”

“I’m on my way”.

That’s the last text I got from Anwar. I know my brother, he is a very fancy individual so I couldn’t dress too casually, he might even call me to the platform in front of people I do not know. He has done that before, cue the PTSD. 

 I am torn between wearing a mini dress and an oversized jean jacket, or a halter neck top and a low-rise jean trouser. I laid both outfits on the bed and finished styling my edges as my braids are up in a bun. 

I chose the mini dress and oversized jean jacket, pairing it with black boots and a purple bag as a pop of colour. I spray my perfume combination for the day and Anwar’s text comes through. 

“I’m outside”. 

I smiled remembering how awkward the number exchange was the day I invited him to this party. 

He didn’t want to take my number, but he didn’t refuse either.

Grabbing my car keys, I head outside.

I spot him immediately leaning against my car, dressed similarly to me, in a black jean jacket, dark jeans, and boots.

Something about the unintentional coordination makes me feel warm inside.

What? 

His gaze lifts to mine, eyes dragging slowly over my exposed thighs.

Something flickers in his expression, something tight, unreadable. His jaw shifts like he’s fighting the urge to say something.

I clear my throat. “Hi.”

He replied with a nod and turned around so swiftly leaving me confused.

I frown slightly, confused at his reaction, but say nothing.

We get into the car, and I pull out of my driveway.

The ride is quiet. Anwar doesn’t initiate conversation, but now and then, I feel his gaze shift toward me just for a second.

Twenty-five minutes later, we pull up to the venue on the island, where everything screams luxury and exclusivity.

The moment we step inside, I can tell my brother outdid himself. The space is drenched in warm lights, sleek decor, expensive liquor, and the kind of crowd that thrives on indulgence.

I scan the room, spotting him in the center of it all laughing, drink in hand, a king in his element.

His eyes land on me, and a wide grin spreads across his face.

“There she is! My little star!”

I groan as he strides over. “Please, don’t start.”

He pulls me into a hug, unbothered by my resistance. “I have to! Look at you stylish as always.” His gaze flickers to Anwar, then back to me, an eyebrow lifting in question.

I clear my throat. “This is Anwar. A friend.”

My brother’s lips twitch like he wants to tease me, but instead, he offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Welcome to the madness.”

Anwar hesitates before shaking his hand. “Thank you.”

The formality between them is almost comical, but I brush it off.

“Have you eaten? The food’s at the back help yourself,” my brother says, gesturing toward the extravagant spread.

I glance at Anwar, and to my surprise, he actually looks relaxed.

Maybe tonight will go smoothly after all.

The moment the first song starts playing, I feel the energy shift.

My brother’s new single booms through the speakers, deep bass vibrating against my skin. The crowd moves with it slowly, indulgent, lost in the rhythm.

I catch Anwar’s expression from the corner of my eye.

His jaw is tight.

His grip on the glass in his hand subtly tenses.

I realize he doesn’t just dislike the music he’s repulsed by it.

But before I can say anything, someone passes me a shot and I take it. Then another. And another.

The warmth spreads through me, buzzing in my veins, loosening my limbs, making me feel lighter.

By the time the song ends, my head is spinning just a little, and the atmosphere feels… different. Closer. Heated.

And then I do something reckless.

I turn to Anwar, smiling hazily, stepping into his space.

And before I can think before I can stop myself I wrap my arms around him, pressing my body into his, my lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“Thank you for coming,” I whisper, my breath warm against his skin.

I feel him freeze.

His entire body goes rigid against mine, as I’ve just set something off inside him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

His breath is uneven, a sharp inhale against my cheek. I feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands almost twitch, as if he’s debating something push me away or pull me closer.

Then, suddenly, it’s like something snaps inside him.

He shoves me away.

Hard.

I stumble slightly, blinking up at him in confusion.

His face is carved from stone, his eyes dark not with heat, not with desire, but something closer to disgust.

And then he turns and walks out.

I follow him outside, the night air cool against my heated skin.

He’s standing near the curb, his back to me, his breathing sharp and controlled.

“Anwar?” My voice is hoarse.

He turns, and the way he looks at me like I’m unclean, like I’ve tainted him just by touching him makes my stomach twist.

“This was a mistake.” His voice is low, but firm.

I step closer. “I don’t understand—”

“Of course, you don’t.” His jaw tightens. “Look around you, Folami. This place these people—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Keep your unclean self away from me.”

I reel back.

The words land like a physical blow, knocking the breath out of me.

Unclean.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

He pulls out his phone, orders an Uber, and within seconds he’s gone.

Just like that.

I stand there, staring at the taillights as they disappear into the distance, a lump forming in my throat.

For the first time tonight, the buzz from the alcohol doesn’t feel warm it feels sickening.

I wrap my arms around myself, swallowing hard.

And then the tears come.

I feel disgusting.

I feel ashamed.

And worst of all, I don’t even know why.

Chapter Seven

“Desire does not always burn; sometimes, it lingers—

a quiet warmth, unwelcome yet unmoving,

refusing to be prayed away.”

The morning is cold, too cold, but the chill does nothing to quiet my mind.

I rise before dawn, as I always do. The world outside is still, untouched by the noise of the day, but inside me, there is no stillness.

I move through the motions mechanically. Wudu. Prayer mat. Fajr. The verses slip from my lips with practiced ease, yet my body refuses to feel cleansed.

I bow. I recite. I breathe deeply.

But I still feel her.

The memory clings to me like smoke, thick and suffocating. The way she pressed against me, the way her body moulded into mine with reckless ease, as if she belonged there.

I finish my prayer, rolling my mat tightly, my movements controlled, deliberate.

Then my phone vibrates.

Mrs. Al-Husain, my mother.

I exhale sharply before answering.

Mrs. Al-Husain (Arabic):

“As-salamu alaykum, habibi. Kayfa haluk?”

(Peace be upon you, my dear. How are you?)

Anwar (Arabic):

“Wa alaykumu as-salam, Ummi. Ana bikhayr, alhamdulillah.”

(And peace be upon you, Mother. I am well, thanks to God.)

I am lying.

Because my body is not at peace. Not when it still remembers her.

Bronze-skinned. Skinny, but with curves that speak in subtle whispers, not loud declarations.

She is not like the women I know. Not reserved, not careful. She wears confidence like perfume, bold and thick, leaving traces long after she is gone.

Mrs. Al-Husain (French):

“Je te manques, mon fils. Est-ce que tu manges bien? Tu dors assez ?”

(I miss you, my son. Are you eating well? Are you sleeping enough?)

Anwar (French):

“Oui, maman. Je prends soin de moi.”

(Yes, Mom. I’m taking care of myself.)

But I am not taking care of myself. Because if I were, I would not have let her touch me.

I would not still be thinking of the way she smelled.

That intoxicating, sinful scent. Sweet and musky, the kind that lingers in bedsheets and thoughts alike.

I remember the way it filled my lungs when she hugged me. The way my body froze, but not because I wanted her away. No. Because I wanted her closer.

Mrs. Al-Husain (Arabic):

“Alhamdulillah. Mais je m’inquiète, Anwar.”

(Praise be to God. But I worry, Anwar.)

Anwar (French):

“Pourquoi ?” (Why?)

Mrs. Al-Husain (French & Arabic):

“Parce que tu es dans un pays étranger, parmi des gens… différents. Hadhihi al-bilad la tashbahuna. Ahkiy li, hal tabqa ba’īdan ‘an al-banat al-naǧisāt?”

(Because you are in a foreign country, among people… different from us. This land is not like ours. Tell me, are you staying away from unclean girls?)

I freeze. My fingers curl against my palm.

Unclean.

I hear my mother’s voice, but I see her.

Folami.

Long legs. Slender, but never delicate. She moves like she knows men look at her, but she does not care.

Her mouth. Soft, unfiltered, teasing. The way she smiled after butchering the Arabic I had spoken so effortlessly, her tongue stumbling over the words, making them sound obscene.

And I had wanted to teach her. Had wanted to press the words back onto her lips until she learned them properly.

Anwar (Arabic, clipped):

“Ana afham, Ummi. Sa’abqa muhtaram, wa satakun fakhratan bi.”

(I understand, Mother. I will remain honourable, and you will be proud of me.)

A pause. Then another voice—Mr. Al-Husain.

Mr. Al-Husain (French):

“Anwar, mon fils.”

(Anwar, my son.)

Anwar (French):

“Oui, père.” (Yes, Father.)

Mr. Al-Husain (Arabic):

“Atadhkur? Al-‘ird dīn.”

(Do you remember? Honour is faith.)

Honour.

What honour was there in the way I wanted to pull her closer instead of pushing her away?

Mr. Al-Husain (Arabic):

“Fala taf’al ma yudannisu ismak.”

(Then do not do what will stain your name.)

It is already stained.

Not by action, but by thought. By desire. By the way, my mind is not where it should be, not in morning prayer, not in purity, but in the curve of her lips, in the sultry lull of her voice.

Mr. Al-Husain (French & Arabic, voice firm):

“Nous avons donné à Dieu une promesse, ya ibni. Wahdahu yahkum, walakin dhakiran, al-haram la yataghayyar bi dhunub al-ukhariin.”

(We gave God a promise, my son. Only He judges, but remember—what is forbidden does not change just because others sin.)

Anwar (French, tense):

“Je n’oublie pas.” (I haven’t forgotten.)

But forgetting would mean she is not under my skin.

And she is.

Mr. Al-Husain (Arabic):

“Hassan. Khayr inshaAllah.”

(Good. May it be well, God willing.)

The call ends. I am left in silence.

My hands are trembling.

But silence is dangerous, because now I can hear her laugh again.

I see the way her dress clung to her legs, the way her hips dipped into curves that were not loud, but quietly perfect.

I had shoved her away, but my hands still remember the feel of her waist, the slight give beneath my grip.

I should have left it at that. Should have walked out and forgotten her.

But I can’t.

I rub a hand over my face, my breath uneven.

I head to the kitchen, forcing myself to move, to do anything but stand in the grip of this temptation.

Because if I stay still too long, I will remember how soft she felt against me.

I am in control.

I am in control.

I am in control?

Chapter Eight

“Some desires do not announce themselves in daylight—

they wait for the quiet, for the darkness,

For the moment you are too unguarded to resist.”

I have been avoiding her all week.

Not that it’s hard. We don’t have classes together, and I have no reason to be anywhere near her. I make sure of it. Avoidance is easy when you convince yourself it’s necessary.

But necessity is a weak thing when desire lingers.

I head to the parking lot in front of my hostel, sliding into my car. I wanna pick up some equipment outside school.

I speed toward the campus gates, the tarred road familiar beneath my tires.

The package arrived earlier this week painting and drawing equipment from London. I ordered them for a school project, at least that’s the excuse I gave myself. One set for class. 

The other for her.

Because I need to draw her.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, the angles of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, the way light moves across her bronze skin. The details are burned into me, but I need to put them on canvas.

Only the best for her face on my canvas. 

I grip the steering wheel tighter.

I have been contemplating texting her, but how do I even begin that conversation?

“Sorry, I was a stupid, rude person.”

No.

I will avoid her until I can’t anymore.

By evening, I head to the school canteen, though I don’t expect to enjoy the meal.

Nigerian food is still a battle I lose daily. I barely eat anything here; my favourite foods are nowhere to be found. I settle for the easiest option the one thing I can suffer through without complaint.

Jollof rice and chicken.

But apparently, my punishment for existing today isn’t over yet.

Because she’s here.

Folami.

She stands in the short queue, placing her order, completely unaware of my presence.

I should turn around. I should leave.

Instead, I look at her.

And of course, her stomach and legs are out again.

Her bronze skin is smooth, her waist impossibly small, her legs long, her body just enough curves to leave the mind restless.

Y’allah, this girl is not making the easier on me.

I almost groan. 

Then I notice the waitress.

She is young, probably a student, holding a tray, but her attention is locked onto me with wide, admiring eyes.

A soft blush colours her cheeks as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, stealing glances at me like she’s afraid to be caught.

It’s almost innocent the way she stares at me like I am something untouchable, something worthy of admiration.

I look away.

Because that girl thinks I am someone honourable. Someone disciplined.

Someone who does not sit in the shadows of his mind, haunted by the scent of a woman he claims to avoid.

Dramatic huh? 

 I quickly headed to one of the tables at the back to hide, I don’t wanna talk to her yet, I don’t know what to say for my silly behaviour that night.

I hear a soft, knowing “Hmm.”

My stomach drops.

I glance up and Folami is looking right at me.

Her gaze is curious, unassuming, almost too innocent for what she’s just witnessed.

She saw the girl blushing over me, saw the way I looked away.

Her head tilts slightly, lips parting just enough to tell me she’s observing me, trying to figure me out.

And something in my chest clenches painfully.

Because she does not look at me like the waitress did.

She does not stare at me like a man to be admired, to be worshipped.

She looks at me with no interest, bored even. 

Like she sees something beyond the walls I build, something I don’t even want to name, but couldn’t care less. 

I look away first.

I quickly step back and slip into the furthest seat at the back, hiding myself before I do something reckless.

But of course, she doesn’t get a takeaway and leave.

No. She sits down.

Not beside me, but close enough to make me feel trapped.

I should leave.

I should not be watching her.

But I do.

Because even when I run, she finds me.

I leave the canteen in a rush, gripping my tray tighter than necessary.

I don’t look back. I don’t need to.

I can still feel her eyes on me, still hear the way she softly hummed when she caught me staring. Like she knew something I refused to admit.

The weight of it sits on my chest long after I’m gone.

By the time I return to my room, exhaustion drags at my limbs, but rest does not come easily.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, mind racing, skin warm in a way I cannot ignore.

She is everywhere. Her voice. Her scent. The way she looked at me.

I close my eyes, trying to will the thoughts away. Trying to erase her from my mind.

But in sleep, I lose control.

It starts as a whisper.

A low, husky laugh Folami’s laugh.

The kind she does when she’s teasing, when she knows she’s getting under my skin.

I see soft brown skin, the curve of her waist, the gentle sway of her hips.

Her lips part, whispering something I don’t understand, but the sound alone makes my stomach tighten.

Then I feel her.

She is close, impossibly close, her body pressed into mine, warm, soft, real.

My hands move before I can stop them, sliding up the length of her bare thighs, fingers digging into supple flesh.

She gasps softly a sound that ignites something deep inside me.

And then her mouth is on my throat, lips brushing against my skin, a slow, torturous drag of warmth.

“Anwar,” she murmurs, her voice low, sultry, drenched in something wicked.

I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her closer, breathing her in, drowning in the scent of her.

My pulse thunders, heat crawling down my spine, pooling low in my stomach.

This is wrong.

But God, it feels right.

Her hands slide down my chest, her fingers slipping beneath fabric, searching, claiming.

I wake up with a sharp, choked inhale.

My body is on fire.

Heat lingers everywhere on my skin, in my veins, in the very air I breathe.

My sheets are damp with sweat, my breath ragged.

And worst of all the evidence of my desire is undeniable.

For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, disgusted with myself.

Then, anger follows.

I throw the covers off, stumbling out of bed, hands clenched into fists.

I need to wash this away.

I need to purge her from my body, from my thoughts.

I step into the shower, turning the water as cold as it will go, letting it crash against my burning skin like punishment.

But the cold does not erase the heat.

It does not erase the feel of her in my hands, the sound of her moaning my name, the way she trembled in my hold.

Because it was not just a dream.

It was desire that had been waiting to surface.

And it had.

Now, I cannot ignore it.

No matter how much I try.

Chapter Nine

“Some walls are not built to keep others out—

but to keep something dangerous from spilling over.”

Lectures were cancelled today.

I found that out after leaving my hostel, walking halfway across campus, and making it to my department. It was a complete waste of my time and my outfit.

I sigh, slipping my phone back into my bag. I really need to start checking my messages before leaving my room.

Since I was already out, I decided to head to the library. I need to catch up on some readings on Drama and Prose anyway.

I walk in, scanning for an empty seat. The library is unusually quiet today—most students probably got the memo about class cancellations before getting dressed and heading out.

Settling into a chair, I pull out a textbook from my bag. I barely open it before my phone buzzes.

I glance down it’s my brother.

Two messages:

    •    Checking up on you. You good?

    •    Sent you some money for upkeep. Stay out of trouble.

I smirk, shaking my head. Typical.

I send a thank-you sticker in response, pocket my phone, and try to focus on my book.

I barely make it through the first paragraph before a shadow looms over my table.

I look up, and of course, it’s Anwar.

God. Can I get a break from this man?

I make a mental note to reinforce my avoidance plan. He has made it clear that he cannot be talked to like a normal person.

But now, he’s standing right in front of me, shifting on his feet, looking oddly out of place.

He grumbles a stiff “Hello”, his hand lifting slightly before he jerks his thumb toward the door.

A gesture. Come outside.

I blink at him.

Is he serious?

I glance around and of course, people are already staring.

I sigh, grab my things and follow him outside before I become the center of yet another unnecessary campus spectacle.

The moment we step into the open air, he exhales sharply, as if being indoors suffocated him.

I cross my arms, watching him. He looks… uncomfortable.

Good. 

