The Lagos art gallery hummed with life, a kaleidoscope of color and sound that spilled into the humid night. Fairy lights draped the open courtyard, casting a golden glow over canvases propped on easels, their bold strokes clashing with the soft chatter of students and the clink of wine glasses. Nia stood beside her own painting—a swirling chaos of indigo and gold that mirrored the storm in her chest—trying to ignore the knot of nerves twisting her stomach. Her fingers tugged at the hem of her Ankara dress, the fabric vibrant against her dark skin. This was her first showcase, her chance to prove she was more than a girl haunted by a past she couldn't outrun.
The air carried the scent of grilled suya from a vendor outside, mingling with perfume and the faint tang of acrylic paint. Afrobeats pulsed low from a speaker, the rhythm syncing with the city's heartbeat. Nia scanned the crowd—lecturers in stiff agbadas, students snapping selfies, and a few suited types who looked like they'd wandered in from Victoria Island's elite circles. She adjusted her braids, willing herself to look confident, but her eyes kept drifting to her painting. It was too raw, too honest, a window into the grief she'd buried since her father's death five years ago. A car accident, they'd said, but the whispers of foul play never stopped.
"Bold strokes," a voice said, low and smooth, cutting through her thoughts like a blade. "You paint like you're fighting something."
Nia turned, and her breath caught. He stood a step too close, all sharp cheekbones and smoldering eyes, his black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of inked skin. His locs were pulled back, framing a face that belonged on a canvas—beautiful but dangerous, like a storm you couldn't look away from. He held a glass of wine in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his tailored trousers, but it was his gaze that pinned her in place, dark and searching, like he could see the cracks she hid from the world.
"Thanks," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. "It's… personal."
He tilted his head, studying her painting—Shades of Absence, she'd called it—before his eyes flicked back to her. "It's more than personal. It's a confession." A smile curved his lips, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how it would make her pulse race. "I'm Dami."
"Nia," she said, holding his gaze despite the heat creeping up her neck. "You an artist too, or just here for the free wine?"
He laughed, a sound that felt like velvet against her skin. "Both. But I'm more interested in what's behind the art than the art itself." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "What's your story, Nia?"
Her stomach flipped, but she forced a smirk. "Buy me a drink first, then maybe I'll tell you."
His eyes sparked with amusement, and he gestured toward the bar. "Deal. But only if you tell me why you paint like you're running out of time."
They wove through the crowd, Nia hyper-aware of his presence beside her—the brush of his arm, the faint scent of sandalwood and paint thinner clinging to him. At the bar, she ordered a Chapman, the tang of grenadine grounding her as Dami leaned against the counter, sketching her on a napkin with a pen he'd pulled from nowhere. His fingers moved with a fluid grace, each line capturing her braids, her jawline, the way her eyes narrowed when she teased him.
"You're good," she said, peering at the sketch. "Too good. What's your deal, Dami? You don't strike me as the starving artist type."
He chuckled, but something flickered in his eyes—guarded, fleeting. "I get by. Art's my escape, same as you." He slid the napkin toward her, his fingers brushing hers, sending a jolt through her veins. "Keep it. A gift."
She opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes caught on his wrist as his sleeve shifted. A tattoo peeked out—a coiled serpent with a star at its center, inked in deep black. Her breath hitched. She'd seen that symbol before, in her father's old journal, tucked between cryptic notes she'd never deciphered. Her heart thudded, but she forced her voice to stay light. "Nice ink. What's it mean?"
Dami's smile didn't waver, but his eyes tightened. "Just a design I liked." He drained his wine, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "You ask a lot of questions, Nia."
"Only when I'm curious." She leaned closer, testing him, her voice teasing but her mind racing. "You hiding something, Mr. Artist?"
He held her gaze, his expression unreadable, then leaned in until his breath grazed her ear. "You're trouble, Nia, but I'm worse." His words were a warning wrapped in velvet, and before she could respond, he pulled back, his phone buzzing in his pocket. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening, and muttered, "I have to go."
"Already?" She arched a brow, hiding her disappointment. "What, you got a curfew?"
"Something like that." He flashed a grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "See you around, Nia. Keep painting your truth."
He melted into the crowd, leaving her with the napkin sketch and a racing heart. She stared at the drawing, her fingers tracing the lines he'd drawn—too perfect, too intimate, like he'd seen parts of her she didn't show anyone. The serpent tattoo lingered in her mind, a puzzle she couldn't shake. Who was Dami, and why did he feel like a spark in a room full of dynamite?
Nia tucked the napkin into her bag and rejoined the showcase, forcing herself to smile as a lecturer praised her work. But her eyes kept scanning the crowd, half-expecting to see Dami's silhouette. By the time the event wound down, the gallery was nearly empty, the fairy lights dimming. She slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped into the Lagos night, the air thick with exhaust and the distant hum of okadas.
At her hostel, she kicked off her shoes and tossed her bag onto the bed, the napkin fluttering out. She froze. Tucked beneath it was a folded note, the paper crisp and unfamiliar. Her hands trembled as she opened it, revealing sharp, slanted handwriting: Stay away from him. He's dangerous.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She checked her bag—nothing else was out of place. Had Dami slipped it in when he gave her the sketch? Or had someone else been watching her, close enough to touch her things? She glanced at the window, the Lagos skyline glittering beyond, but the shadows felt heavier now, like eyes lurking just out of sight. The serpent tattoo flashed in her mind, and with it, a question that burned hotter than her attraction to Dami: What have I just walked into?