The streetlights outside flickered like blinking eyes, casting pale reflections across the eatery's window. Outside, the Lagos night was a wash of motion—honking danfos crawling through traffic, roadside suya vendors fanning glowing coals, the occasional siren slicing through the darkness like a blade.
But inside, time had slowed.
The air held the aroma of fried plantains, grilled chicken, and something far more delicate—hesitation wrapped in longing.
Majek stirred his straw in his half-empty Chapman glass for the tenth time. He wasn't thirsty anymore, but the soft tink of ice against glass gave his hands something to do. His fingers trembled faintly, betraying the stillness in his face.
Across from him, Agnes sat in silence, still wearing the black silk blouse from the board meeting earlier that day. But now, in the soft amber light of the eatery, it looked different—softer, more vulnerable. Like it belonged to someone else. Like she belonged to herself again.
They had laughed moments earlier. Really laughed. The kind that loosened knots in the chest.
About the woman who spilled amala on the CEO's shoes during last year's retreat. About the way Mr. Smith always cleared his throat before a lie. How even billionaires weren't immune to gossip and grease stains.
But now, silence had returned—heavy, stretched like a tightrope between two souls standing on opposite cliffs.
Agnes traced the rim of her water glass, her expression distant, thoughtful. The ice had melted, and her untouched drink sweated quietly in the warm room. She glanced down at her bracelet—a thin gold chain, delicate, old. A family heirloom. It looked like something passed down with whispered warnings.
"Do you ever feel like…" she began, then paused, her voice barely above the hum of the AC. "You're waiting for your life to begin?"
Majek blinked, then set his glass down slowly. "Every day."
Their eyes met.
That was it. That's what made the air shift.
The tension between them wasn't just romantic. It was mournful. Intimate. The ache of two people who'd been holding their breath in different corners of the world, now finally exhaling in the same room.
"You're not like the others," Agnes said, voice soft, almost surprised at her own words. "You listen."
Majek gave a quiet laugh. Not dismissive—grateful. "And you… you see through people. Even when you pretend not to."
A soft smile curled on her lips. "Maybe that's why I'm always exhausted."
Their laughter returned, but it was quieter now. A gentle release. Like a breeze passing between tall grass.
Then silence again.
But it wasn't the awkward kind—it was full. Rich with unspoken things.
"Agnes," Majek said, saying her name like it meant something—because to him, it did. "I know you're... with someone. Or expected to be. I won't pretend I don't notice. But if you ever needed to—leave, start over, breathe—I'd be there. Just to stand beside you. Nothing more."
She froze.
His words were soft, but they shattered something inside her. A dam that had held too long. She looked down at the bracelet again, then up at him.
"I shouldn't be here," she whispered. "But I didn't want to be anywhere else."
Then, slowly, her hand inched forward across the table.
Her fingers brushed his.
The moment stretched.
Majek felt her touch like fire and prayer. It wasn't lust. It wasn't desperation. It was recognition.
And for a heartbeat, the world stopped breathing.
That was when the bell above the door rang.
The spell broke.
They both looked up.
Lami.
His black linen shirt was unbuttoned at the top, his gold chain catching the low light like a snake's eye. His smile was slight, his brows raised, his posture too relaxed.
He didn't look angry.
He looked… entertained.
Like a man watching the opening act of a tragedy he'd already written.
"Fancy seeing you here," Lami said, striding toward their table.
Majek stood slowly, his chair scraping against the tile. Agnes's hand slipped from his.
"Lami—" she began, her voice thick with alarm.
He raised a hand, palm out. "Save it. I know what I saw."
"You didn't see anything," Majek said carefully. "We were just—"
"Talking?" Lami's eyes sharpened. "You think I'm stupid?"
Agnes stood now too, placing herself between the two men. "We were talking, that's all. Please don't make a scene."
Lami laughed. The sound was cold. Hollow. "Too late."
He reached into his jacket.
Majek's stomach clenched. Every part of him went still.
Not a wallet.
Not a phone.
A gun.
Agnes gasped.
Majek's blood turned to ice.
"Lami, what the hell—" he began.
"You think you can humiliate me?" Lami's voice cracked like dry wood. "In public? After everything our families planned?"
"This isn't you," Agnes said, stepping toward him, hands raised. "Put it away. Please."
"No," Lami snarled. "You belong to me, Agnes. You always have. And if I can't have you—"
Majek moved.
Not out of fear.
Out of instinct.
Out of love.
He stepped between Agnes and the barrel of the gun.
"No!" Agnes cried.
There was shouting.
Chairs scraped.
Someone screamed.
The gun went off.
Once.
The sound cracked through the eatery like a thunderclap, followed by silence so sharp it hurt.
Majek stumbled back.
His hands flew to his chest. Nothing. No pain.
He looked down.
It wasn't his blood.
Agnes was falling.
Time collapsed.
He caught her before she hit the ground, his arms trembling as he lowered her gently to the floor. The black silk blouse was no longer black—it was blooming red beneath his hands, a terrible, spreading flower.
"Agnes—Agnes—stay with me!"
Her lips parted. Her breath was shallow, ragged. Her eyes fluttered like moth wings caught in wind.
"I... I remember... music," she whispered.
Majek choked on a sob.
The door burst open. Someone called for help. A waiter screamed. A woman at a nearby table was sobbing uncontrollably, rocking in place.
Lami stood frozen.
He looked down at the gun like he didn't understand it. Like it had acted on its own. Slowly, he let it fall to the floor. It clattered, loud and final.
Majek cradled Agnes tighter, her blood soaking into his shirt, warm and cruel. His tears fell fast, hot streaks on his cheeks.
"Please," he whispered. "Don't do this. Don't leave me."
Agnes didn't answer.
She was slipping.
And so was everything else.
Sirens wailed in the distance—closer now, urgent. A red glow flickered outside the window. The world spun in slow motion, everything too bright and too quiet.
Someone pushed through the door—police officers. One knelt beside Majek, checking Agnes's pulse.
"She's still breathing," the officer said.
Another officer grabbed Lami, who didn't resist. He just stood there, blinking. Empty.
Majek barely noticed.
He was staring down at Agnes, her head resting against his arm, her lips parted slightly like she was dreaming something far away.
The paramedics came. One of them touched Majek gently, trying to pry her from his arms.
"Sir—we need to move her. Please."
Majek let go, but slowly. His arms stayed in the air after they took her, as if she were still there.
They lifted Agnes onto the stretcher, her arm swinging off the edge like a broken wing.
He stood up, swaying, blood streaked across his shirt like war paint.
He looked around.
At the overturned chairs.
The spilled drinks.
The gun on the floor.
The waiter still trembling behind the counter.
At Lami, being led away in cuffs, face blank.
And he knew—
Nothing would ever be the same again.
When Agnes woke up again, she wouldn't remember the boy who tried to protect her.
Only the man they said had tried to kill her.