“Well?” I ask, tilting my head.

He runs a hand over his face, sighing.

And then, in the stiffest, most reluctant tone imaginable, he mutters, 

“I’m sorry.”

I blink. Did I hear that correctly?

“You’re what?” I ask, stepping closer.

His jaw tightens. “I said I’m—” His voice drops lower, like the words are physically painful to say. “I’m sorry. For… that night.”

I arch a brow. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Anwar. What exactly are you sorry for?”

His fingers twitch at his sides. “For how I spoke to you.”

“And?”

“For pushing you.”

“And?”

He exhales through his nose. “Folami.”

I smirk, enjoying this more than I probably should.

“Say it again,” I say, folding my arms tighter.

His head snaps toward me, his eyes narrowing. “I just did.”

I shake my head, clicking my tongue. “Did you? I barely heard it. Come on, one more time.”

He looks like he’s debating walking away right now, but then his shoulders drop slightly, and he grumbles the words again.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Louder.”

“Folami.”

I grin. “You sound like you’re in pain.”

“I am.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Fine, fine. You’re forgiven. But only because watching you struggle through that was highly entertaining.”

Gosh, I’m so easy. 

He mutters something under his breath, but I catch the slight twitch of his lips. Almost a smile.

Almost.

I lean against the side of the building, crossing one leg over the other. “So, what brought this on? You suddenly woke up and realized you were an ass?”

He exhales slowly, his eyes shifting toward the trees lining the walkway. He doesn’t answer immediately, and I don’t push.

Then, he says, “I… don’t like it here.”

I frown. “Campus?”

He shakes his head. “Nigeria.”

I stare at him for a moment. “Wow. Okay. Harsh.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Not the country itself,” he mutters. “The food. I… don’t enjoy it.”

That catches me off guard. I was expecting a more dramatic complaint, maybe something about the weather or the noise, but food?

I tilt my head. “What don’t you like about it?”

He exhales, like he’s bracing for judgment. “Everything.”

I bark out a laugh. “Everything?”

He shrugs. “It’s too spicy. The textures are different. I can eat some things, but I never feel full.”

I consider this for a moment. Then, an idea forms.

“You know what?” I say, straightening. “I know a place you might like.”

His brows furrow. “What place?”

“A restaurant in town. Private, Egyptian-themed. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s authentic.”

He blinks, clearly surprised.

“You’d take me there?” he asks slowly, like he’s trying to read between the lines of an offer that doesn’t have any.

I shrug. “Sure. Think of it as part of your apology tour.”

He exhales, but this time, it’s not irritation. It’s something else.

“Fine,” he says after a moment. 

“When?”

I grin. “How about this weekend?”

He nods. No protest, so accepting. 

Okay..

Something about that feels different.

Maybe this is the start of something else.

Something I do not fully understand yet.

Chapter Ten

“Some moments do not ask for words—

they linger in the space between touch and hesitation,

suspended in the quiet ache of almost.”

Anwar and I settled our differences.  

Kind of. 

Or at least, he stopped being an ass long enough for me to tolerate his existence.

After the way he treated me at my brother’s listening party, I had completely signed off on him. He made it very clear he didn’t want to be my friend, so I decided not to waste my time trying to be his.

But the thing is… it felt personal.

Like he had a problem with me in particular. And I didn’t know what to do with that feeling. So I did the only logical thing I moved on.

Or at least, I told myself I did.

So why had I invited him to dinner?

Maybe because he looked good suffering through his apology.

He’s just too handsome for his own good. 

Maybe because despite his brooding, his sharp tongue, his stiff posture, he was so damn beautiful.

Or maybe because I wanted to see if there was something underneath all that tension he wore so tightly around himself.

Or underneath his clothes. 

I expected the dinner to be awkward.

Painfully so.

I expected clipped answers, uncomfortable silence, and a strained attempt at forced conversation.

But instead… it was easy.

Conversation flowed naturally, surprising both of us.

Anwar talked. Not just brief responses, but actual conversation.

He told me about his childhood, his life in Egypt, his passion for art how he preferred sketching to painting because it felt more raw, more alive.

I told him about the first time I stepped on stage, how performing felt like stepping into a different world entirely.

Somewhere between the appetizers and the main course, I stopped thinking about why I had invited him and just let myself enjoy his company.

And the food he actually enjoyed.

When he took his first bite, I watched his face carefully, waiting for a wince, a forced swallow. But instead, he hummed lowly, nodding as he chewed.

“This is good,” he admitted.

I smirked. “See? I told you. I know good places.”

He glanced at me then, something unreadable in his gaze before he murmured, “Thank you, Folami.”

And for some reason, the way he said it slow, deliberate, like he meant more than just the food made my stomach twist most weirdly.

It’s the little things.

The accidental touches. The way his fingers graze mine when we reach for the same dish. The way his knee brushes against mine under the table and he doesn’t move away immediately.

I notice all of it.

And then, there’s the way he looks at me.

I catch him staring more than once, his dark eyes moving over me in a way that makes my skin feel too warm.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even try to hide it.

At one point, I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin, and his eyes linger on my lips, long enough for me to notice, long enough to make me bite the bottom one without thinking.

His gaze flickers down at the movement, then back up to my eyes.

I raise a brow. “Like what you see?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “You’re aware that you’re beautiful. You don’t need me to confirm it.”

I blink. What the hell?

“Did you just give me a compliment?” I tease.

His lips curve slightly not quite a smile, but close.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, taking another bite of his food.

At some point, our conversation shifts to names.

He rolls his fork between his fingers, his expression thoughtful. “Folami… is that your only name?”

I hesitate briefly before shrugging. “My full name is Folami Eve.”

He stops rolling his fork. “Eve?”

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a smirk. “Eve,” he repeats, slower. “As in the mother of all. The first woman.”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He leans back slightly, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“It suits you,” he muses. “Tempting men into their downfall since the beginning of time.”

I gape at him. “Excuse me?”

Hmm. Including you? Anwar? 

He sips his drink, unbothered, smug. “I’m just saying.”

I cross my arms. “Oh? And what’s your middle name, then?”

His smirk fades slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it absolutely matters now.”

He sighs, placing his fork down. “Tarek.”

I let the name settle on my tongue, rolling it over in my mind. “Tarek. Sounds important.”

“It means ‘he who knocks at the door.'”

I blink. Then smirk. “Well, if I’m the mother of all, then that makes you… what? The one who comes knocking?”

He stares at me for a moment, then exhales a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“That was quite good. Hm.”

I grin. “Yup.”

The drive back is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just… something else.

I park in front of my hostel, shifting in my seat to face him. “Well, that wasn’t as terrible as I expected.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You expected it to be terrible?”

I shrug. “I mean, you aren’t exactly the warmest person, Anwar.”

He looks at me for a long second, then says, “Neither are you.”

I snort. “Yes, I am.”

We fall silent.

Neither of us moves to open the car doors.

And then, slowly, he leans in.

Not a kiss. Just a hug.

But something about it feels more than just that.

His arms wrap around me, firm but not forceful, holding me like he wants to and doesn’t at the same time.

And I don’t let go either.

I don’t know how long we’ll stay like that holding onto something unspoken, something neither of us has the words for.

But eventually, we separate.

Barely.

His hands drop to my waist, like he isn’t ready to step back completely.

And for a moment, it feels like something might happen. It 

But then, he pulls away entirely.

“Goodnight, Eve,” he murmurs before stepping out of the car.

I haven’t moved for a long time.

I just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Because whatever this is… It doesn’t feel like just friendship anymore.

Chapter Eleven

“Some names are spoken like a question—

not because they are unfamiliar,

but because they mean too much.”

The weekend was supposed to be for sleeping in, but of course, my brother had other plans.

He called me at midnight yes, midnight his voice urgent, excited, dramatic as usual.

“There’s someone you need to meet,” he said. “Be at the house early in the morning.”

I grumbled, half-asleep, barely listening, but somehow, here I am, by 10 AM, speeding down the highway to his Lagos mansion.

The roads stretch before me, the morning air unsurprisingly loud with various honks of cars speeding past me. I grip the wheel tighter, the hum of the engine filling the silence of my car.

I don’t know why I feel uneasy. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the fact that I have no idea who I’m supposed to be meeting.

Or maybe it’s because for the first time in a long time, my mind is somewhere else.

Or rather, on someone else.

I arrive at my brother’s house, the familiar gates opening smoothly as I drive in.

The housekeeper greets me with a small smile, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oga just stepped out, but he won’t be long,” she says.

Of course. Typical. Drag me out of bed, then disappear? Sounds exactly like my brother.

Cue the eye-roll

I let myself in, the scent of luxury cologne and polished wood settling over me like nostalgia. This house always feels too big, too quiet when he isn’t around.

I make my way to the living room and freeze.

Because I am not alone.

Sitting comfortably on the couch, scrolling through his phone like he owns the place, is someone I never expected to see.

I blink.

Then blink again.

“No. Way.”

His head snaps up, and the moment our eyes meet, everything else disappears.

“Fola?”

A slow, incredulous grin spreads across my face. “Tunde?”

He barely has time to react before I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, the familiarity of his warmth instantly wrapping around me in return.

“Oh my God, look at you!” I laugh, squeezing him tight. “It’s been forever!”

“I know!” He chuckles, hugging me back just as tightly.

His scent something expensive, musky, familiar pulls me right back to childhood memories, to summers spent running around together before life got complicated.

We pull away just enough to look at each other properly, and I can’t help but laugh again.

“You got taller.”

“And you are still ugly,” he teases, nudging me playfully.

I swat his arm, grinning like a kid. 

“You’re still annoying, I see.”

“And you’re still skinny.”

We fall into easy conversation, catching up like no time has passed.

He tells me about his insane career, his travels, and the artists he’s worked with. I already knew he was making big moves, but hearing it firsthand? It’s surreal.

“People really like your stuff huh?” I say, shaking my head in awe.

He shrugs, smirking. “I’d say the same about you, but I heard you still stress over drama school.”

It’s not drama school, dummy. 

“Some things never change.”

Just as we’re laughing over a childhood story, my phone vibrates on the couch beside me.

I glance at the screen.

Anwar.

I am almost startled.

He never calls.

Curious, I answer. “Hey, Anwar.”

“Are you on campus?” His voice is deep, smooth, but something about his tone is… off.

I smile. “Nope. My brother called me at an ungodly hour, so I’m at his place. And guess what? I ran into my childhood friend!”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, his voice comes slower. “Childhood friend?”

“Yes!” I glance at Tunde, who raises a brow at me, curious. “You won’t believe it Tunde! You know, Tee-the producer? The one everyone’s obsessed with?”

Silence again.

Not long. But just long enough to feel like something is wrong.

Then, his voice changes.

It’s still calm, still controlled, but I hear the shift in it the tightness, the hesitation, the weight of something unspoken.

“Tunde.” He says the name like it’s foreign on his tongue. “That’s… nice.”

I frown slightly. The way he says it doesn’t sound nice at all.

“Are you okay?” I ask, adjusting in my seat.

“I’m fine.” His response is too quick.

I exchange a glance with Tunde, who gives me a questioning look. I shake my head, not knowing how to explain.

He doesn’t sound okay…right? 

“I was going to ask if you wanted to get breakfast,” Anwar continues, his tone a little clipped now. “But clearly, you’re busy.”

I frown deeper. Why does it sound like he’s accusing me of something?

“I mean, I can still—”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts me off. “Enjoy your time with… Tunde.”

Rude. The way he says Tunde’s name is definitely not friendly.

“Anwar, what’s wrong with you?” I ask, sitting up straight.

“Nothing,” he mutters. “I have to go.”

And just like that, the call ends.

I stare at my phone, completely thrown off.

What the hell was that?

Tunde smirks beside me, leaning back into the couch. “Who’s that?”

“Just a friend,” I say automatically.

He gives me a knowing look. “Mmm. A friend.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”

But as I put my phone down, I can’t help but think about the way Anwar’s tone had changed, the way his words had tightened, the way he had cut the call before I could say anything else.

And more than that why does it matter so much?

Chapter Twelve

“Some distances are not measured in miles—

but in words left unspoken,

and in the weight of what was once said.”

Of course, she has someone.

What was I thinking?

She’s a beautiful woman, confident, free, untouchable in ways I cannot be. Why would she look at me the Muslim boy, the one who holds himself too tightly as anything more than an acquaintance?

For a moment, I thought we had something.

That dinner. The car ride back. The way she held onto me.

I thought the door had opened, even just a little.

Ha.

And then I called her, she was so happy, so excited not for me, but for him.

Tunde.

The name has been rolling around in my head since I ended the call, sharp and irritating like sand caught under my skin.

I need to clear my mind.

I need to stop thinking about her.

The library is the only place open on Sundays, so that’s where I go.

It’s quiet. It’s empty. It’s exactly what I need.

I grab the first textbook I see, flipping through pages, my mind searching for something anything to drown out the way she sounded when she said his name.

I focus on the words in front of me, forcing myself to absorb information that means nothing to me right now.

I’ve just started to feel the tension ease when—

“Anwar?”

Her voice.

I freeze, my fingers tightening on the edge of the book.

I don’t look up immediately.

I don’t need to.

I already know she’s smiling.

I can hear it in the way she says my name warm, light, effortless.

Like she’s happy to see me.

I exhale slowly before lifting my gaze.

Sure enough, she’s standing there, looking at me like she didn’t spend the last morning talking about another man in my ear.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says, stepping closer, her eyes searching my face like she’s trying to read me.

I turn a page I haven’t read. “I didn’t know you’d be here either.”

She frowns slightly at my tone but doesn’t back away.

“I was just passing through and saw you. Figured I’d come say hi.”

I nod, not offering anything more.

Her expression shifts. The smile fades a little, replaced by something more cautious. More guarded.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I glance at her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She tilts her head slightly, watching me, and I know she feels it.

The shift in my voice. 

The fact that something about me is colder now.

Of course, I am colder. 

“You’re acting weird,” she says bluntly.

I let out a dry, humourless laugh. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she says, crossing her arms. “You’re all hot and cold, and I’m tired of it.”

I close the textbook and finally look at her fully.

“I’m hot and cold?” I repeat, voice flat.

“Yes, Anwar. One second, we’re fine. The next, you’re this.” She gestures at me, frustration creeping into her tone.

I meet her gaze, my jaw tightening. “Isn’t that what you want?”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, you’ve got other people to entertain you, don’t you?”

Realization flickers across her face.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You’re jealous.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“Really?” She takes a step closer, her tone sharp now. “Because this definitely feels like jealousy.”

I exhale harshly, my fingers pressing into the table’s surface.

“So who is he?” I ask, my voice too even.

She blinks. “Tunde?”

I nod.

She tilts her head. “Why do you care?”

I clench my jaw. “I don’t.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I just didn’t realize you had a thing for music producers,” I say, the words bitter on my tongue.

She scoffs. “Are you serious? What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Yes, you do!”

I let out a breath, my patience thinning. “I just didn’t think you’d be the type to go for someone like that.”

Her eyes narrow. “Someone like that?”

I say nothing.

But I don’t need to.

Because she remembers.

She remembers exactly what I said the night of her brother’s listening party.

Her expression shifts, hardens, like a wall slamming down between us.

“Oh,” she says, voice quieter now.

The air between us turns tense, electric.

“Right. I forgot.”

I watch her carefully, but I don’t stop her when she takes a step back.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Folami—”

“No,” she cuts me off, her tone sharp. 

“Let’s not do this.”

I stare at her, something tightening in my chest.

“Do what?”

“This.” She gestures between us. “Whatever this is. Because clearly, it’s not a friendship. And I can’t be close to someone who was raised to think like that.”

Her words land exactly where she wants them to.

I don’t know what to say.

And she doesn’t wait for an answer.

She scoffs, turns around, and walks out.

The sound of her footsteps fades, leaving only silence.

And for the first time, I realize—

This isn’t about Tunde.

It never was.

It’s about me.

And the fact that I still have amendments to make.

Chapter Thirteen

“Some hungers are not for food—

but for the way eyes linger,

for the silence that says too much.”

Yesterday was too much.

Too emotional. Too frustrating.

After blowing up at Anwar in the library, I went straight home, abandoning my plans for the day. I couldn’t think straight, and I definitely wasn’t in the mood to sit in a classroom, pretending to care about lectures when my mind was still stuck on him.

Now, it’s Monday, and I should be in class, but I can’t find the energy to get out of bed.

I tell myself I’ll be productive in other ways maybe read, maybe catch up on coursework. But in reality?

I do nothing.

The only thing I eat is ice cream, and at some point, I decide that I’ll eventually go to the canteen for actual food.

Until a text notification lights up my phone screen.

Anwar.

“Are you in class?”

I stare at the message. I don’t reply.

A few minutes later, another one comes in.

“I’m coming to your hostel now.”

What? 

I blink at the screen.

No.

I still don’t reply.

What is wrong with him? Why won’t he just leave me alone?

I grip my phone tighter, irritation bubbling under my skin. I want to kill every feeling I have for him.

He has made it clear that he has reservations about people like me.

What does that even mean? 

So why is he here?

A sharp knock echoes through my room, heavy, insistent.

