Sometimes, the most sacred thing isn't the body being touched—it's the soul that allows it.
The power was out again—Lagos being Lagos. But neither of them seemed to care. The night hung low outside, the windows fogged with moisture from earlier rain. Inside, the only light came from a flickering candle between them on the floor, its flame dancing with secrets.
Amaka sat cross-legged, wearing one of Tolu's oversized shirts. It draped over her thighs like a whispered invitation. Her skin, kissed by candlelight, glowed with a softness that felt almost spiritual. She dipped a piece of bread into her tea, smiling when she caught him watching her.
"You think too much," she said.
"And you don't think enough," he answered with a smirk.
"Maybe I don't need to," she teased. "You think enough for both of us."
She leaned closer, her fingers grazing his knee. Her touch was gentle, curious, without pressure. Just a question waiting for permission.
"Do you ever wonder what would've happened if we hadn't met that day?" she asked.
"I wouldn't have believed in beginnings again," he said, voice low, steady.
She paused, like she was listening not to his voice, but to his heart.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn't the kind of kiss that demanded answers. It was the kind that asked can I come closer? His hand cupped the side of her face, slow, reverent. Their lips met like waves lapping against the shore—over and over again, soft but relentless.
"You're... breathtaking," he whispered, almost as if he didn't mean to say it aloud.
She smiled—not coy, not seductive. Just soft. Certain.
"Then take your time," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."
That night, they didn't make love like strangers finally allowed to touch.
They made love like two people who had already touched each other's minds, flaws, and fears—and chose to stay anyway.
And when they fell asleep, tangled in each other, limbs warm, hearts full—it was not just passion that lingered.
It was peace.