The night air was thick with warmth—carrying the scent of salt, frangipani, and possibility. Far off inside the luxury resort lounge, laughter and Afrobeats pulsed softly through the walls. But Adeola had already slipped away, half-empty bottle of merlot dangling from one hand, red curls wild and unbothered.
She stumbled out onto the grand balcony, the stone cool beneath her bare feet. Her silk slip dress shimmered under the moonlight, clinging like second skin.
A voice trailed after her.
"Where exactly do you think you're going, Your Majesty?"
Ziora—teasing, amused.
Adeola turned slightly, not bothering to hide the lazy, wine-heavy smile stretching across her face. "I'm… getting some fresh air," she announced. "Tired. Maybe a little depressed. But, you know. Elegant depression."
Ziora laughed. "If depression saw you coming from the right, it would run left and block you on Instagram."
Adeola snorted, the sound unladylike and perfect. She staggered briefly, catching herself against the glass door, then shut it with a soft click behind her. The balcony welcomed her into a velvet silence.
"Fresh air," she whispered to no one in particular, as if the stars had demanded an explanation. "That's what I need."
The view beyond the railing was breathtaking—miles of private beach glittering in moonlight, the ocean's lullaby folding into the hush of the night. And somewhere, she decided, lay peace. She just had to climb over this damn balcony and go find it.
"One small step for man," she muttered, planting a foot on the ledge. "One drunken leap for Queen-kind."
Her second foot never made it.
With a soft thud, she collapsed back to the marble floor in a heap of silk and laughter, her wine bottle rolling away.
Somewhere in the shadows, he watched.
Babatunde, hidden just beyond the stone column, sitting quietly with a glass of dark rum. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but how do you look away from a falling star?
She tried again.
This time, she made it halfway—until a solid presence caught her.
Not the floor.
Not a wall.
A man.
Broad chest. Firm grip. Warm hands steadying her like she was something sacred.
"Was… was there a wall here before?" she mumbled, forehead pressed against solid muscle. She inhaled without thinking.
God.
"Damn. This wall smells good."
She tilted her head upward.
And froze.
Those eyes—dark, intent, laced with mischief. That jawline could cut diamonds. And the smirk? Devilish. Effortless. Lethal.
"Oops," she breathed. "Sorry. Didn't see you there."
He chuckled, voice deep and smooth like expensive whisky. "Hard to miss a whole woman dangling over a balcony."
She blinked. "I wasn't dangling."
"No?"
"I was testing the structural integrity of the railing. For safety reasons."
"Ah. Quality control."
"You get it."
"I do," he said, finally stepping into the light.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Effortlessly elegant in a black button-down that hugged his frame like sin. His eyes flicked over her—not in a crude way, but like he was reading something she hadn't written yet.
A shiver—not from the wind—ran through her.
He arched a brow. "You always conduct experiments barefoot and tipsy?"
"Only on Thursdays," she said, trying not to laugh—and failing. She shoved her hair out of her face, cheeks flushed with more than wine.
He watched her closely. Not leering. Just… watching. Like he was memorizing her.
"You're different," he said, finally.
She tilted her head. "That a good different or a restraining-order kind of different?"
He smiled. "Definitely the first one."
She tried to play it cool, but her heart gave itself away with a flutter.
Babatunde chuckled, deep and amused.
"And what did the results show?"
"That I'm tipsy and stubborn," she declared proudly. " But mostly hot,"
He grinned, cocking his head. "Definitely hot. Also reckless.
"Reckless is my love language"
He stepped back slightly, eyes never leaving hers.
"Tell you what," he said, stepping back slightly and offered a hand, palm open, ringless fingers steady, and offering his hand with a mock bow.
"" Instead of falling off the balcony, how about a walk on the beach?"
"I promise, It's safer, And I don't bite… unless you want me to, And I bite softer."
The flirtation in his voice made her cheeks burn in a way no wine ever could.
"Hmmm. A charming man offering beach walks under the moonlight? Sounds like the start of a Netflix true crime doc."
Babatunde smirked. "Fair. But if I were a serial killer, I'd probably have better shoes."
She glanced down at his loafers. " You are wearing murder shoes, though."
"Am I?"
He asked grinning down at her
Then she smirked. "Alright then, handsome," she said, slipping past him. "Lead the way."
Later: On the Beach
The sand was cool between her toes, and the night air kissed her skin like a secret. The moon spilled silver over the ocean, and the waves murmured stories no one dared write down.
They walked side by side. No touching. Just presence. Just tension.
"You're not a guest, are you?" she asked after a few minutes.
He smiled without turning. "What gave it away?"
"You don't look like someone who waits for check-in."
"You don't look like someone who waits, period."
She chuckled. "Fair."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
"You always drink alone?" he asked.
"Only when I want company."
"That doesn't make sense."
She looked at him. "It does when you're me."
He paused, curious. "And who are you?"
She looked at the ocean. "Right now? Just someone walking off a little too much wine."
"And earlier?"
She shrugged. "Someone walking off too much memory."
He nodded, like he understood. "Memory can be heavier than alcohol."
She stole a glance at him. "You sound like someone who's been through something."
"Don't we all?"
They kept walking.
"What's your poison?" she asked. "Aside from spying on women from dark balconies."
He grinned. "Whiskey. Silence. Jazz. Secrets."
"You sound like a noir film."
He shot her a look. "You sound like trouble."
She smiled. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been called that."
Another pause. The ocean hissed.
"You come here often?" she asked.
"This resort?"
"No. This… vibe. Broody, brooding man by the beach."
He laughed. "Only when fate insists."
She kicked at the sand. "Fate's a bit of a nosy bitch."
"That she is," he agreed.
They neared the rocky edge of the beach, where the waves crashed louder.
She sighed. "This is the first time in a long time I've felt… not seen like a mirror. Just felt."
He looked at her then—not hard, not soft. Just aware.
"I get it."
And somehow, she knew he did.
**********
Back at the Villa
They walked in silence to the steps of the private villa.
The laughter inside was quieter now. A few lights glowed through gauzy curtains. The scent of shea butter and vanilla drifted faintly through the air.
He stopped just outside the door.
She turned, cheeks flushed from the walk and something else.
He leaned slightly closer—not enough to touch, just enough to be felt.
"Sweet dreams, trouble."
She hesitated.
Then smiled. "Good night, wall."
She slipped inside.
And he stood there for a long while, the moon behind him, the ocean below.
Waiting for something he couldn't name.