I exhale harshly, pushing myself up from bed.

When I open the door, he walks in without permission.

Like he belongs here.

Like I wouldn’t still be mad at him.

Like I wouldn’t slam the door in his stupid, handsome face.

He’s holding a plastic bag with the canteen’s logo, the scent of warm, spiced food instantly filling my small space.

Totally don’t care.

I fold my arms. “What do you want?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Or at all.

Instead, he walks past me, heading straight to my small center table, and begins unpacking the food.

The scent is painfully familiar.

Jollof rice. Grilled chicken. My go-to order.

He noticed.

I watch, arms still crossed, as he spreads the containers neatly, acting as if he’s completely unaware of my glare.

Finally, he speaks. “You haven’t eaten today.”

I scoff. “That’s not your business.”

“It is if you’re starving yourself because of me.”

No I am not. I’m keeping myself in shape you self-centred, arrog-

I freeze slightly.

He says it so quietly, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment, I don’t know how to respond.

My fingers tighten around my arms, my nails digging into my skin. I don’t want to do this.

I don’t want to soften for him.

Not after everything.

But my stomach betrays me.

A quiet growl, too low for me to ignore but not too low for him to miss.

His lips twitch slightly. He heard it.

Ugh.

I sigh, finally uncrossing my arms, stepping closer, eyeing the food.

“Bringing me food doesn’t mean everything is okay, Anwar,” I mutter.

“I know.”

I look up at him. He actually means it.

“I came to apologize.”

His voice is low, but firm.

“For the listening party.” He exhales, looking down briefly before meeting my gaze again. “For yesterday. For the way I’ve been acting.”

I say nothing, just watching him, waiting.

“I know I can’t just show up with food and expect things to be fine,” he continues, voice measured, steady. “But I wanted to try.”

Try.

There’s something tentative in the way he says it, something I haven’t heard from him before.

Something that makes my breath catch in my throat.

I sit down on the couch, reaching for the food slowly, my walls still up, but cracking just enough.

I pick up a spoonful, avoiding his gaze, but I feel his attention on me.

And that’s when I realize it.

He hasn’t been looking at my face.

Not really.

His gaze is lower.

I follow his line of sight, and suddenly, I’m aware of my own body in a way I wasn’t before.

I’m wearing a yellow tank top, fitted, hugging my skin in all the right ways.

The fabric clings to me, thin enough to reveal the curve of my collarbones, the dip of my waist.

I shift slightly in my seat, suddenly too aware of the way his eyes drag slowly over my exposed skin.

His jaw tightens, his fingers flex slightly at his sides.

And then, he mumbles it.

“Don’t tempt me.”

It’s so low I almost don’t hear it.

But I do.

And it makes something inside me twist.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, my stomach flipping in ways I don’t want to name.

His gaze lingers, dark, unreadable, before he forces himself to look away.

But the damage is already done.

I turn my focus back to the food in front of me, suddenly too shy to meet his gaze.

The air between us is thick now, heavy with something we don’t name.

He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “I have to go. It’s almost time for prayer.”

I nod, looking down at my plate, still very aware that my skin tingles from his stare.

He steps back toward the door, and for a moment, I think he’s about to leave without saying anything else.

But then, he speaks.

“Eat properly, Eve.”

Eve? Since when? 

The way he says my name soft, intentional, and careful makes my stomach tighten.

I lift my eyes just in time to see him walking out.

He leaves behind more food than I could ever finish.

He leaves behind the scent of him, the warmth of his presence.

And worst of all?

He leaves behind a feeling I don’t know what to do with.

Chapter Fourteen

Some distances are measured in inches,

some in breaths—

But the most dangerous ones

are the spaces we refuse to close.”

I don’t know what I expected when I knocked on his door, but hearing him speak fluent, rich French was not on my list.

The moment he opens the door, the phone is pressed to his ear, and his voice is low and deep. I freeze.

Wth! 

His tone is smooth, effortlessly confident, each word rolling off his tongue like silk.

I don’t understand everything he’s saying, but the rhythm of it the accent, the fluidity it grips me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

His mouth moves effortlessly, shaping words I can’t quite grasp, and suddenly, I can’t stop staring at it.

I step inside without waiting for an invitation, too caught up in the sound of his voice to overthink it.

The food I brought is still warm in my hands, so I head straight to the small kitchen and place the container on the counter.

But my mind isn’t on the food.

It’s on him.

On the way he stands, leaning against the doorway, one arm propped against the frame, his free hand flexing slightly as he talks.

It’s on his mouth, the way his lips shape each word, the slight smirk that forms when whoever he’s speaking to says something amusing.

It’s the fact that this is something new, something I never knew about him, something that shouldn’t be this…

Captivating? 

HotAF?! 

His voice drops lower for a second, and I swear my stomach flutters.

What the hell is wrong with me?

His conversation finally ends, and before I can recover, before I can even pretend I wasn’t just mesmerized, he turns to me with an unreadable expression.

“How did you know I’d be around?”

His voice is back to normal now calm, slightly amused.

I blink, clearing my throat before holding up the folded paper in my hand—his printed class timetable.

Yeah, I had to. 

“You don’t have class today.”

He raises a brow, stepping closer. “So you printed my schedule?”

I shrug. “I prefer my stalking to be efficient.”

His lips twitch, and for the first time since I stepped in, he chuckles, the sound deep and low.

“And here I thought you were just here to see me.”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. “I’m just here to return the favour so you don’t think you did me a favour.”

He folds his arms across his chest, and that’s when I notice it.

The way his forearms flex, the hint of definition beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the way he fills out his shirt so effortlessly.

I swallow. Okay, Fola. Focus.

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” I say, shifting the conversation before my thoughts take over my mouth.

“It’s my second language,” he replies smoothly.

“I thought Arabic was your second language?”

He shakes his head, stepping toward the counter where I placed the food. “Arabic is my first. French is my second.”

That makes me pause. “Wait, I thought they only spoke Arabic in Egypt?”

I’ve never met an Egyptian okay! 

A slow smirk pulls at his lips, and something about the way he looks at me now feels like…

Why is he looking at me like that? 

“You really don’t know much about other people’s cultures, do you?”

I scowl, crossing my arms. “That’s not true. I know things.”

He lifts a brow. “Like?”

I open my mouth, then close it.

Damn it.

He chuckles again, but this time, it’s softer, warmer, like he’s actually enjoying himself.

We settle on the small couch, the food between us, our movements easy, natural.

While we were taking bites of jollof rice and grilled chicken, I learn things about him I never expected.

Anwar is a phenomenal painter.

I didn’t need more reasons truly. 

I should have guessed, considering what he’s studying, but the way his eyes light up when he talks about it is something else entirely.

So… passionately sexy? 

“I want to open my gallery back home,” he admits, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the table as he speaks. “But Nigeria has the best teachers for fine art. That’s why I’m here.”

Ah okay. 

I watch him closely.

“So one day, I’ll walk into an Egyptian gallery and see your name on the walls?”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Insha’Allah.”

ARABIC! again. 

I don’t realize I’m smiling too until he looks at me, his gaze lingering a little too long, and I couldn’t understand his expression.

Something feels different now.

“What about you?” he asks.

I exhale, leaning back slightly. “I lost my parents when I was little. My brother has raised me since.”

My mouth moves by itself now. 

His brows pull together slightly, and then, something softer settles over his features.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I force a small smile, but his gaze lingers.

Like he sees something in me that even I don’t acknowledge too often.

The moment stretches, too quiet, too heavy.

So I broke it.

“So, are we even now?” I ask, tilting my head toward the food. “I returned the favour.”

“I suppose.” His voice is low, but there’s something else in it now.

Something I don’t know how to name.

Stop it. 

And then his gaze drops.

Not to the food.

To me.

To my bare legs, my exposed skin, the soft pink fabric of my top.

His jaw tightens slightly.

“Why would you wear this,” he mutters, “knowing you were coming here where I live alone?”

What… 

My breath catches.

“Knowing that no one will be here to stop my mind from running wild aside you”

I wasn’t expecting that.

At all.

I wasn’t expecting his voice to dip like that, rough, like it’s suddenly harder to breathe.

Heat crawls up my neck.

“Because I feel safe around you,” I say quietly.

It’s the truth.

And for some reason, that’s what makes all of this even worse.

His lips part slightly, his gaze flicking from my eyes to my lips, then back again.

Then, before I can react he moves.

He stands, his movements slow, deliberate.

Before I can process what’s happening, his hands grip my waist, his strength effortless as he hoists me up into his arms.

EFFORTLESSLY!!

A small gasp escapes me, my hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders.

I feel his muscles tense beneath my palms, feel the heat radiating from his skin.

I should tell him to put me down.

I don’t, of course. 

Because his grip is firm, but his touch is careful.

And then he speaks.

“I’m happy you feel safe around me,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

“But you’re killing me, Eve.”

A slow, wicked smile pulls at my lips.

“Am I?”

His hold tightens for a fraction of a second, and his breath stutters just slightly.

His silence says enough.

Neither of us moves.

Neither of us lets go.

And just like that the space between us disappears.

Chapter Fifteen

“Some distances are created by silence,

some by time—

But the hardest ones to cross

These are the ones we build in our minds.”

Our lips are just a breath away.

I feel the tension, the heat, the unspoken pull that has been building between us for weeks.

Anwar’s grip on my waist is firm, hesitant, and deliberate. His chest rises and falls slowly, like he’s fighting something within himself.

His jaw tightens, his throat bobs as he swallows.

And then, in a voice so low it barely exists, he murmurs, “This is dangerous.”

The moment shatters.

Don’t ask! I do not know. 

Slowly, painfully slowly, he sets me back on my feet, his hands lingering for just a second longer than necessary before he steps away.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t trust myself to look at him, not when my pulse is hammering so loudly in my ears.

His voice is calmer when he speaks again, but there’s something strained in it. “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

I blink. 

Is he trying to distract me?

I can’t deal with this.

I grab my bag, forcing a shrug. “I have some assignments to do.”

That is such a lie. 

But I can’t let him see how rattled I am. I need to get out of here before I do something reckless.

I can’t even say what. 

I rush past him, pushing out of his hostel, my feet moving too fast, like I’m running from something.

Something I don’t have a name for yet.

I slide into my car, gripping the steering wheel, but I don’t start the engine right away.

I just sit there, staring at nothing, my heart still not back to its usual rhythm.

I replay his voice, his hands on me, the way his breath felt so close to mine.

Am I happy it didn’t go further?

Or am I disappointed?

Do I even want to go further with Anwar and his conflicting emotions?

Does he really like me, or is he just trying foreign girls?

The thought claws at me in a way I don’t like. I start the car and drive home faster than I should, trying to outrun my thoughts.

What was I thinking, going to his place?

I wake up earlier than usual, my body restless. So I dress quickly and head to class long before I need to.

When I walk in, the room is mostly empty only a few students scattered around. I never come this early.

The one time, I swear…

But maybe if I keep myself busy, I won’t do something stupid again.

Like printing Anwar’s timetable.

Like going to his hostel unannounced.

Like letting myself get close enough to feel his breath on my lips.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on anything but him. But it’s hard when he hasn’t texted me.

Hasn’t called.

Hasn’t even sent a casual, empty message. What is he doing?

What is he thinking?

Why do I care?

I cannot let Anwar take over my thoughts before I do something impulsive again. After class, I drive home, needing a change of energy, a change of scenery, I remember that tonight, I have a party to attend something casual, something to take my mind off things.

Some acquaintances are in town, and it’s a good excuse to get out, to remind myself that my life isn’t just tangled up in thoughts of him.

It’s crazy to go out on a school night, but they’re not students.

I am.

Unfortunately.

But tonight, I don’t care.

I change into something bold bright, tight, revealing, everything I know would make Anwar uneasy.

Like he’s going to see me. 

Not that it matters. He isn’t here.

He hasn’t texted.

And I won’t be the one to reach out first.

So I let myself be distracted.

I drink too much.

Laugh too loudly.

Let my body move with the music, let the heat of the night soak into my skin, let myself forget just for a few hours.

But even as I drown myself in the distraction, in the noise, a part of me still wonders if he’s thinking about me, too.

Why am I still thinking about him again? 

I can’t drive home.

I’m too drunk, too lightheaded, too far gone.

So I leave my car at a friend’s place and order an Uber back to my hostel, the city lights blurring as I lean against the window, exhausted.

I should feel free.

I should feel weightless.

Instead, I feel everything.

And somewhere in my haze, I wonder if I’ll wake up tomorrow and still feel his hands on my waist.

Chapter Sixteen

“Not all questions need words—

Some are asked in glances,

answered with hesitation,

and left unresolved in the quiet between us.”

I wake up to a pounding headache, my body feeling too heavy, too slow.

Damn! 

The night before is a hazy blur of laughter, music, and too many drinks.

I groan, rubbing my temples before forcing myself to check the time.

Shit. I’m late for class.

The temptation to sink back into my pillows is strong, but I know I’ve missed too many classes already. Attendance counts for marks, and I can’t afford to keep slipping.

With a sharp breath, I push myself out of bed and stumble toward the bathroom.

I rush like I am going crazy.

A quick shower, a hasty brush of my teeth.

I don’t have the time for a proper breakfast, so I settle for a cup of tea and a few apples, swallowing them down quickly as I throw on my outfit- a denim mini skirt and a white crop top.

By the time I step outside, the sky is a deep shade of gray, heavy with the promise of rain.

Oh, God. 

I don’t think too much about it I just need to get to my car.

But when I reach the parking lot, my car isn’t there.

I freeze.

Then it hits me. I left it at my friend’s place.

Oh Shit. 

And I don’t even have my keys.

What was my plan huh? Without my car? 

A sigh pushes past my lips. So much for not being late.

I pull out my phone and quickly order an Uber, tapping my foot impatiently as I wait.

Ten minutes later, my phone vibrates.

Uber driver: I’m here. Green Toyota.

I glance around, searching for the car.

Nothing.

And then, as if on cue the rain starts.

It comes fast, pouring heavily before I can even react.

I squeal, running back toward my hostel, but by the time I make it to the entrance, my hair is damp, my clothes cling to me, and my skin is covered in goosebumps.

Great. Just great.

Class is a lost cause now. I’m not going anywhere like this.

No way in hell. 

I turn around, ready to head back inside, when I hear the sound of a car pulling up beside me.

A sleek, black car rolls to a stop.

The window slides down.

And there he is.

Anwar. At this point, I swear it is stalking. 

His gaze sweeps over me from my drenched clothes to my shivering arms.

Of all times to see me, when I look like a rat seems best, Jesus!

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Then, finally—”Get in.”

I hesitate. Of all people, him?

His eyes hold mine, steady, unreadable.

“Eve.” His voice is calm but firm. “Just get in.”

I exhale and slide into the passenger seat, the warmth of the car a stark contrast to my frozen skin.

We don’t speak.

His car is quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the engine and the soft pitter-patter of rain against the windshield.

I’m cold so cold that my body shivers involuntarily.

Anwar notices.

Without a word, he turns down the AC and, to my surprise, turns on the heater.

Oh? 

The warmth spreads slowly, easing the chill from my bones.

I shift slightly in my seat, feeling an unfamiliar tension settle between us.

“Thank you,” I mumble, barely audible.

He nods, eyes still focused on the road.

“Where to?” he asks.

“Drama and Prose,” I mutter, pulling my arms around myself.

He makes a turn without hesitation, driving smoothly, effortlessly.

But something about the way he holds the wheel his grip, the way his fingers flex slightly feels strained.

Like he’s holding something back.

Like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

We arrive in front of my department building. He doesn’t unlock the door immediately.

Instead, he lingers.

The silence stretches, and then-

“Can I take you somewhere later?” His voice is careful, low, and deliberate.

I blink, turning to face him fully. “What?”

“You know…” His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “For us to talk.”

No you can’t, leave me alone. 

My chest tightens.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve gone out too much this week.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “What do you mean?”

I start speaking-

“I was at a party last night, so I—”

His expression shifts, he looks annoyed now.

I feel the energy in the car shift, his gaze sharpening as he pieces things together.

“A party?” His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge to it now.

Yea?

I hesitate.

He notices.

And I see it. The flicker of something in his eyes.

Possessiveness.

Jealousy.

Something he doesn’t voice but definitely feels.

He glances at me again, and then at my bare legs, the way my skirt barely covers my thighs.

“You don’t have your car,” he says slowly. “Why?”

I swallow, gripping the hem of my skirt slightly. “It’s… nothing.”

He doesn’t believe me.

But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Fine.”

Then, in a voice quieter than before—”Maybe this weekend?”

I hesitate again, but this time, I don’t say no.

“Text me,” I say instead.

Something unreadable passes through his gaze.

Then he nods, unlocking the door.

I step out, the cold air hitting me instantly, but I don’t turn around.

I don’t look back to see if he’s still watching me.

Because I already know he is.

Chapter Seventeen

Some decisions are made in silence, not in words, but in the way hands hesitate,

not in words,

but in the way hands hesitate,

and in the way eyes refuse to look away.”

I tell myself this isn’t a date.

Because it isn’t! 

