“Tomorrow still happens,” I said.
“I know,” she whispered.
She left before sunrise.
No drama. No promises.
Just a pause at the door, and a look that said the night meant exactly what it was—and nothing more.
I met her the night the lights went out.
Everyone else treated it like a party. She didn’t. She stood off to the side, barefoot, holding her heels, watching the world like she wasn’t part of it.
We started talking. Easy, effortless.
She didn’t hold back—but she didn’t lose control either. Every movement felt chosen. Every breath close, shared, almost stolen.
It wasn’t just desire. It was release.
Afterward, she lay beside me, staring at the ceiling, calmer than she’d been all night.
When we kissed, it wasn’t wild—it was deliberate, like she was trying to feel everything she’d been missing.
Time stretched.
Clothes fell away without urgency, just quiet intent. Skin against skin felt warmer than it should have, like the night itself was holding its breath.
“You’ll have to live with it in the morning,” I said.
“I already am,” she replied.
That was enough.
The first touch was slow. Careful. Like we both knew this wasn’t something to rush.
Her fingers lingered on my shirt before pulling me closer.
That’s when she finally said it, quiet, like it might break if spoken too loudly.
“I’m getting married tomorrow.”
The air changed.
I should’ve stepped back. I didn’t.
She looked at me, searching—not for permission, but for honesty.
“Can I stay?” she asked.
The kind of conversation that skips the surface and goes straight to something real.
Hours later, when the street emptied, she said, “Walk with me.”
We didn’t stop talking until we were inside my place.
By the time we got to her place, the rain hadn’t stopped and neither had whatever this was.
At the door, she paused, looked back at me, and said,
“You can still go home, you know.”
I really should have.
But I followed her inside.
Let’s just say…
I never got that bread.
I only went to the store to buy bread. That was the plan. Simple. Innocent.
Then I saw her.
She was in the snacks aisle, arguing with a bag of chips like it owed her money.
“₦500? Be serious.”
I laughed.
She turned. “You think this is funny?”
“You argue with snacks,” I replied.
She stepped closer. “And you like it.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
Next thing I knew, we were in a taxi, still arguing… still laughing… still not creating any distance.
Outside, it started raining. Not normal rain—the kind that forces strangers to stand a little too close under a tiny shelter.
We stood there, shoulder to shoulder, pretending not to notice how close was too close.
“You laugh too easily,” she said.
“I think you’re winning,” I said.
She smiled. Dangerous.
“Good. You’re paying.”
That’s how I lost my money… and followed her out of the store like my ancestors had already approved.