The morning after their kiss, the rain had stopped, but Amara woke to a sky still heavy with silver. She sat on the edge of her mattress, the scent of wet earth drifting in through her open window. For a moment, she wasn't sure if it had all been real — the confrontation, the kiss, the words Dimeji whispered like a confession against her skin.
But when she stepped outside, there he was — barefoot on her front step, sketchbook in his lap, scribbling like he was afraid the world might steal the image forming in his mind.
He looked up, startled, then smiled — not wide, but honest.
"I couldn't sleep," he said. "Didn't want to miss anything."
She tilted her head. "So you waited all night?"
"No," he said. "I stayed."
There was weight in the word — the kind that acknowledged every time he hadn't.
Amara exhaled and sat beside him. Silence settled between them, not awkward this time, but natural — like a new kind of language. A gentle one.
After a few moments, she said, "I still don't know what we're doing."
"I don't either," he replied. "But I know I want to find out with you."
She nodded, slowly. "One condition."
He turned.
"No more disappearing," she said. "Even if it's hard. Even if you're scared."
He gave her a solemn, two-fingered salute. "On my artist's honor."
"Not worth much," she teased, nudging him.
"True," he grinned, "but I'll back it with something better."
"What?"
He reached into his sketchbook and tore out a page. It was her — drawn just that morning. Hair undone, wrapped in a shawl, eyes still half-dreaming. And at the bottom he had written: "Still Her. Still Here."
Her throat tightened. She folded the paper and slipped it into her blouse pocket.
"Thank you," she whispered.
---
The days that followed were slow, delicate.
Dimeji returned to the house beneath the banana trees, but now Amara came often — sometimes with akara wrapped in paper, other times just with silence and presence. He repainted the faded walls, letting her pick the colors. She chose a warm coral for the living room, soft green for the workspace. She didn't say it, but the colors made her think of healing and earth — of things that stay.
Dimeji began painting again, truly painting — not just her face, but what she made him feel. He filled canvas after canvas with stories they hadn't spoken aloud: a bench under moonlight, fingers brushing over a hot pan, laughter melting over shared pap. He didn't show her every piece. Some he kept hidden — things too tender for even her eyes.
Meanwhile, Amara started dreaming differently.
She expanded her stall menu, added spicy yam fritters and groundnut soup. A passing customer mentioned her food on a Facebook group, and two days later, a reporter came with a camera and a notepad.
"Tell us what inspired the flavors," the woman asked.
Amara smiled, a little shy. "Rain," she said. "And someone who taught me how to listen to it."
Dimeji watched from a distance, leaning against a tree, pride shining in his eyes.
---
But not every moment was golden.
There were cracks.
One evening, she found him sitting alone, staring at an unfinished canvas — the one he had started during their distance.
"Still can't paint it?" she asked gently.
He shook his head. "It's her. Mama Ife."
Amara sat beside him quietly.
"She still lingers," he said. "In my dreams. In the way I hold a brush. I'm scared that loving you means letting her go."
"No," she said, resting a hand on his. "It means letting her rest. You can keep her in your memory. But don't let her live in your guilt."
He looked at her then — really looked — and something softened.
"Do you forgive me?" he asked.
"For leaving?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I'm learning to," she said honestly. "But it's a daily thing. Like breathing."
He took a long, shaky breath. "Then I'll stay for every one."
---
Late one night, the rain came again.
They stood at the door of her kiosk, watching it dance in the moonlight.
"You ever think about leaving?" Dimeji asked.
"Leaving where?"
"Here. This city. This stall. This version of life."
She thought for a long moment. "Sometimes. But not the way I used to. Not like I'm running."
He smiled. "Good. Because I want to build something here. Something small. Something ours."
She looked at him — a man who once sketched in shadows, now daring to dream aloud.
"Then let's start with a table," she said. "You paint. I cook. We feed the world."
He laughed. "Starting with the world is ambitious."
She shrugged. "The world will come. Let's feed each other first."