I repeat it like a mantra as I swipe gloss over my lips, as I adjust the plunging neckline of my top, as I try

and fail to keep my hands from trembling while I fasten my earrings.

It’s not a date. It’s just dinner.

Then why am I so nervous? 

Anwar invited me out.

For the first time, he initiated it.

That should mean something. Shouldn’t it?

I almost feel special. 

I exhale, gripping the edge of my vanity table. What if he brings up what happened in his hostel?

What if he says it was a mistake?

Is he that dumb? 

What if I blurt out something stupid like, “Is this a date?” No. I need to act normally.

There’s no way I am embarrassing myself like that. 

I slip into my heels, grab my bag, and head outside before I start rethinking my entire life.  Anwar’s car is already waiting when I step out of my hostel.

I spot him easily leaning against the side of his car, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze already locked on me. Something about the way he’s looking at me feels different.

Like he’s seeing me for the first time.

Like he’s taking his time.

Like he’s memorizing every detail.

I almost shiver from how hot his stare is. 

I make it halfway to the car before he finally breathes out,

“You are a gem.”

The words land softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say them out loud. Heat spreads through my chest, my fingers tightening around my purse.

A gem…huh. 

I want to tease him and ask if he’s suddenly learned how to compliment women properly.

But instead, I say, “Thank you.”

And for the first time, I let myself feel giddy about it.

The shiver spreads. 

The restaurant is quieter than I expected—warm lights, rich wooden interiors, soft music in the background. Anwar is sitting across from me, one arm resting on the table, his eyes focused steadily, unshaken.

He’s been watching me all night. And then, he opened his mouth.

“That day in my hostel.” His voice is low, but certain.

Yeah…?

My breath catches.

“I wanted to kiss you.”

I don’t move.

“I still do.”

How do I react to this! 

His fingers tap lightly against the table, his eyes searching mine.

“But I stopped because I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of the moment.”

I exhale shakily, gripping my glass.

“And?” I prompt.

Can he hear my beating pulse?

“And,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “because if I kiss you, I want you. Permanently.”

The air between us shifts. It thickens, presses in.

“This isn’t just a university romance for me, Eve.” His voice is measured, firm. “I need you to understand that.”

I swallow.

“I’m a Muslim from a very prejudiced background.” His fingers flex against the table. “Whatever I do with you will have consequences not just here in Nigeria, but back home in Egypt.”

His words settle between us heavily. 

“I’m ready to go against my Maman and Baba for you.”

My throat tightens. He’s serious.

I’m this close to saying ‘it shouldn’t be that serious.’

“But I need to know that you want this too. Because once I choose you, I won’t let you go.”

The moment stretches, his confession sinking into my skin, into my bones. I inhale deeply, trying to steady myself.

“Anwar,” I say, my voice softer than before. “I won’t change for you.”

Setting the pace. 

His eyes say words I couldn’t catch.

“I love myself, just as I am. And that won’t change.”

A slow, deep breath escapes him, his gaze dropping not in disappointment.

Like understanding? 

“I don’t want you to change,” he murmurs.

His gaze flickers down, sweeping over my bare stomach, my exposed chest, the way my top clings to my skin. His eyes grow heavy, and then, in a voice so low it barely exists,

“I want you.”

I freeze.

“Every bit of you. Naked and clothed. Vain and deep. Bratty and unsure. Every piece you have to offer.”

A slow, hot pulse spreads through me.

My breath shakes.

I need to get out of here.

I push back my chair abruptly. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Away from him I go. 

I don’t look at him when I leave. I can’t.

When I return, our table has been cleared. Anwar is waiting by the exit, his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“I paid the bill,” he says simply.

I nod, following him outside.

The drive back is silent.

Not awkward just thick with things left unsaid.

When we arrive in front of my hostel, he shifts slightly, turning toward me. I expect him to say something to continue the conversation we left unfinished.

Instead, he leans forward.

Not quite a kiss.

But his lips brush lightly just barely above mine.

A ghost of a touch.

A promise.

The words I didn’t catch. 

Before I can react, he leans in again, this time against my ear.

“When you’re done overthinking it,” his breath is warm, his voice a whisper that curls into my skin,

“You have my timetable.”

And then, before I can fall apart, he pulls away.

Oh My Goodness, what was that? 

I step out of the car on unsteady legs.

I don’t turn around.

My eyes won’t look back. 

But I feel his gaze on me until I disappear inside.

Chapter Eighteen

He told himself to walk away. To forget her. But then he saw her in the rain, and his resolve became a prayer unfinished.”

Anwar’s POV (The day he saw her in the rain) 

The cold air clings to my skin as I wake before dawn, the silence of my hostel leaves the air thick, leaving me restless.

I pull back the blackout curtains. The sky is swollen with gray. The cloud is stormy.

I perform ablution, letting the icy water shock me awake, washing over my hands, my face, my arms cleansing, resetting.

I roll out my prayer mat, kneel, and bow, letting the familiar Arabic verses spill from my lips as I ground myself in what I know.

“Allahumma ihdini ila sirat al-mustaqim…”

(O Allah, guide me to the straight path…)

My voice is steady, but inside, I feel anything but.

As I rise from my prayer, my phone buzzes. Omar. A name that reminds me of who I am, where I come from, what I was meant to be.

Who I don’t wanna be.

I answer, my mouth stretching into a smile opposing how I truly feel as I hear his voice.

He calls at the worst times.

“As-salamu alaykum, akhi! Kayfa haluk?”

(Peace be upon you, my brother! How are you?)

“Wa alaykum as-salam, Omar. Ana bikhayr, wa anta?”

(And peace be upon you, Omar. I’m well, and you?)

“Alhamdulillah. Mais dis-moi, tu souffres toujours là-bas avec tes ‘trucs artistiques’ ?”

(Praise be to God. But tell me, are you still suffering over there with your ‘artsy stuff’?)

I chuckle, shaking my head. This is Omar always teasing, always grounding me in the life I left behind.

Unfortunately. 

“Pas autant que tu le penses,” I reply. (Not as much as you think.)

“C’est bien. Mais écoute, mon père a trouvé une femme pour moi.”

(That’s good. But listen, my father has found a woman for me.)

I don’t like where this is headed. 

I pause, gripping my phone tighter.

“Comment s’appelle-t-elle?” (What’s her name?)

“Faizan. Elle est belle et pieuse. Modeste, exactement ce qu’il faut.”

(Faizan. She is beautiful and pious. Modest, exactly as it should be.)

I feel something overwhelmingly uncomfortable. I do not want to continue this conversation.

Because…

There is a weight in his voice, a certainty I can’t mirror.

“Félicitations, Omar. C’est merveilleux.” (Congratulations, Omar. That’s wonderful.)

“Merci. Mais écoute-moi, Anwar, tu devrais rentrer bientôt. Il y a des filles égyptiennes magnifiques qui t’attendent, mon frère.”

(Thank you. But listen to me, Anwar, you should come back soon. Beautiful Egyptian girls are waiting for you, my brother.)

I almost grind my teeth.

I force a laugh.

“Je verrai ce que je peux faire.” (I’ll see what I can do.)

I don’t know if I believe it.

C’est faux.

When the call ends, I sit motionless, staring at my phone.

What am I doing here? What am I doing with her?

da mikhanniq awi

I grip my forehead, inhaling sharply. I have been carried away.

This…whatever is happening between Folami and me it is not meant to be.

I think of my mother, my father, and the way my family would look at me. My father would say-

“Kayfa yumkinuka khiyanat usuluk, Anwar?”

I don’t even want to be attached to these roots in the first place…I think?

I think of Omar’s voice, his certainty, his future so clearly set before him.

I think of the afternoon in my hostel. The moment our lips almost touched. The heat that coiled deep in my stomach.

I grip the edge of my desk, squeezing hard.

I almost feel like I’m having a stroke.

Ça serait weḥesh.

I must stay away from Folami Eve.

She is not good for me. She is not meant for me. I must choose my people-what I have known all my life. 

————————-

The afternoon air is thick, heavy, waiting.

And then the sky splits open. 

Rain falls hard, fast, and relentlessly.

I drive slowly, the wipers slicing 

through the blur, when I see a figure in the distance.

Drenched.

Golden brown skin slick with rain.

Legs exposed beneath a tiny skirt sticking to her like second skin.

Folami.

Y’allah

I should drive away. I should keep moving, ignore the ache in my chest, the way my pulse trips.

But my foot presses against the brake.

My hands tighten on the wheel.

Where’s my resolve?

I roll down the window.

“Get in”

That sounded so rude, Anwar, what is wrong with you? 

She turns, blinking through the downpour, her lips parted, breathless.

God. Her lips.

“Eve just get in”. I repeat.

I have to stick with it, I guess. 

She hesitates, but then she runs to the car, slipping inside, shivering, her perfume mixing with the scent of rain.

I almost bit my tongue from how tight I was closing my mouth.

Her skirt rides up her thighs, skin smooth, warm despite the cold.

I shouldn’t look, I have more decency. 

But I do.

I shouldn’t want her.

But I do.

It hurts how much I do.

Her lips are still damp, soft, kissable.

And I remember—I almost did.

I could.

I could undo every restraint right here, right now.

And take those soft, glistening lips in mi-

I swallow hard, dragging my gaze to the road.

My hands are gripping the steering wheel too tightly, my body too tense.

I exhale slowly, forcing the air out of my lungs.

I was supposed to stay away.

But then I saw her in the rain, and it was over.

I am done pretending.

Done fighting.

I want her.

“Kullu qit’a minha.”

(Every piece of her.)

And this time, I will not walk away. 

Chapter Nineteen

He was supposed to resist. To walk away. But then she touched him, and his prayers turned into something unfinished—something whispered against her lips.”

The heat outside is unbearable, but not nearly as suffocating as the thoughts I’ve been wrestling with for days.

Maybe I’m burning from the inside out. 

Test season is closing in, which means fewer physical classes. Most of my lecturers have switched to online lessons, giving me more time to think. 

Too much time.

And I have spent all of it thinking about Anwar.

I told myself I needed space. Distance. But space didn’t erase him. My brain recalls how he looked at me the last time we were together. The weight of his words when he asked me to be his-his what?

His hands on my skin, the way he touched me like he wasn’t supposed to.

…but already? 

Did I really want to cross this line with him? The answer had been sitting in my chest for days now, waiting to be said out loud.

And today, I will say it.

I park in front of his hostel, my fingers tightening around the brown bag beside me. Baklava. Anwar’s favourite.

I had found a small Egyptian restaurant just outside campus, a different one from the one we had gone to weeks ago. I placed my order there this morning, not just because I know he’ll love it but because I want him to know I remember.

That I see him.

That I care.

… a lot for him, already.

I step out of my car, heart pounding, forcing myself toward his door.

I don’t text first.

I alm…ost? Feel a little excited? 

But when I knock, he answers within seconds.

And then, he smiles.

Not the careful, measured look he gives everyone else. A real one.

It feels rare. I am so gone. 

“Come in,” he murmurs, stepping aside.

I enter carefully. 

His eyes drop to the bag in my hands, one brow raising.

“Baklava,” I say, holding it up.

His expression softens so subtly, so briefly, that if I weren’t watching closely, I would have missed it.

“You remembered,” he murmurs, unwrapping the bag.

“Of course I did,” I tease, leaning against the counter. “You ate it like a starving man last time.”

He chuckles, the sound low, rich, something I feel more than hear.

Then, he looks at me.

Not just looks…sees.

And suddenly, the heat I had left behind in my room came back.

His fingers brush my ear barely a touch, but enough to make me notice.

Worsening my situation. 

Enough to make him notice too.

I laugh softly, a little embarrassed, but the moment the sound leaves me, it seems I have infected him with the strange heat I had been feeling.

Because his eyes darken.

 Could His eyes DARKEN?

The playful warmth in them disappears, replaced by something heavier.

It halted my embarrassed smile. 

He moves closer, slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for me to stop him.

I don’t.

Of course I don’t..

I can’t.

His hands hold my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. My legs part by themselves just enough for him to step between them.

“You’re always showing up in these tiny shorts,” he murmurs, I could barely hear it. It is something raw. Something not entirely innocent.

“Are you doing it on purpose?”

No, but…

I tilt my head, smirking. “Maybe.”

His lips part slightly. A breath. A second of hesitation.

Then, he leans into my lips, staring. So close I can feel his breath against my mouth.

So close, and my body tilts forward on instinct.

But he doesn’t close the space.

He doesn’t take my lips…

He’s waiting. He wants me to take it.

And I do.

I press forward, letting my lips brush against his. Leaning back immediately. 

I still want him to press harder.

He doesn’t move at first like he’s processing it, like he’s burning this moment into memory.

Then, his hand on my waist tightens just slightly.

His mouth claims mine, firm but unhurried. A slow inhale, a soft groan from deep in his throat. His hands grip my thighs, his fingers pressing into my skin like he’s anchoring himself.

I kiss him back, pressing harder, feeling the heat between us grow. My fingers find his jaw, tracing the sharp edge, and it trails down to his throat, feeling his strained vein.

And just as I think he’s going to pull back he doesn’t.

Instead, he deepens it.

The kitchen fades. The air thickens.

His hand moves from my waist, sliding down my thigh, and back up, brushing beneath my shirt, skin on skin, warm, burning.

He pulls away, just barely, his forehead resting against mine. His tongue comes out slightly and licks my lips. Our breaths mix, our bodies remain close, his grip still firm on me.

Then, he stills.

He moves his hot lips to my face, his breathing heavy.

“Astaghfirullah…” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. God, forgive me.

But his hands don’t move away.

Instead, they tighten around me.

“La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah,” he exhales, his lips barely touching my jaw. There is no power or strength except with God.

But still, he does not stop.

His breath hitches, his hands holding a mark into the skin of my thighs, spreading warmth, need.

“Harami…” he whispers. Forbidden.

And yet, he kisses me again.

Chapter Twenty

She should leave. He should let her go. But in the silence between them, neither moves—because some moments are meant to linger, unfinished.”

Our lips move more slowly now, the heat fading into something deeper.

I don’t know when I ended up straddling him on his couch when the space between us ceased to exist. But here we are, his hands warm against my back as they trail down, my fingers gripping his jaw.

We finally pull away-I am breathless, dazed.

I look away first. 

I feel a little shy…nervous.

The moment is still sitting heavy between us, pressing into my skin like something permanent.

But then, his fingers find my chin.

Soft. Insistent.

He lifts my face, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“I do not regret it.” His words come fast, urgent like he needs me to know, to believe him.

My body shivers a little in appreciation of the clarity. 

My chest tightens, my fingers curl into his shirt, pulling his mouth closer to mine, and I whisper back against his lips, just as sure.

“I don’t either.”

A breath leaves him. Relief.

Then, slowly, his hands slip from my waist.

“I have to—” He clears his throat, uncomfortable, adjusting his trousers as he gently lifts me from his lap. But he doesn’t let me go completely. Instead, he keeps me close, an arm still around my waist and the other still gripping my thigh softly. 

I try not to look down at his hands, but I feel them. Warm. Possessive.

His eyes flick to the clock, something shifting in his expression.

“It’s time for prayers,” he murmurs.

Oh-yeah. 

I nod, knowing this moment is over. But not erased.

He studies me for a second, like he’s checking if I’m okay. I nod again.

Satisfied, he stands, disappearing into his room.

I let out a slow breath, settling back against the couch, my skin still tingling. The TV hums in the background as I scroll through Netflix, trying to focus, but I’m hyper-aware of everything. The sound of water running as he washes for prayer, the whispers of his Arabic recitations. 

I didn’t realize I was paying that much attention. 

The weight of what we just did is still pressing against my lips.

When he returns, his face is still slightly damp. He catches me looking and runs a hand down his jaw, wiping the lingering moisture away.

His hairline looked so wet and tender. 

“Hungry?” His voice is quieter now. 

Less playful.

I nod.

“You didn’t really eat the Baklava,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’ll order something.”

I watch as he scrolls through the options, his brow furrowing in concentration. I know he’s choosing for me.

“You should eat yams and eggs,” he says finally.

“What’s wrong with Jollof rice and grilled chicken?” I tease, stretching my legs out on the couch.

His lips twitch. That almost-smile of his.

“You eat it too much. Before it grows on your head.”

I gasp, smacking his arm playfully. He chuckles, catching my wrist, holding it for just a second too long.

His thumb brushes absentmindedly over my pulse point.

I feel it everywhere.

“Yam and eggs it is, then,” I murmur, pulling my hand away before I lean into him too much.

He orders, and we fall into easy conversation while we wait. I like this part the softness of being with him, without the weight of everything else.

He tells me about a new painting he’s working on, and I tell him about how one of my old acquaintances keeps trying to convince me to switch to Film and Media instead of Theatre Arts.

His fingers absentmindedly trail over my wrist again, tracing invisible lines.

I swallow.

At some point, he leans back into the couch, his fingers playing with the fabric of my shirt, casual but so incredibly distracting.

“So,” he says, voice smooth. “That party you mentioned the other day…”

I feel reluctant to continue.

He noticed. Of course he did.

I try to brush it off, making a noncommittal sound. “Oh, that. It was nothing, really. Just a night out.”

