Sometimes love doesn't enter with a kiss. Sometimes it tiptoes in with breakfast, laughter, and a vinyl spinning in the background.
The first time Amaka came to his apartment, it was unplanned—like most of the beautiful things between them. She arrived on a Sunday morning, barefoot in gold slippers, carrying akara in a paper napkin and a bag of oranges. Tolu had only just woken up. His shirt was wrinkled. His hair was a mess. But her smile, sleepy and playful, made him feel seen in a way that was terrifyingly comforting.
"I figured we could make breakfast together," she said, brushing past him like she'd always belonged there.
She walked into his kitchen like she'd built it herself, humming a soft tune as she peeled oranges and poured garri into a glass jug. He watched her from the doorway, half amused, half in awe. She moved with grace, but not perfection—she spilled a bit of water, laughed at herself, and asked him where he kept "the big spoon that feels like aunties use it to serve stew."
Tolu turned on soft jazz—something old and crackling. She swayed as she stirred. He stood beside her, close enough to smell the warmth of her skin, the citrus from her hands. They talked as they cooked—about books, childhood memories, the odd way Lagos smells after rain. There were no deep confessions yet, no dramatic exchanges. But everything felt honest. Easy.
After they ate, they sat on the living room floor, backs against the couch, sharing mango slices and silences that didn't need to be filled. The sun poured in through the slanted blinds, painting her brown skin in gold. She read him a poem from her notebook, voice soft and textured, the kind that rests in your spine long after it's gone.
"You're not what I expected," he said, after a long pause.
"And you?" she asked, nudging his knee with hers. "You're quieter than most men I know. Still waters?"
"Still waters," he said, "with a lot of storms underneath."
She nodded like she understood. Like she'd weathered storms too.
He told her about the night he cried in front of his apartment after signing the divorce papers. Not because he wanted her pity—but because something in her made it safe to share ugly truths. She didn't flinch. She didn't interrupt. She just reached over, brushed a crumb off his shirt, and whispered, "That makes you real."
As the music shifted to an old Sade song, her head rested on his shoulder. His arm curled around her waist. Her fingers traced the edge of his wrist, slow and absentminded. Their bodies leaned into each other naturally, like magnets pulled by memories they hadn't even made yet.
Her lips brushed his jaw first.
Then his breath caught.
Then their mouths met—not in hunger, but in understanding. The kiss was slow, careful. Like they were reading each other's secrets with their mouths. Her hand slid up his neck; his fingers tangled in her hair.
There was no rush. No urgency.
Just two people whispering, I'm here. I see you.
And for the first time in years, Tolu didn't feel like a broken man trying to be whole.
He felt like a man becoming something new—with her.