Officer, the car ride back from the ruins of my shop felt endless, though I doubt it lasted more than twenty minutes. The night outside Lagos stretched wide and restless, neon lights smearing into colours I could no longer name through the blur of my tears. I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, my hand still pressed to Gregory's, the ghost of our earlier quarrel lingering between us. He kept his promise—his silence was thick and hard, jaw clenched tight—but I felt every breath he took like a storm contained only by willpower.
When he finally pulled into his compound, I couldn't move. I sat frozen, smelling the faint smoke still clinging to my hair, hearing the crackle of phantom flames that were no longer burning. It was Gregory who came round and opened the passenger door, crouching low, his hand extended.
"Come," he said simply.
It wasn't a plea. It wasn't even soft. It was a command, but one laced with a patience that startled me. He lifted me with a care I didn't expect from someone built with so much power. And maybe that was the first time I allowed myself to truly see him—not just the hardness, not just the manliness—but the man beneath, trying to steady me even as his own fire threatened to consume him.
His house felt like another world, far removed from the soot and the chaos. His bedroom was dim, curtains drawn, the faint smell of cedar and his cologne heavy in the air. I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room while he moved about with quiet efficiency, drawing water in a bowl, fetching a clean towel, pulling out one of his shirts and laying it gently on the bed.
"You'll take off your clothes," he said, not looking directly at me. "They reek of smoke."
Normally, I would have bristled at the tone. But I didn't have the strength. With trembling fingers, I peeled the ash-stained fabric from my skin, standing there in just my underwear. His back was still to me, but I caught the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his head turned just slightly, as if he was restraining himself from turning fully.
When I lowered myself into the chair by his desk, he came and knelt before me. The bowl of warm water steamed softly between us. His hands—large, calloused, masculine—lifted mine and dipped them into the bowl, rubbing away the soot with such gentleness it undid me. I thought I had run out of tears, but fresh ones spilled, hot and relentless, down my face.
Gregory said nothing. He just cleaned me piece by piece—my arms, my neck, my face, the streaks of grime that smoke and ash had left behind. When he was done, he draped his shirt over my shoulders, the fabric soft and smelling of him, before finally lifting my chin so I had to look into his eyes.
"You're not alone," he said quietly.
And for the first time in months, I almost believed it —the way he tucked me under his duvet, as though I was fragile glass. The way he didn't touch me again, not until I reached out in the darkness, fingers searching for him, desperate not to feel alone. It made me almost fall for it.
I should have slept. I should have collapsed into oblivion. But sleep was a stranger. My body was tired, yes, but my mind was a storm, images of fire and betrayal flashing like lightning behind my eyelids. And yet, within that storm, another feeling swelled—an ache, a hunger, the need to feel alive again after being scorched hollow.
"Greg," I whispered.
He stirred, his voice thick with the edge of sleep. "Hm?"
"I don't want to think tonight." My voice broke on the last word. "Please… don't let me think."
There was a pause, heavy and dangerous. Then his hand tightened on my waist, pulling me firmly against him. His lips found the curve of my neck, slow, deliberate. My breath hitched, my body trembling as the heat of him pressed into me.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't angry. It was deliberate, like he was rewriting something inside me with every kiss, every stroke of his hand across my skin. When he turned me to face him, the look in his eyes nearly undid me—raw, unguarded, full of something I didn't dare name.
His mouth captured mine, hot and insistent, and I melted into him. The world outside—the ashes, the betrayal, the loss—fell away until there was only the rhythm of our bodies, the heat, the tangled sheets, the gasp of my name on his lips. For once, I wasn't thinking of Raymond, or Bose, or what Lagos had stolen from me. For once, I wasn't broken.
Officer, I won't dress it in lies—it was sex, hot and urgent, but it was also more.
It was the way he slowed when I trembled, the way his lips lingered when my tears slipped again, the way he held me after as though he'd found something precious he was terrified to lose. And in the aftermath, with my cheek pressed against his chest, my heartbeat slowly matching his, I realised I had crossed into dangerous territory. Because Gregory wasn't just a distraction. He was becoming a lifeline.
The next few days were blurred. He barely left my side when he wasn't working. He cooked—or rather tried to, since he wasn't particularly skilled in the kitchen, but even burnt yam tasted sweet when served with that rare smile of his. He insisted I rest, he shielded me from phone calls, he let me grieve without rushing me. And slowly, dangerously, I began to heal in his presence.
But then came the surprise.
Two weeks after the fire, he drove me into the heart of Lagos Island. I thought it was some errand, another attempt to distract me. I had no idea what he was up to until he stopped the car, blindfolded me then continued driving.
I remember snapping at him, half nervous, half annoyed. "Greg, where are you taking me? This is Lagos, not Paris. Blindfolds don't end well here."
His laugh was deep, rare, almost boyish. "Trust me, Timi."
I didn't trust men anymore. But I trusted him. Against all reason, I trusted him.
When the blindfold came off, I almost collapsed.
Before me stood a freshly painted building on one of Lagos's busiest streets with 'Beauty Covers' written bold and gold. Glass front, polished tiles, wide interior. Inside, shelves groaned with bolts of fabric stacked high. New sewing machines gleaming in neat rows. Cutting tables laid out with precision. Even the freshly painted walls smelled like a promise of better days.
"This…" My voice broke. "Greg… what is this?"
He stood behind me, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. "Your new shop."
My knees nearly buckled. "What?"
"You lost everything," he said simply. "So I gave you better."
Tears streamed down my cheeks unchecked. I turned to him, searching his face for some trace of mockery, some hidden condition. But all I found was that steady gaze, unreadable yet firm, as though this was nothing to him, as though giving me a whole building was as natural as breathing.
"Greg, this is too much. I can't—"
"You can," he cut in, voice low but unyielding. "You will. You're not starting over on the roadside again. Not while I'm here."
Officer, I have never known what it means to be silenced by gratitude.
I wanted to fall to my knees, to scream, to weep, to laugh—anything to release the storm inside me. Instead, I simply threw my arms around him, holding him with a desperation that nearly frightened me.
It wasn't just a shop. It was dignity. It was the future. It was proof that someone saw me, really saw me, and deemed me worth rebuilding.
"Gregory, what did I ever do to deserve you?" I heard myself whispering into his chest.
He didn't answer. He just kissed the crown of my head and held me tighter.
But, even in that bliss, even with the hum of his breath steady against me, I felt the faint tremor of fear. Because life had taught me that light always came with shadows. And I wondered what price I would pay for this kind of love.