His fingers—still.

“On a school night?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now.

I exhale, rolling my eyes. “Anwar, I was fine. I wasn’t alone.”

“With whom?” His tone shifts not accusing, just… something else.

Possessive.

I smirk. “Why? Are you jealous?”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans in, his breath warm against my ear.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmurs, his voice dropping lower. “Were you okay? Not hurt?”

A slow heat spreads through me, not from the question, but from the way he asks it.

I let the silence stretch, just enough to watch his fingers tighten slightly on my thigh.

“No one touched me,” I whisper.

His shoulders visibly relax.

“Good,” he mutters, his fingers brushing against my skin again, softer now.

I tilt my head, watching him. “You act like I belong to you.”

His lips part, like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, nodding to himself.

“I know,” he admits, his thumb still tracing slow circles on my wrist. “And I want you to.”

The food arrives, breaking the moment, and we eat together in a comfortable silence.

But the air between us is different now.

Thicker. Heavier.

When I steal a piece of his food, he watches my lips too closely.

When I shift closer to reach for something, his fingers brush my thigh again, deliberate this time.

When we finish eating, he sets the plate aside, then turns to me.

“I shouldn’t have messed with your head.” His voice is quieter, more serious.

“What?” I frown.

“Making you go to a party on a school night.” His fingers graze my jaw, tilting my face to his. “I should’ve been the one taking you out.”

I stare at him, breathless, unsure what to say.

But then, he leans in.

Not rushed, not desperate just a slow, deliberate movement, like he’s giving me time to pull away.

I don’t.

He presses a soft, lingering peck to my lips.

Not as hungry as before. Not as warm.

Just right.

Like he’s sealing something between us.

Like he’s making a promise neither of us has spoken of yet.

When he pulls back, his eyes stay on mine.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

And even though I should go, I should put space between us before we lose ourselves again…

I don’t move.

Because maybe I don’t want to be away from him yet.

And maybe, just maybe—he doesn’t want me to leave.

Chapter Twenty-One

“Joy comes in bright flashes, fleeting as headlights on an open road. But doubt—doubt settles quietly, waiting in the rearview.”

The week just barely started, and I’m already exhausted.

The tests began two days ago, and the lecturers are not playing around. The questions feel like personal attacks. 

I’m gonna have a heart attack too. 

Why the hell is there math involved? I’m a Theatre Arts student, not an Accounting major.

I groan, pulling my sneakers on. I have a paper in an hour. Just as I’m about to grab my purse, my phone rings from inside it.

I dig through, pull it out.

My brother.

I smile instinctively.

“Hey, my little star.” His voice is warm, teasing, the way it always is.

“Hey,” I respond, but I couldn’t even slip the smile into my voice, it sounds a little too dull.

“Ah-ahn,” he scoffs. “Why do you sound like someone who is starving?”

I might as well be! I’m starved of normalcy!! 

“Because I started writing tests two days ago,” I groan. “I haven’t slept well since.”

“ooof,” he hums, mock sympathy in his tone. “Sorry, o. You’ll be fine. Did you see the money I sent you yesterday?”

“Of course I did!” I grin, flopping onto my bed. “That’s the only reason I have the energy to write today’s test. God bless you, my sponsor!”

I felt a little lighter, my grin widened. 

We both burst into laughter.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “But seriously, this test period is stressing me. My car is acting up again, and I do not have time for this mechanic wahala.”

“That nonsense car again?” He clicks his tongue. “That’s why I ordered you a new one.”

Did I hear right?

I bolt upright. “Wait—what?”

“Yeah, your BMW arrived yesterday. It’s sitting in my garage.”

“WHAT?!”

“Why are you shouting?” He laughs. “I told you I’d get you one. Come pick it up tonight, and drop that yeye car with me.”

I squeal, kicking my feet in the air.

“Ahhh! You’re the best! My sponsor, my investor, my financier!”

“That’s enough, before you finish my money with all these titles, go and write your test first.”

“I will, I will! But I’m coming tonight!”

“Better.”

“By the way,” he says casually. “That boy you brought to my listening party…”

My smile instantly falters.

“Hmm?”

“What’s going on with you two?”

I shift on the bed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

“Nothing much…”

“Oh?” His voice dips slightly, like he’s analyzing something. “Because you sound like someone blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You are!”

“Leave me alone!”

He chuckles, but then his tone changes.

“Folámi, Emi ko gbẹkẹle eyi.” (Folami, I don’t trust this one.)

I swallow.

“What did you say?” I switch back to English, as if refusing to answer in Yoruba will soften his words.

“Mo wo oju rè ni party yẹn,” he continues, his voice dropping. (I watched his face at that party.) “Ó si wo gbogbo ènìyàn to wa nibẹ bí ẹni pé ó ju wọ́n lọ.” (He looked at everyone there like they were beneath him.)

“He’s just different,” I say softly. “Ìdàgbàsókè rè ni.” (It’s his upbringing.) “Ko mọ bóyá àyíká yìí yàtò.” (He doesn’t know how different things are outside his world.)

“Hmm,” he exhales, unimpressed. “Mi ò ní kó má ní àṣà è, but ma jẹ́ ki o wọ inu ori rẹ o .” (I’m not saying he shouldn’t have his upbringing. But don’t let him get in your head.)

“But, he’s trying.”

“Ṣé o mọ̀ pé ìfẹ́ máa ń fọju ènìyàn?” (Do you know that love blinds people?) He sighs. “Folámi, èmi ni mo ń sọ fún ẹ. Ìwọ máa ń gbé inú è, máa rò òhún yìí dáadáa.” (Folami, I’m the one talking to you. You carry things deep in your heart, think about this well.)

My lips press together. His words sit heavy in my chest.

“Mi ò ní gbà fun.” (I won’t let him get into my head.)

He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Hmm. Ó dára. I’ll see you later, my little star.”

“Later, Brother.”

We end the call soon after, and for the first time since Anwar kissed me, something unfamiliar creeps into my chest.

Doubt.

I shake my head, forcing it away.

I am not letting this conversation ruin my excitement.

I grab my bag, heading out the door.

I have a test to write and a BMW to pick up tonight.

What does my brother think about Anwar? I’ll deal with that later.

For now, all I can think about is speeding down the highway in my new car.

Because right now, I just want to be happy.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Desire is easy. It’s the weight of everything after that that makes you pause.”

A lot has happened.

And yet, nothing has happened at all.

I got a new car. A dreamy car.

I finished my tests.

And, I have been ignoring Anwar.

Yeah, a lot. 

It has been two weeks since I sped down the highway in my BMW, two weeks since I left my hostel behind and came to my brother’s Lagos mansion. Two weeks since I let myself touch what I wanted most, then decided I couldn’t have it.

I tell myself it’s fine, that I can be fine.

The conversation I had with my brother didn’t shake me.

That it didn’t crack something inside me, something that makes loving Anwar feel like a risk rather than a choice.

But it did.

I have spent the last two weeks pretending that my body doesn’t miss him.

That I don’t replay the way he picked me up at his place, the way his grip was firm but careful, the way his fingers dug into my skin just enough to make me dizzy.

That I don’t dream of him pressing me down, his strength against my softness, my willingness to let him take and take and take.

That I don’t miss the way he looks at me hungry, like he wants to devour me but knows he shouldn’t.

That I don’t wake up, restless and aching, with his name sitting heavy on my lips.

But my body is not a liar.

And every night, I want.

I want that man. 

Every night, I think about what would have happened if I hadn’t pulled away that night in his apartment.

If I had let him keep me there, on that counter, on his lap, in his bed—

If I had let him have me like I know he wanted to.

Like I want him to.

I have 355 missed calls, texts, and voicemails across every social platform from Anwar.

At first, they were worried.

“Folami, where are you? Are you okay? Why aren’t you answering?”

Then, they became understanding.

“I won’t push you, but at least tell me if you’re safe.”

And then, he understood.

“You’re hiding from me.”

I am.

Because what we have is dangerous.

Not physically, not in any way I can point to, but in the way it makes me feel.

I want him.

I have always wanted him, but that afternoon… the kiss… it unlocked something raw between us.

And now, I crave him in ways I can’t even rationalize.

The weight of his stare.

The way he speaks in that deep, steady voice, the little accent slipping through when he isn’t paying attention.

The way his fingers used to touch my wrist absentmindedly, tracing circles.

How his presence alone made my nights easier, quieter, softer.

Now, I toss and turn at night, restless, unsettled.

I miss him.

I miss him like a fever.

Like something gnawing at my insides, whispering that the only cure is his voice in my ear again.

Like something begging me to go back to him and let him ruin me.

I’m scrolling mindlessly through my phone, trying to drown out my thoughts, when I hear it.

“Anwar?”

My head jerks up instantly.

My brother is on the landline, his voice calm but deliberate.

“Yeah, let him in.”

I stare at him.

He meets my gaze, his face unreadable.

“Why is Anwar at the gate?” My voice is careful, steady.

He leans back against the couch, stretching an arm over the armrest, completely unfazed.

“I want to talk to him.”

My stomach drops.

So this is how it happens.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

My brother is a public figure. Anwar probably didn’t even have to work hard to find out where I was. One or two right questions, and he would’ve had the address.

Still, the knowledge that he’s outside that he came sends my heart racing in a way I can’t control.

I swallow hard, trying to decide if I should be angry, scared, or something worse.

Something like hope.

Because the part of me that craves him the part I’ve spent two weeks trying to bury is screaming.

Anwar is here.

He is here, and he is not letting me run.

I don’t know whether to be furious at him for coming.

Or grateful.

Because even I don’t know how much longer I could’ve kept running.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Some storms don’t come to destroy—they come to drown you in what you’ve been running from.”

The air shifts the moment he walks in.

Anwar moves with that effortless confidence, that smooth, controlled presence that always makes me feel small but seen. It’s that same presence that drew me in the first time I saw him.

My brother stands near the door, greeting him with the politeness of a man who still isn’t sure what to make of him. Anwar, taller than him by just a little, tilts his head, just enough to see past him—straight at me.

It’s not a lingering stare, but it’s enough.

Enough for his gaze to rake over my body, from my tank top down to my exposed legs, before flicking back up to my face.

My fingers twitch. I lower my eyes to my phone, pretending not to feel my skin burn.

My brother leads him into one of the many rooms in the house the in-house studio.

And I spend the next forty minutes biting my nails, shifting in my seat, convincing myself I shouldn’t run up the stairs to my room and lock the door.

The door opens. Anwar steps out first. My brother follows.

He doesn’t look at me immediately, but I know he feels me there.

Then, he turns. And walks toward me.

Something in the air feels different. Charged. Unreadable.

I start rising from my seat, instinct telling me to bolt before I find out what happened in that studio.

But before I can take a step, my brother’s voice booms through the living room.

“Stay right where you are, Folami.”

I freeze.

“I have some producers to meet. The house is yours.”

My brother grabs his car keys, one of many in the little container near the couch, and walks out of the house without looking back.

The door shuts behind him.

And now—it’s just me and Anwar.

He moves first.

His hand wraps around my wrist, firm but gentle. A contrast to the intensity burning in his eyes, the tension rolling off him in waves.

He pulls me up pulls me into him.

And before I can even form a thought, his arms wrap around me. Tight. Possessive. Unyielding.

I don’t know what shocks me more the sudden embrace or how easily I melt into it.

I try to pull back, to breathe, to speak, to ask why he’s here, why he came for me.

But his lips press against my neck, hot and soft, and all I can do is gasp.

“Anwar—”

“Shh.” His breath flickers over my skin.

I shudder.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze sharp, searching, unrelenting.

“I know why you left school.”

My breath catches. Shame and longing tangle inside me.

I swallow. “I had to think.”

“Think about what?” His voice is low, but there’s something underneath it. Something that sounds like desperation. Like frustration.

“Us. What does this mean? If you can really do this. If I can.” I exhale shakily. “I don’t want to get caught in something that can’t last.”

His grip on my waist tightens.

“It will last.”

I shake my head, trying to be rational, trying to fight the way his presence swallows me whole. “Anwar, this isn’t just about wanting each other.”

“I know,” he murmurs.

Then, softer. Crazier.

“That’s why I’m taking you to Egypt after exams.”

I blink.

“What?”

“Come with me,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I want you to see my world.”

My stomach twists. The weight of his words, the reality of what it would mean, hangs between us.

“Anwar…”

“It’s not a demand, Folami.” His fingers trace the small of my back. “But I need you to know I’m serious about you.”

The words crack something inside me.

I stare up at him, my lips parting, my body betraying me with how much I need to believe him.

Anwar watches me. His eyes darken, like he’s reading my thoughts, like he knows I want to say yes.

Then, he kisses me.

Gently, at first.

Then not gently at all.

I moan into his mouth, desperate, starved, unable to stop myself from reaching for more.

He moves my hands away from his face, pins them behind my back, locking me against him.

“You run from me.” His lips trail down my jaw. “But I won’t let you.”

His mouth devours mine again.

Deep. Slow. Claiming.

I whimper, weak, melting into him.

His hands travel down my waist, over my hips, gripping me like he’s scared I’ll disappear.

“Such a pretty girl.” His voice is so dark, so low, it shatters something inside me.

My knees nearly buckle.

And before I can process what’s happening, he’s already leading me toward the door.

The drive is silent, but heavy.

I don’t ask where we’re going. I don’t need to.

The way his fingers drum against the steering wheel, the way his gaze flicks to me every few seconds I know this isn’t just a drive.

We pull into a quiet complex, somewhere unfamiliar.

I look at him questioningly.

“I rented it.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Like it should have been obvious.

My breath stutters.

He parks, steps out, and before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, he’s opening my door, pulling me into his arms.

I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me inside.

“Anwar—”

“Shh.” His lips brush against my collarbone. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

I don’t question it.

Because I already know I don’t want to run anymore.

And tonight, I don’t think he’s going to let me.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Some feelings arrive like whispers, but stay like echoes you can’t outrun.”

The sound of passing cars pulls me out of my sleep, slow and hazy. My body feels light, relaxed, but achingly tired. The kind of exhaustion that lingers after too much tension, too much thinking, too much feeling.

When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is the space beside me.

Anwar isn’t here.

I shift, my bare legs brushing against the sheets, my black tank top clinging slightly from the warmth of sleep. My phone is on the floor, somehow, blinking at me with the late hour. 1 PM.

I don’t even feel guilty for sleeping this long. Not after the way last night unravelled me.

I stretch my arms high, pulling the ache out of my bones, and stumble to the ensuite bathroom.

My reflection in the mirror is a mess. Red-rimmed eyes, lips slightly swollen from where Anwar had kissed me over and over, like he was trying to commit me to memory.

I rinse my face, gargle some mouthwash, and step out barefoot and warm from sleep.

The first thing I see is Anwar, lounging on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the armrest. The large-screen TV plays an old Arabian movie the kind that moves slowly, where the lovers stare at each other for too long before finally touching.

I take a quiet step toward him, thinking maybe I could scare him or something.

But he turns before I even get close, his sharp gaze cutting into me like he felt me coming.

“Hi.” My voice is soft, still wrapped in sleep.

He smirks.

That damn smirk that makes me feel small and exposed and wanted all at once.

Without a word, he pats the space beside him. An invitation. A command. A comfort.

I settle beside him, warm and safe in a way I shouldn’t be.

His hand finds my hair, his fingers lazily patting my head like I’m something fragile. I roll my eyes, pushing at his shoulder, but I don’t pull away.

“I got food. And clothes for you to change into,” he says, eyes still half-focused on the movie.

“Why are the clothes in the kitchen?” I ask, confused.

He finally looks at me, his smirk deepening like he enjoys how easily I question him.

“They’re in one big bag with the food.”

I shake my head, but warmth spreads through my chest.

This. This is what it feels like to be with him without worry.

At some point in the afternoon, he suddenly excuses himself.

“Give me a few minutes,” he murmurs, rising from the couch.

I blink, watching as he walks to his room. There is something so steady, so unwavering about the way he moves.

He doesn’t ask for permission.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He just…goes.

I stay where I am, nibbling on my food, scrolling through my phone, pretending not to be thinking about how effortlessly he keeps his faith even in the middle of everything.

It only takes him a few minutes.

And then he’s back, like he never left.

“Miss me?” He smirks, sitting beside me again.

I roll my eyes, shoving him lightly, but inside? Inside, I feel something I can’t quite name.

The afternoon slips through our fingers like fine sand.

We eat lazily, switching between conversations and quiet moments.

Anwar pecks my lips absentmindedly when I say something funny, when I pause too long between words, when he just feels like shutting me up.

And every time, he pulls back, smirking slightly, telling me to keep talking that he’s still listening.

My body hums under his touches, under the way he looks at me like I am something to be studied, savoured, possessed.

For a few hours, it almost feels like we are just a couple.

No complications.

No questions.

No past or future to pull us apart.

Just this. Just now. Just us.

The sun dips low, and Anwar sighs, pulling me closer.

“I need to head back to school.”

The words make my stomach twist in ways I don’t understand.

“I know.”

He leans in, kissing me one last time deep, slow, like he’s reluctant to let me go.

And then, he’s gone.

And I am left with too much space and too many thoughts.

I shake them off as I get dressed. Tonight, I have somewhere to be.

Damilola has always been unapologetically beautiful.

When I step into the fancy restaurant, I spot her immediately legs crossed, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the wine glass in front of her.

She sees me and her face lights up.

“My darling! Finally, you grace me with your presence.”

I laugh, walking toward her, my heels clicking against the floor.

“You’ve been gone for months, Dami.”

She flips her braids over her shoulder, eyes gleaming. “I was in London being a star. You know, the usual.”

She wasn’t lying.

Damilola was a child star, a privileged beauty from one of the richest families in the world. She had been acting since we were kids, and now, she was starring in actual films, moving between Lagos and London like she belonged to both cities.

She also studies Film and Media Studies at British International University, the same school as me.

“I’ve missed so much school,” she sighs dramatically. “Do you know I almost missed the entire semester? They let me take some tests remotely, but I don’t even know how I’ll catch up.”

“That’s what happens when you’re a movie star,” I tease.

She rolls her eyes. “Enough about me. Tell me about you. I hear there’s a boy. A certain mysterious Egyptian boy.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips at the mention of Anwar.

“I hate you.”

“You love me. Now spill.”

So I do.

I tell her everything. The tension, the fights, the kiss, the way Anwar looks at me like he wants to ruin me.

Damilola listens, eyes gleaming with excitement.

“My sweet Folami,” she sighs dramatically, “you’ve found your pasta and lobster.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Pasta and lobster?”

“Luxury, darling. Romance. The kind of meal you never get tired of.”

I scoff. “More like Baklava and trouble.”

She throws her head back laughing.

“I like this for you.”

“I don’t know if I like it for me.”

Damilola watches me for a moment, her playful expression softening.

“You deserve a love that isn’t complicated, Folami.”

I sigh, biting the inside of my cheek.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Nothing ever is. But if he’s making you this crazy, maybe it’s worth it.”

Maybe.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Between my hands, she is fitna—temptation in its purest form. Between my lips, her name is a whispered dua I should not say.”

(Bayna yadayya, hiya fitna—al-ighwa’ fi anqa ashkāluh. Bayna shafatayya, ismuha dua’ la yanbaghi an antiquhu.)

It’s been a week since Damilola arrived from London, and the adjustment has been… loud.

She’s living in my hostel for now because she decided her assigned school housing was beneath her and tore it apart for renovations.

I eye her as we sit in my small living area, eating roasted plantain and spicy pepper sauce.

“Is it even legal to do that much renovation on school property?” I ask, half-laughing.

She shrugs, popping a bite of plantain into her mouth without concern. “Oh please. I’ll do as I like. They shouldn’t have built such a trashy place if they didn’t want me to change it up.”

“Jeez, I forget how annoying you are sometimes.”

We burst into laughter, the easy kind, the kind that feels like home.

Between bites of food and sips of cold water, she fills me in on her time in London.

“The hotels were shit, so I bought a loft near the movie set,” she says like she’s telling me she bought a bottle of water.

“You bought a loft?” I deadpan.

“Yes. I’m too pretty to suffer.”

I roll my eyes but smile. This is so her.

Then she shifts, smirking. That smirk. The one that always means trouble.

“Oh! I met a guy.”

“A serious guy or a ‘Dami Special’ guy?”

She laughs. Guilty. “He was fun, but then at the airport, he said he wanted to have me all to himself, so I blocked him, bro had sweaty palms”

“…Because of sweaty palms?”

“Folami,”

I shake my head, laughing again.

“You’re something else.”

She flips her long braids over her shoulder and hums. She’s enjoying this.

“Anyway, what’s up with you and your pasta and lobster?” she teases, voice dripping with amusement.

“More like Baklava and trouble,” I mutter.

“Nothing is up, we are taking it slow, I have to meet up with him in a few, at the library”

She lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re disgusting. I’m not third-wheeling that. I’ll pass on the library date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m going to explore Lagos Island instead.”

I give her a warning look. Damilola is the type to forget time when she’s having fun.

“If you stay out too late, crash at my brother’s place. Don’t be reckless.”

She pauses.

Then, out of nowhere, she blushes.

I narrow my eyes. 

“I should pass the night at Folahan’s place?” she repeats slowly, like a parrot.

I smirk. “You know you’re the only one that still calls my brother that since he became such a global force.”

Her throat bobs. She looks… nervous.

“Is there something I should know?”

“Know about what? Don’t start, please.”

She won’t meet my gaze.

Interesting.

The library is half-empty by the time I arrive. The sun has long since dipped below the skyline, painting everything in a cool shade of blue.

And then, there’s him.

Anwar stands near the farthest bookshelf, waiting.

His posture is relaxed, confident, but when our eyes meet, something in his expression softens.

I walk toward him, and before I can even say anything, he pulls me into a tight embrace.

I inhale sharply, feeling the warmth of his body seep into mine.

I tilt my head up slightly and peck his lips just a soft brush, nothing too deep, but enough to feel the lingering heat between us.

He exhales slowly.

“Come.”

He guides me to a secluded corner, away from watchful eyes.

We sit close, shoulders pressing together, as he pulls out his wired earpiece.

I squint at it.

“You know, you’re the only person in this century who still uses an earpiece. A wired one.”

He scoffs, plugging one into his ear before handing me the other.

“I’m just two years older, you little girl, and wired earpieces are sentimental to me.”

“That’s exactly what an old man would say.”

He tugs playfully at a loose curl framing my face. “And yet, here you are, sharing music with me.”

The song plays something slow, something Arabic, something that sounds like longing.

I swallow, focusing on the textbook in front of me.

But then I feel it.

His hand.

Resting lightly on my thigh.

A casual touch. Unspoken, but heavy.

I clear my throat, turning a page, pretending it doesn’t affect me.

Then, his fingers move.

Higher.

Slow.

Deliberate.

My heart stutters. I dart a glance at him, but his eyes are locked on his textbook, reading like nothing is happening.

I almost convince myself it’s absentminded.

But then he turns his head.

His gaze is dark, laced with something unreadable.

He leans in, so close that I feel his breath ghost against my ear.

“Did you drive?” he murmurs.

I shudder, barely managing a whisper. “No.”

His lips graze the bottom of my ear, a barely-there kiss.

“Let’s go.”

Before I can process what that even means, he shuts our textbooks, stacks them, and stands.

Then, he takes my hand, raises me, and leads me out.

The moment the door to his hostel closes, his hands are on me.

One second I’m standing, the next, he lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist like they belong there.

“Wallahi, la astati’ al-ihtimal…” he exhales against my lips.

By God, I can’t endure this.

I barely have time to react before his mouth is on mine, consuming me whole.

“Ya hayati… enti jameela jiddan…”

My life… You are so beautiful…

His hands grip my thighs, my waist, my back—holding, taking, burning.

He carries me like I weigh nothing, laying me down on the couch, kissing down my neck, murmuring Arabic words that sound like prayers and sins at the same time.

“Lahaif alayki…” he murmurs, voice thick with longing.

I ache for you.

His hands skim lower, fingertips grazing the hem of my shifted skirt.

And then, he tries to pull it lower.

I inhale sharply, my hands catching his wrists, stopping him.

A pause.

His breath is uneven. His eyes, darker than ever, search mine.

Slowly, he pulls back.

But he doesn’t let go completely.

Instead, he kisses me again slower this time, softer. Like a vow. Like a promise.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I move toward him without thinking, but sometimes, I wonder—am I running to him, or away from everything else?”

I have been spending the night at Anwar’s place more often than not, practically abandoning my hostel and Damilola along with it.

Of course, I still go there in the mornings, spend the afternoons catching up with her, but once the sun begins to set, my feet seem to find their way back to Anwar.

The drive back to my hostel in the morning always feels like a walk of shame drive of shame, technically.

And it doesn’t help that every time I step in, Damilola is waiting with that smirk of hers.

“I really hope you’re being safe, girl,” she says the second I drop my overnight bag onto the couch. “I’m ready to be an aunt, but I don’t think you’re ready to be a mom.”

I jump. “Ah, you scared me!”

“No one is going to be a mom soon at least not me.”

I dig into my bag, pulling out my phone to text Anwar that I got in safely.

Damilola arches a brow, crossing her arms. “Not you? I know you’re not going to that man’s place just to join him in one of his many Muslim prayers. And speaking of that, isn’t it like… sinful? Haram or whatever?”

I blush.

“No, I’m not converting to Islam, and let the Muslim worry about his faith, woman. You sound just like his mother.”

Damilola perks up instantly. “His mom? You’ve met her?”

“God forbid. Almost. I saw her texts though she’s terrifying. Talking about how ‘the land is unclean.’ And she meant Nigeria. As if we’re living in the 1600s.”

“Aha!” Damilola gasps. “How old is this woman? And why is she speaking like she’s on a pilgrimage with Moses?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I didn’t know people could be that backward and intense.”

Damilola narrows her eyes playfully. “And? Are you two actually studying all night or…?”

“Our courses are similar, so we’re actually doing more reading than anything else. Unlike some people, we know exams are near.”

She scoffs. “Me? Please. I study.”

I side-eye her. “Oh? Is that why you also sneak in early in the morning? Think I don’t notice?”

She freezes for a second but recovers quickly. “Notice what? Lagos nightlife is a vibe.”

“Uh-huh. And yet, you don’t look like you’re coming back from parties.”

“All I’m saying is I watch movies,” she states airily.

I smirk. “And all I’m saying is I recognize my brother’s jeep.”

Silence.

I look up to find her shyly looking away.

“I wonder when you two got that close.”

More silence.

I grin. “Whatever. Just be safe too, ma’am. My brother’s not bad, but he doesn’t have the best habits either. And neither do you. I don’t want things getting awkward between you two later.”

She groans. “Can we talk about something else now?”

I laugh, shaking my head as I grab my car keys. “I’m going to get food from the canteen. You want anything?”

“You know I do. Don’t be stingy with the plantain.”

The canteen is bustling with students, the same way it was months ago, the first time I saw Anwar here.

That day is still fresh in my mind—

The way I stood in line, waiting for my food, catching him at a corner table.

The way he looked at me, looked through me, as if he wished I would disappear.

And the way I couldn’t look away from him, even though I wanted to.

That feels so long ago now.

Now, he’s the person I spend most of my nights with.

Now, I know how he whispers against my skin, how he pulls me closer when he thinks I’m drifting away.

Now, I know he wants me but I also know that wanting me terrifies him.

I pick up the tray of food, exhaling softly.

The exams are getting closer. And after them… Egypt.

I still can’t believe I agreed.

I told him yes, that I would go with him, that I would see his world.

But the closer it gets, the heavier the decision feels.

What if…?

I shake my head. No.

I trust Anwar.

But trust isn’t the same as certainty.

And for all his promises, what if we step into Egypt and he realizes I can’t fit into his world?

What if he chooses his faith, his people, over me?

I press my lips together, pushing the thoughts away as I carry the food back to my car.

I have time.

And I have him.

For now, that will have to be enough.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“In his prayers, I hear something softer than words—something that feels a little like belonging.”

I’m in my brother’s Lagos mansion, the night before my birthday, and despite my extreme attempts to keep things lowkey, it’s clear that Damilola and my brother have other plans.

With exams dangerously close, I should be studying. I should have my head buried in my books, focusing on my practicals.

Instead?

I’m four shots of Casamigos down in my brother’s private bar, sitting next to Damilola, laughing over nothing.

She’s just as out of it as I am, her head thrown back as we set a countdown on my phone, waiting for midnight to strike.

I should probably question why she and my brother kept acting weird around each other earlier coughing, stammering, avoiding eye contact.

But right now? I really don’t have the mental space for that.

Because a few hours ago, I was on the phone with Anwar for two whole hours.

And he was so sweet.

Sweeter than I thought possible.

It’s like he flipped a switch and let down every emotional barrier I thought he had.

I can’t lie I’m completely carried away.

I don’t even remember what we talked about for that long, but I remember the way his voice sounded against my ear. The way he sighed softly between words, like he didn’t want to hang up.

I think about him as I sip another shot, as I lean into Damilola, as I listen to the faint sound of my brother talking on the phone in the distance.

And then—

MIDNIGHT.

Damilola screams, nearly tumbling off the barstool.

I just laugh and clap.

I don’t know why I’m clapping, but my hands won’t stop.

Tomorrow morning, I will regret this.

Waking up is a struggle.

My head pounds with every step as I open my bedroom door, only to be greeted by—

A giant empty carton.

I blink. Laugh.

I tread downstairs, still half-asleep, only to find Damilola and my brother in the living room, surrounded by boxes.

Some of them are luxury brands I recognize immediately definitely from Damilola.

My brother spots me first.

“Happy birthday, my star.”

He stands, pulling me into a tight hug.

“Why so much energy? My body is still recovering from last night,” I mumble into his hold.

“Come open your gifts,” he replies, just as Damilola grabs my arm and drags me toward the chaos.

There are designer bags, rare Birkins, expensive shoes, dresses I know I can’t wear to class without looking like a runway model.

Then, two keys.

I pick them up, frowning. “You got me a car again?”

My brother smirks. “Better. Come with me.”

We drive through Lagos, the roads surprisingly clear.

I sit in the backseat, rubbing my eyes, still groggy.

“At least let me bathe first. I look like a witch,” I grumble.

“Shush, joor,” my brother says, shaking his head.

We finally stop in front of a beautiful gate.

It opens slowly, revealing a grand house.

A Duplex.

I frown.

“What are we doing here?”

Then I see it.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY STAR.

The words are bold, hanging proudly on a banner near the entrance.

It takes me a full five seconds to process.

Then—

I scream.

Tears well up in my eyes as Damilola pulls me into a hug, laughing.

“Is this mine?” I whisper, turning to my brother.

He nods.

I have my own house.

My own space. My own pool.

I rush forward, trying the key in the door. It clicks open immediately.

It’s beautiful. Grand. Everything I could have dreamed of.

I can’t thank my brother enough.

Then, he hands me another key.

“And yes, I got you another car.”

I rush outside again, Dami on my heels.

Sitting in the massive driveway is a sleek black Porsche.

I don’t even hesitate I jump into my brother’s arms.

“You’re the best in the world!”

He just laughs.

By the time we drive back to my brother’s mansion, I remember—

I haven’t spoken to Anwar all morning.

I left my phone upstairs.

I rush to my room, grab it, and immediately see 15 missed calls.

I call him back instantly.

He answers before the first ring even finishes.

“Subhanallah, Folami. Where have you been?”

“I was with my brother. It’s my birthday, remember?”

He exhales, his voice deep, smooth, wrapping around me like warmth.

Then, he begins to pray for me.

“Bārakallāhu fīki, ya hayati.” (May Allah bless you, my life.)

“Allāhumma iftah laha abwāba al-barakah.” (Oh Allah, open the doors of blessings for her.)

“Allāhumma hab biha ‘aynayka al-raḍiyyatayn.” (Oh Allah, keep her under Your loving gaze.)

“Allāh yahfaduki wa yahrusuki min kulli shar.” (May Allah protect you and guard you from all harm.)

I close my eyes, absorbing every syllable, every bit of his faith woven into his affection.

I don’t understand all of it, but I feel it.

“Ameen,” I whisper when he’s done.

“Ameen, ya hayati.”

(My life.)

I blush.

“My brother got me a house,” I say softly.

He pauses. Then—

” I am happy for you.”

His voice is genuine. Warm. A quiet kind of proud.

“I want to see you today,” he says next, and it’s not a question.

“You’re coming here?”

“I’m already driving down.”

I smile, warmth spreading through my chest.

“Okay. See you soon.”

I hang up and head downstairs, finally feeling the weight of the day settle in.

I have everything I could want.

A house. A car. Family. Friendship.

And a man who prays for me like I’m sacred.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“There are moments when desire speaks louder than reason, but in your eyes, I find both my fire and my peace.”

I hear the low, unexpected rev of Anwar’s car in my brother’s massive compound. That’s strange. His car doesn’t sound like that.

Curious, I move toward the floor-to-ceiling window, peeking outside just in time to see him step out of a sleek, unfamiliar beauty. A new car. One he didn’t have before.

When did he get that?

I don’t even get the chance to wonder long because my feet already have a mind of their own, carrying me to the front door. I push it open wide, excitement bubbling in my chest.

And then I see him.

Walking towards me, his jaw sharp, his shoulders broad, his expression unreadable.

But the moment his eyes meet mine, they soften.

And before I can even greet him, he sweeps me up effortlessly, lifting me clean off the ground.

I gasp, laughing, my arms looping around his neck. His grip tightens, his warmth seeps into my skin, and when my face presses into his chest, I inhale his spice, musk, something uniquely Anwar.

I can’t help but sigh into him.

Then, suddenly his hand slides lower.

And then he squeezes.

I jolt in his arms, my breath catching. 

Did he just—?

I pull back slightly, my lips parted in shock, but he’s smirking, smug, completely unbothered.

Yes, we’ve done things. But this? This was bold.

We’re outside. In my brother’s house.

Anwar has never been into PDA, yet here he is, palming my ass like he owns it.

I glare at him and smack his shoulder lightly, making him chuckle. His deep laugh vibrates through my chest, through my entire body.

I hate how much I love it.

When we finally pull apart, I admire him properly.

My man has changed so much.

He laughs now.

His eyes glow when they land on me.

And I… I want him.

But before I can get lost in that, he narrows his gaze playfully.

“You haven’t bathed, have you?”

I gasp, offended. “Nooo,” I groan dramatically, leaning into him again. “I’ve been carted around like cattle since I woke up this morning.”

He smirks, but before he can respond, Damilola’s voice echoes from the staircase.

“My in-law, I was wondering when we would officially meet.”

I burst into laughter, still wrapped up in Anwar’s hold.

But he stiffens slightly.

I glance up at him. His expression is unreadable now, serious, assessing.

“Hi, Damilola. I’m Anwar.” His voice is calm, deep, and firm.

I glance at Dami, and she looks… surprised? Her bright expression shifts ever so slightly before she moves down the stairs and away from us.

Weird.

I turn to Anwar. “Oh, where’s my brother? Does he know you’re here?”

“I—I-I don’t know,” Damilola replies quickly, avoiding my gaze.

I raise a brow. Stranger and stranger.

Anwar leans down, his lips just a breath away from mine. “Are you going to make me wait here while you freshen up?”

I smirk. “Will you wait, Nunu?”

He stiffens slightly, his eyes darkening at the name.

His lips ghost over mine, and he whispers, “Nunu?”

I nod, tilting my head. “Yes, Nunu.”

His grip on my waist tightens, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

But instead, he just stares.

His eyes drink me in like I’m something he’s afraid to lose.

I quickly slip from his hold and jog upstairs. I need to hurry because Anwar and I are leaving soon.

I step down the stairs, fully dressed and glowing, and Anwar’s eyes land on me instantly.

He mouths something under his breath.

“Subhanallah.”

My cheeks heat up immediately.

He stands, his gaze heavy as he meets me at the last step.

He drags his fingers lightly over my wrist, his touch slow, intentional.

“Come and unwrap your gifts,” he murmurs, his warm breath fanning against my skin.

“Let me unwrap you too.”

I swat at his chest, flustered. “Stop that joor! We’re in my brother’s house.”

He chuckles, unbothered.

The drive to his apartment, the one he rented last time is unbearable.

His large hand rests between my thighs, fingers idly stroking my sheer-covered skin.

I shift, pressing my legs tightly together.

He smirks, his thumb brushing higher.

“What?” he asks, voice smooth.

I glare at him. “You know what.”

Anwar just grips the wheel tighter, his knuckles flexing.

When we arrive, he wastes no time.

He opens my door, helps me out, and leads me inside.

Then he disappears into a room, leaving me wondering what exactly he bought.

A moment later, he walks back out, carrying a big wrapped board and three wrapped boxes.

He places them on the center table and crosses his arms.

“Open them.”

His Egyptian accent wraps around the words, thick and commanding.

I tear into the largest one first and my breath leaves me.

I see myself staring back at me.

He painted me.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, my eyes welling up with tears.

I glance up at him. He’s already watching me.

“That’s how ethereal you look in my eyes.” His voice is soft, reverent.

I gasp, covering my mouth. “You are marvellous.”

I reach for the next gift. A small box.

Inside, I find a dainty gold necklace, its pendant engraved in Arabic: “My Eve.”

I stare at it, my heart pounding. 

“Nunu…” I whisper in disbelief.

“I don’t want you to ever take it off.” His voice is low, serious, firm.

I open the Hermès box.

Inside is a black and green silk scarf.

I rub it between my fingers, bringing it to my face.

It’s smooth as water, and somehow, it feels like Anwar.

“Thank you,” I say, looking at him seriously now.

He just nods, watching me carefully.

Then I reach for the last bag.

I pull out stacks of crisp cash—bundles and bundles.

$100,000.

My eyes widen. “What is wrong with you?!” I gasp.

Anwar chuckles, his arms crossed as he watches my reaction.

“My Eve should buy what she wants—with her high-maintenance self.”

I launch myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

I bury my face in his shoulder and whisper, “You’re so sweet. Thank you, Nunu.”

His arms tighten dangerously around my waist.

After a long moment, he finally speaks.

“We’re going to dinner later,” he murmurs.

His lips brush against my ear.

“So I’m happy you’re already dressed up.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Some sins don’t feel like sins at all—just the quiet surrender of a heart that was never meant to resist.”

I couldn’t stop staring at my beautiful woman in awe.

She had turned a new age today still bratty, still reckless, still mine.

After she wiped her unnecessary tears at the gifts I got her and we spent the afternoon tangled in each other’s warmth, I was now driving her to a private restaurant on Lagos Island.

My hands couldn’t stay still. Steering the wheel with one, I let the other settle where it belonged on her thigh. Her skin, warm under my fingers, made it hard to focus on the road.

I needed to touch her.

My fingers stroked over smooth, soft skin, her warmth seeping into my palm, her scent filling my senses.

And then I made the mistake of looking at her.

She was wearing a tiger-imprinted, almost transparent shirt and pants. Her underwear. Her stomach. Her skin. Everything was right there.

Ya Allah.

This woman. My woman.

She definitely knows how to test my patience.

It took everything in me not to turn this car around, speed back to the apartment, and bury my head between her breasts to let her play with my hair as my hands roamed, as my lips left worship on her skin.

Instead, I clenched my jaw and drove.

But she was still looking at me.

Those eyes.

That gaze she doesn’t even know she has.

The kind that makes a man forget his own name.

We reached the restaurant, and I helped her down from the car, handing my keys to the valet before placing my hands on her bare waist.

I led her inside, ignoring the way my pulse thumped as she leaned into my touch.

She knew what she was doing.

We sat at a private table, the restaurant was empty.

She looked around, confused. “Why is this place empty?”

I said nothing. Just watched her.

She held my gaze for a second, realization flickering across her face.

“All I wonder is how you have the connections to do things in a country and city where you know nobody.”

I chuckled, shaking my head.

This woman. Always so curious.

The servers arrived, setting down a pre-ordered champagne bottle, water and a birthday cake. She clapped excitedly, beaming at me.

And I just stared.

I love making her happy.

I love watching her smile.

“Make a wish,” I murmured as the servers left.

She closed her eyes, mumbled something under her breath, then reopened them, looking straight into mine.

And said, “I love you.”

Everything stopped.

My pulse stilled. My lungs forgot how to work.

She smiled, soft and vulnerable.

And without hesitation, I breathed, “I love you too.”

I cut the cake and fed her the first bite, my heart still racing, my hands still burning from where I touched her.

She popped the champagne bottle, and we talked easily, warmly, and safely.

Until she changed the air between us.

Until she leaned forward, licking her lips, voice lower, silkier.

“I hope we’re going back to your place,” she murmured.

I nearly choked.

I gripped my glass of water tightly, pulse hammering. “Y-yes, of course.”

“Good.” She smiled. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

“Because I will have you tonight.”

Ya Allah.

I nearly forgot how to exist.

The restaurant blurred. The sounds faded. The only thing I saw was her.

She was staring at me, waiting for a reaction, and all I could think about was how soft her mouth was the last time I kissed her, how easily she melted against me, how she would sound under me.

Heat surged through my veins, my muscles tightening.

I called the servers over, threw cash onto the table, and rushed her out of the restaurant before I lost my mind.

The highway home was a blur.

I sped like a criminal, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other buried between her thighs, stroking her skin absentmindedly.

She shifted slightly, and I almost lost control of the car.

By the time we parked outside the apartment, my hands were shaking.

She glanced at the car, then at me.

“I’m curious about when you got this car.”

I exhaled sharply.

“I’m more curious about how easy it’ll be to get you out of that shirt.”

She blushed. Looked away. But I didn’t let her.

I stepped out, walked over to her side, and opened her door, lifting her out with ease.

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, legs clinging to my waist.

I carried her inside, kicking the door shut behind us.

And crashed my mouth onto hers.

Soft at first. Then deep. Desperate.

She moaned into my lips, gripping my hair. My hands ran up her waist, sliding under her flimsy shirt, fingers pressing into warm, soft skin.

She pulled back, eyes dark, teasing. “Are you always this easy, Anwar?”

I exhaled shakily, aching.

“Just for you,” I admitted.

She hummed, trailing her nails over my jaw, then down my chest, so slow, too slow.

She shoved me onto the bed, straddling me, grinding herself against my aching hardness. I groaned, gripping her waist, but she pinned my wrists above my head.

“Patience,” she whispered against my lips.

I almost broke right there.

I needed her. Needed her to end me.

She kissed her way down my chest, her hot mouth pressing into every inch of my skin. Everywhere but where I wanted her most.

My breathing was ragged when her lips found my hip bone, her tongue tracing down to my V-line.

“Eve,” I gasped, nearly trembling.

She kissed lower, nipping at my skin. My back arched off the bed, shameless, wrecked.

“Say please,” she murmured against my abs.

My fists clenched the sheets.

“Please,” I breathed. “Ya Allah, please.“

Her mouth finally found me.

Heat. Wetness. A pleasure so deep I nearly lost my mind.

I swore in Arabic, a prayer, a plea, a sin.

She pulled back, wiping her lips, smirking at my ruined state.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I flipped her onto her back, pressing her into the mattress, caging her in.

Mine.

She gasped, arching into me as I pushed inside her, inch by inch.

Her nails dug into my back, hard, delicious pain.

Her moan was loud, so loud.

I kissed her deeply, swallowing the sound, rocking into her in slow, deep strokes.

Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me in, taking all of me.

Our eyes met.

Locked.

Dark, desperate, burning.

I kissed her lips, her throat, her collarbone.

She whispered my name like a prayer. A prayer unfinished.

I would spend the rest of my life answering it.

Chapter Thirty

“She is my hunger, my prayer, my surrender—what a dangerous thing it is to worship with trembling hands.”

The sharp beeping of my alarm pulled me from restless sleep, but I was already awake. My body moved on instinct rolling out my prayer mat, performing wudu, standing in quiet submission. But my mind? My mind was somewhere else.

Since the last time I had her, since the way she unravelled beneath me, since the way her lips moaned my name like a prayer nothing has been the same.

My focus is scattered, my discipline shaken. For the first time in my life, I stuttered during Iftah. The last time that happened, I was thirteen. I don’t stutter when I pray. But now? Now, I fumble through sacred words, because all I see behind my closed eyelids is her.

I finish my prayers, whispering a quiet Astaghfirullah under my breath, but I know I don’t mean it. Not really. Because if loving her is a sin, then I have no desire to be cleansed.

By the time the sun rises fully, I move around my apartment, tidying up. She’s coming this morning. We’re supposed to study together, but I know myself. I can’t focus when she’s near. Not on exams. Not on anything that doesn’t involve my mouth on her skin.

I had a private chef prepare her favourite meals last night Jollof rice with grilled chicken, plantains, and a little Koshari for myself. If I can convince her to stay the night, I’ll make sure she eats well before I devour her whole.

She has been in Abuja with Damilola for a few days after her birthday, something about a shoot. I hated every second of it. Her absence, the distance, the fact that she was occupied with something other than me.

My girl is too sweet. She doesn’t even realize how deeply she has me. Doesn’t know I’m ready to give her everything.

A knock on my door pulls me from my thoughts. She’s here.

“My girl is here.”

I open the door, and there she stands brown-skinned, glowing, utterly mine.

She looks up at me, blinking against the sunlight, and gives me a small, teasing smile. “Did you miss me?”

I chuckle under my breath. She has no idea. Instead of answering, I pull her inside, shutting the door behind her.

She drops her bag on the couch and stretches lazily, exposing just the slightest strip of soft skin above her waistband. That tiny movement alone makes my mouth dry.

“How was Abuja?” I ask, sitting on the couch and pulling her between my legs. My hands find her waist automatically.

She hums, playing with the curls at the nape of my neck. “It was okay. Dami was dramatic as usual. The shoot was long, but I’m glad it’s done.”

I nod, but my eyes are fixed on her lips. The way they move when she talks. The way she knows she has my full attention but pretends not to notice.

She tilts her head. “What?”

I shake my head slowly. “I just want you.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans closer, teasing the line between playful and dangerous. “Yeah? What do you want?”

I grip her thighs, pulling her onto my lap in one swift motion. She gasps. But she doesn’t stop me.

“I want to taste you,” I murmur against her neck, trailing my lips down, down.

I carry her into my room, placing her down on the bed, kneeling before her like a man in prayer.

She shivers as I run my hands up her thighs, parting them slowly. She’s so warm, so soft. My tongue darts out, tracing lazy circles on her skin. She moans, her hands threading through my hair.

“Anwar…” she breathes, half a plea, half a demand.

My hands slide up her waist, gripping her tighter as my lips press against her inner thigh. She tastes like sin, like sweetness, like something I’ll never get enough of.

She arches, writhes, and begs. My name falls from her lips in broken whispers, and I want to hear it over and over again.

“Look at me,” I murmur, my voice thick with need. She does. Her gaze meets mine, heavy with lust, drowning in desire.

And when she finally shatters beneath my mouth, I hold her down, drinking in every moan, every gasp, every tremor.

Because she is mine.

And no prayer could ever save me from the way I crave her.

Chapter Thirty-One

“Some gestures speak louder than words; some silences hold more love than confessions.”

Exams started a week ago, and they’ve worn me thin. Even with all my preparation, the weight of sleepless nights and endless revisions clings to my skin like sweat. Today, I finally have a break no papers, no last-minute cramming, no racing to meet deadlines—just a rare moment to breathe.

When I travelled to Abuja with Damilola two weeks ago, I got an email that flipped my entire mood. I had been invited to play a major role in an upcoming movie set in Ondo State. When I first submitted my audition tape, I barely put in effort I had no expectations, no real hope. But now? I feel the excitement settle in my bones.

Anwar knows about the role. He always knows everything about me. I don’t know how he does it, but he listens even when I don’t think I’m saying anything. He promised to come with me to Ondo, but I have a strong feeling he just wants another excuse to explore Nigeria. That man is still fascinated by every corner of this country.

He also mentioned that he had a surprise for me today. I hate surprises, but I love Anwar, so I have no choice. I am currently dressing up while waiting for him to pick me up, my heartbeat a little too heavy. I know exactly why it’s because Egypt is drawing closer.

Anwar wants us to leave immediately after exams, but I haven’t told him about the potential clash with my movie schedule. We’re still going, that much is certain. But the thought of it? The weight of it? It presses into me like a stone in my chest.

Damilola says I’m overthinking it. She always says that. But she’s not the one going to face his family, his people, his world. I am.

Just as I’m brushing my brows, my phone rings.

I grab it quickly, expecting Anwar’s name to flash across my screen. Instead, it’s my brother.

“Hey, big brother. Where have you been?” I ask lightly.

“You too, where have you been?” he counters with mockery in his tone.

I roll my eyes. Classic Folahan.

“My exams have started o, I’ve been busy,” I reply, still filling in my brows.

“Yes, I know.”

I pause.

He knows?

“You know? How? I don’t remember mentioning it.” I turn my face toward the mirror in confusion.

“Y-you didn’t?”

My hand freezes mid-stroke.

Folahan never stutters.

Something about the way he says it… I don’t know. It feels off.

I purse my lips but let it go. Whatever.

“Anyways, you’re interrupting me. Why did you call?”

“Wow. So now you’re too busy for me?” He clicks his tongue, pretending to sound offended. “I just called to check up on you, seeing as you had Hausa Literature two days ago and you weren’t very sure about how you did.”

Wait.

What?

I sit up straight. I never told him about that.

My stomach tightens.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing. I just pray I score well,” I say quickly, brushing away the odd feeling sitting in my gut.

We exchange goodbyes, but as soon as the call ends, I feel like there’s something I’m missing something I should know.

How did he know?

I stare at my phone, biting my lip.

A message pops up.

“I’m outside, Eve.”

Anwar.

I exhale, shaking my head to clear whatever that weird feeling was.

Right now, I have a more important thing to focus on like how I’m going to keep my hands off my man while he takes me to this mysterious surprise.

Anwar greets me with his usual smile when I step into his car, his eyes running over me slowly before muttering “Subhanallah” under his breath.

He always does that. And it always makes my chest feel warm.

“What’s the surprise, Nunu?” I ask sweetly, leaning my head on his shoulder as he drives.

He chuckles but doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand finds my thigh, squeezing softly. Distraction tactics.

When he finally pulls into a parking lot, I recognize the building immediately.

My eyes widen.

“Anwar.”

I turn to him, a mix of disbelief and excitement washing over me.

He parks and rests his hand under his chin like he’s studying my reaction.

“You’ve been complaining about not getting across to her, so I made some calls.”

I cover my mouth.

No way.

NO WAY.

Standing in front of us is the most sought-after interior designer in Nigeria. The woman whose DMs I’ve been spamming for weeks, hoping to get a consultation for my new home.

And Anwar made it happen.

I turn to him slowly.

“You did this for me?”

His gaze softens. “I’d do anything for you.”

My chest tightens.

I don’t even realize I’ve thrown myself at him until my lips crash against his.

He hums against my mouth, his hand sliding up my back.

“You’re so thoughtful,” I whisper against his lips.

He bites his lip, looking down at me. 

“I try.”

“Try?” I scoff. “Nunu, you’re perfect.”

His ears turn red.

I kiss him again longer this time.

And just like that, I forget about the nerves, the fears, and even the looming flight to Egypt.

Because right now, this is home.

This man is home.

Meanwhile…

Damilola is in Folahan’s house.

This in itself is not a new thing.

What is new, however, is the fact that she’s nervous.

And Folahan keeps looking at her like he knows something she doesn’t want him to know.

She clears her throat. “So, how’s work?”

Folahan smirks.

“You tell me.”

She frowns. “What?”

“You’ve been coming back to my house every night. What do you think work is like?”

Her throat bobs.

She hates that he catches everything.

His stare is slow, lazy, like he’s piecing her apart.

Her fingers twitch.

“You’re annoying.”

He smirks wider. “And you’re beautiful.”

Damilola glares at him.

Folahan just chuckles.

“You’re not running away this time, Miss movie star.”

Her breath catches.

She really, really hates him.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the problem.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“I seek salvation in you, yet you are the very sin I cannot forsake.”

The sun is merciless today, heat bouncing off the pavement like a second wave of torment. As I step out of the theatre hall currently doubling as our exam venue I squint against the brightness, using my hand as a shield. I should have brought my sunglasses. My pink knitted cardigan is sticking to my skin, doing the absolute opposite of what I need right now.

I fish my phone from my bag, quickly typing out a message to Damilola to see if she’s done with her exam. Maybe I should ask her to grab food for us?

Before I can hit send, an arm wraps around my waist, firm but familiar. A gasp leaves my lips.

“Nunu, you scared me!” I whine, breathless.

Anwar’s chest presses against my back, and when I tilt my head up, his lips graze my neck. A deep inhale, a slow exhale.

“I almost lost my mind in that exam hall,” he murmurs, voice rough, needy. He presses his lips against my skin once, twice. “Come home with me.”

My heart stutters. We’re still outside. Students mill around us, some talking, some heading to their cars, some scrolling through their phones. But no one is paying us any mind, and Anwar’s grip around me is unrelenting.

“I brought my car, Nunu,” I whisper back, but he pulls away just enough to meet my gaze.

“You know it’s safe here, Eve.” His eyes darken. “Don’t protest. I need you.”

The way he says it like it’s not a want but a necessity melts my resolve. I don’t argue. We move toward his car.

The car barely rolls to a stop in the parking lot before Anwar is on me.

He brushes my blonde hair aside, his lips ghosting over my neck. A slow, deliberate drag of heat. My body trembles.

“Nunu, let’s g-get inside—” The words break apart between low moans as his lips trace patterns against my skin.

He pulls away barely. Dark eyes, lips slightly parted, breath heavy.

He looks at me like he’s worshiping my existence.

Then, without another word, he parks properly, gets out, and opens my door. His hands find mine, fingers intertwining as he leads me inside.

He barely shuts the door before he takes my bag and tosses it aside, like anything but me is irrelevant.

Clothes? Gone.

His bottoms? Missing.

His shirt? Barely hanging on.

My thighs are bracketing his waist, moving in a slow, maddening rhythm. His hands guide me, gripping, flexing, steadying.

His jaw is clenched, eyes squeezed shut in raw pleasure.

The sound of skin against skin, our breathing mingling, breaking, reforming.

“God, Eve, I’m going to come inside you please—” he groans, voice desperate, raw.

I can’t respond, can’t think, only chase my release until it snaps.

Anwar. That’s all I know.

I see him behind me, reflected in the glass.

His head is thrown back, his fingers digging into my hips.

One of his hands comes down against my ass sharply, claiming.

“Subhanallah,” he moans, half praise, half plea. “Just like that, my Eve. I’m—I—”

My vision blurs, the pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.

I clench, tighten, shatter.

By the time we collapse onto his bed, the sky has shifted into deep shades of blue. Hours have passed.

Anwar nuzzles into my hair, his fingers tracing mindless patterns along my hip. My body still buzzes, pleasure coiling in occasional aftershocks.

His lips brush against my ear.

“At this rate, I’m going to impregnate you, woman,” he murmurs.

A breathy giggle escapes me. It’s funny because it’s true we’ve been insatiable.

Something in Anwar has snapped.

And the only thing that seems to satiate him…

Is me.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Sometimes, the loudest silence is the one between two people who still love each other but don’t know what to say.”

“Four cars?!” I yelled, pacing the wide marble floor of my brother’s living room. “That’s just too much! I already face enough ‘your brother made this happen’ whispers now four whole cars are following me to Ọ̀ndó? Am I a politician?”

Folahan sat on the armrest of the couch, barely blinking at my outburst. Typical. Rich men don’t know when they’re doing too much.

“It’s a long trip. You’re spending a good amount of time there. I have people who want to hurt me, and I won’t throw my baby sister into the wild just like that,” he said calmly, like it made all the sense in the world.

“This isn’t the jungle, Folahan. It’s Ọ̀ndó. I’m going to act in a film, not smuggle diamonds across a border,” I snapped, rubbing my temples. “Just… assign me a driver. I don’t want to drive, and one driver can double as security.”

He eyed me for a second, as though assessing how much pushback I had left.

“Just one? But—” he started, then stopped when he saw the warning frown pull my face together.

“Okay, I guess that’s reasonable. I’ll introduce you to your driver tomorrow,” he finally conceded. “You’re spending the night here?”

“Yeah. Easier to leave from here. Plus, the house is still being worked on.”

There was a beat of silence, then he asked, “What of that boy?”

“What boy?” I played dumb, pulling my throw blanket tighter.

“Ilham or whatever his name is.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ordinary name you can’t remember. I wonder how you built wealth.”

“Touché,” he chuckled. “So? You guys broke up?”

“Of course you’d like that,” I said, scowling. “We didn’t break up. Not officially. I just blocked him on everything. Even email.”

He laughed—an actual, full-on laugh. “Fola, you’re a brat. What did I do to deserve this as a sibling?”

“Go find a woman and worry about her. Leave me and my heartbreak alone.” I huffed, grabbing my glass of water and storming out of the room like I hadn’t just told on myself.

FLASHBACK

“I don’t have any papers on Friday. I’m so happy. I’m over this exam season,” I mumbled into Anwar’s chest, my fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin.

“Oh, I’m jealous,” he teased softly, running his fingers through my hair.

But my heart was restless. I hadn’t told him yet. I needed to.

“Nunu?” I called.

He looked down at me, gentle and expectant. “Hmm?”

“I don’t think I can go to Egypt…” I rushed out. “Not immediately after exams, I mean.”

His brows pulled slightly, but his voice remained calm. “Okay… is there a problem?”

“You know the role I told you about? The big film? We start rehearsals right after exams. But we do have a break… maybe then?”

He nodded slowly. “Okay, Eve. There’s no problem. I want to come with you.”

My chest loosened. “Thank God… I’ve been so nervous. The email came a month ago and I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

His body tensed. “A month?”

I bit my lip and turned away.

“Fola,” his voice sharpened, “yallah… I booked hotels. I bought our flight tickets. Right in front of you. And you were just going to keep this hidden?”

“I didn’t lie!” I snapped.

“But you withheld the truth.”

“I was scared! And maybe… maybe I didn’t even want to go!” I blurted. “You pushed this on me. Did I ask to go to Egypt?”

His expression cracked then—just a flash. Hurt. “I thought it was the next step for us, Eve. Something that meant something.”

I got up from the bed and started packing my things with fast, angry hands.

“You’re seriously walking out?” he said, rising slowly. “Instead of having a grown-up conversation?”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re not sixteen, Eve,” he added, frustrated.

And still, I walked out. The moment the door shut behind me, I regretted it.

BACK IN THE PRESENT

He could’ve come after me. He knows I’m here. I always come here after I’m upset. But… nothing. Not a single knock. Not a text.

Maybe he’s done with me.

Or maybe I’m the one who broke something by being too scared, too reactive.

And now, I don’t know how to fix it.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Some silences aren’t empty—they’re just waiting for the right knock at the door.”

I arrived in Ọ̀ndó just as the sky dipped into evening. The drive had been long, hot, and silent made heavier by the dread curling in my stomach. Still, nothing prepared me for the blunt dismissal I received when I finally got to the venue.

“The rooms are full,” the lady at the desk said with no preamble, no apology, not even a glance at my name. “I don’t know why you bothered coming. Go and lodge in one of those fancy hotels like you can afford.”

Her tone was sharp, her expression judgmental. I had never met her, but it felt like she’d made up her mind about me the moment I stepped out of the car. I wasn’t even sure what I did to deserve that kind of bitterness.

By the time I stood in front of the new hotel one my brother secured for me with a single call, I felt more tired than ever. The drive, the rejection, the silence it all sat heavy on my chest. I dismissed the driver, but of course, he didn’t leave. My brother’s instructions were law.

The room was too clean, too soft, too quiet. I sank into the plush bed and closed my eyes.

I tried not to think about the woman’s words. I tried not to think about Anwar.

Still, I reached for my phone.

No messages. Not even a new number.

I’d blocked him everywhere, but he could have found a way. If he wanted to.

I dialled my brother, desperate for something familiar, but he didn’t pick up. Strange. It was late, but not late enough for him to miss my call.

Morning came with an alarm and a lukewarm buffet. I barely touched the food. My appointment was at 10AM, but by the time I arrived at the venue, the air was already heavy with judgment.

The room was filled. The eyes were colder than yesterday’s air.

I glanced at my watch. 9:52. I was early. Yet it looked like I was the last to arrive.

I offered a small wave and walked to one of the empty chairs in the corner of the big living area. A few nods came in return reluctant, forced. I swallowed and kept my head down.

When it was finally my turn to read, my palms were already clammy.    

“Do not ask for my money like you worked for it. I do not appreciate it.”

I read the line carefully, maybe too carefully.

The room fell still.

Then—

“What the hell did you just read?”

I looked up to find Angelina, my co-star, staring at me with something like disgust.

“No passion whatsoever,” she spat.

“I—I can read it again.” My voice felt small.

The director didn’t even look at me.

“If you don’t get it right this time, we’ll give the role to your understudy. We only picked you because your looks fit the character.”

The air was sucked out of my lungs. My mouth stayed open, but nothing came out.

I cried the entire way back to the hotel. The driver said nothing, but I caught the way his hands tightened around the wheel. I stumbled into my room, still in my heels, and collapsed again.

Minutes later, my phone rang. It was Folahan. Of course, it was.

“My star, Bolaji told me you were crying. What happened?”

“Fola, they humiliated me!” I sobbed. “The director said I don’t have any talent. That I’m too proud to make it. That I’m just some industry plant riding off my brother’s name. I didn’t do anything. I swear I didn’t.”

I could barely get the words out between gasps of frustration and hot tears.

“Folami,” he said gently, “this is not the first time someone has tried to dim your light. You’re 21. Look at what you’ve achieved by yourself. You think it’s easy being you? These people are angry at the world. Don’t give them more power than they already took.”

“But Fola, I—”

“Stop,” he said firmly. “Stop letting miserable people live rent-free in your mind.”

I sniffled. “Okay. Fine. But… I hear a very familiar female voice in the background.”

There was a pause.

“It’s just Damilola. She got back from Abuja and came to say hi.”

“She didn’t text me,” I snapped. “Not one message. Didn’t she see the 100 texts I sent her? And she’s saying hi to you?”

“Leave that one,” he deflected. “I’ll send you something now. Go shopping. Feel better. Maybe even unblock that boy and give yourself some peace. I have something for your cast members too.”

“Whatever. Bye bye.” I hung up, frowning but I was smiling just a little.

I sat in bed for a while, staring at nothing. The silence was comforting now. Until—

A knock.

I dragged myself to the door, still in yesterday’s cardigan, eyes puffy from crying.

And there he was.

“Anwar.”

He looked like something out of a dream his brows furrowed in concern, his lips parted like he’d been rushing to speak, his presence enough to knock the air out of my chest.

I didn’t know whether to slap him or fall into his arms.

But I knew one thing: he came.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Sometimes love is a battle between holding on and letting go, but the heart always knows where it belongs.”

I took a four-hour drive in two. Our separation has done nothing but spur me on to talk sense into her head or fuck it into her head. Y’allah, see the thoughts this woman is making me have.

After our argument, I had exams for a few more days, while her department’s exams had already ended. I left the hall like a building was on fire. I could barely keep still enough to write a proper sentence. As soon as the paper ended, I drove straight to her hostel, hoping to find her there only to find it locked. Her car was gone, and the parking lot was half-empty. Most students had already left since the school was closing.

I drove slowly back to my apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her overpriced car among the few still on campus, but saw nothing. It wasn’t until late evening, after my last fajr of the day, that it hit me. Of course, she went to her brother’s place. How could I forget her usual retreat? I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her childishness. I missed her so much.

But it was too late to drive down there now. Showing up at her brother’s house at night wasn’t appropriate. By Mohammed, this woman grinds my teeth most frustratingly.

The next morning, I hit the road before the sun could stretch its arms. Traffic jam? Unimaginable. I spent four hours barely moving on the highway. By the time I arrived at her brother’s mansion, it was early afternoon, and I found out she had already left for Ọ̀ndó.

Her brother gave me the hotel’s name and address. I didn’t know Lagos well enough, and now I had to navigate my way to Ọ̀ndó too? But there was no room for hesitation. I took off like a madman, ignoring my fajr and every sense of rationality.

I made that four-hour journey in two, not caring about the road, the noise, or my pulse thundering in my chest. Hayati, what have you done to me?

I knocked on her door softly, once, twice. My heart felt like it would burst through my chest. The door cracked open, and there she was. Her face was slightly swollen, eyes wide and teary, lips wet and pouty. I had to swallow the ache clawing at my throat.

The door barely closed behind me before she rushed into my arms, clinging to me with her lean arms. She smelled like a long day, like heartache.

I wrapped her up tightly, pressing my nose into her hair. “Y’allah, I missed you,” I whispered, voice breaking.

She didn’t say anything, just buried her face in my chest, clinging like I might disappear. I pulled back slightly, cupping her face, forcing her to look at me. “Who hurt you? Hayati did someone—”

She shook her head quickly, fresh tears spilling over. “No, it’s just—everything. The shoot, the people… I just needed you.”

Her voice cracked, and I pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Before I could say more, she tugged me closer, kissing me with desperation, like she needed to feel me to know I was real. I couldn’t help but deepen it, my lips sliding against hers with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

I didn’t think…couldn’t think. I lifted her, pressing her back against the door, and she wrapped her legs around my waist. I kissed her neck, sucking lightly just to hear her gasp. My hands found the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one quick motion, my lips never leaving her skin.

Her hands were in my hair, tugging gently, making me groan against her throat. I couldn’t take it anymore. I pressed her harder against the door, grinding against her, feeling her warmth through the thin fabric.

“Anwar,” she whispered breathlessly, and my heart pounded faster.

I laid her on the bed, too caught up in her to care about anything else. My hands traced the curves of her waist, memorizing the softness of her skin. She arched into me, whispering my name like a prayer. I dipped my head to her collarbone, kissing down to her stomach, savouring every breathless moan.

I entered her with a slow, deliberate thrust, and she gasped, digging her nails into my back. I watched her eyes flutter shut, mouth parting with a soft moan. “Y’allah, you feel so good,” I groaned.

After the rushed desperation faded, we lay tangled in each other, breathing heavily. I traced circles on her back as she kissed my shoulder, soft and lazy.

“You’re not going anywhere again, do you hear me?” I whispered.

She smiled, her fingers trailing down my chest. “Maybe I just needed to know you’d come for me.”

I kissed her again, slower this time, savouring the way her lips moulded to mine. I let her take control, pushing me back onto the bed. She straddled me, moving slowly, deliberately, guiding my hands to her waist.

She leaned down, her mouth trailing along my jawline, whispering, “I missed you too.”

My hands gripped her hips as she rocked against me, our movements slower, more purposeful. I could feel every inch of her, and it felt like she was claiming me as much as I was claiming her.

When she leaned back, arching her body, I couldn’t help but murmur, “Subhanallah, you’re perfect.”

Her hands gripped mine as I thrust up into her, and she whispered, “Take me, Nunu.” I obeyed, letting her guide the rhythm, slower, deeper until the tension snapped and we both cried out, holding each other as if the world outside didn’t exist.

We stayed like that for a long while, wrapped up in each other. I kissed the top of her head, feeling the tension finally ease. “I love you, Eve,” I whispered.

Her sleepy reply made me smile. “I love you too, Nunu.”

I kissed her temple, whispering one last prayer for patience and forgiveness. For letting myself love her so recklessly.

But as her breathing evened out, I knew there was no going back. I couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not ever.

Outro

Hey people, it’s Griin. I appreciate you reading up to this point, I take note of all your support and do not take it for granted. 

Do not forget to comment your thoughts about your experience, the book, the characters or any other thing in general. I love you, and I wish you the type of love I write about (minus toxic parts of course.) 

Byee