The moment the notification pinged on her phone, Talia froze mid-sweep in the quiet hallway. Her eyes widened — Salary credited. Her fingers trembled as she opened her banking app.
The figure sat there on the screen, solid and real. Her money. Her first salary since starting at Wolfe & Co. By the time her shift ended, the weekend had already begun for her in spirit. She changed into her best casual dress — a silky, body-hugging slip she'd bought long ago but never had the courage to wear. Soft champagne in color, it fell just above her knees with delicate straps. A new lipstick — deep wine red — completed the look.
The mall trip was pure bliss: baskets full of fresh vegetables, fragrant spices, imported teas, plush throw pillows, a patterned rug for her marble floors, and a potted plant for her kitchen. She bought body mists with warm vanilla and amber tones, and for the first time in a while, she walked home with the easy smile of a woman who'd earned her own comfort.
That evening, she cooked with care — smoky jollof rice, peppered grilled chicken, and fried plantains. The apartment smelled like a family gathering. She called her parents, and their joy over her remittance filled her heart to the brim.
Meanwhile, several floors below, Adrian came to the tower on a Saturday evening for a quick stop at his office. He didn't plan to linger — until the building lights flickered and went out.
The emergency systems kicked in for the offices, but not the apartments. As he made his way out, something made him pause. He thought of her — alone, maybe unsettled in the dark. Against his usual instincts, he went to her floor and knocked.
The door opened slowly.
She stood there, framed by candlelight, hair loose around her face, that silky dress clinging like a second skin. The red lipstick deepened the curve of her lips. When she realized it was him, her posture changed — arms folding across her chest, fingers pinching the hem of her dress in a modest shield.
"Sir?" she asked softly.
"I was just checking if you're fine. The power's out for a while."
"I'm fine. Thank you," she said, eyes lowering.
For a moment, silence hung between them — the only sound was the faint hiss from her kitchen. He glanced past her shoulder. "You've… done some decorating," he said, stepping slightly closer to see the warm-toned rug and fresh flowers.
She shifted, half-smiling. "Yes. First salary… I wanted it to feel like home."
His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer than it should have. "It does."
She turned slightly toward the kitchen. "I was just finishing up dinner. The power went before I could put on the last pot of plantains, but… it's still warm."
"That smell…" he said without thinking. "It's… inviting."
She hesitated, fingers playing with her dress hem. "You… could try some if you want."
He almost refused — almost. But instead, he said, "Only if I won't be intruding."
She stepped aside. "It's just me. No one to intrude on."
He crossed the threshold, the soft glow from the candles painting the room in amber. Her apartment felt alive — warm, scented, lived-in. She moved to the kitchen, picking up plates, and he noticed the sway of her dress, the confident-yet-shy way she moved.
When she set the table, their hands brushed once, and she quickly withdrew. They began to eat — and the conversation that followed was quiet at first, about food, about the city, about her family's excitement. But it soon deepened, her laughter slipping out at some of his dry remarks.
And though neither said it out loud, both of them knew — he hadn't planned to be here. And yet he wasn't ready to leave.
They ate slowly, the occasional clink of cutlery breaking the soft hush in the candlelit room. The jollof rice was rich, the grilled chicken smoky and tender. Adrian found himself eating more than he intended, each bite accompanied by her small, satisfied glances when she caught him enjoying her food.
When the plates were nearly empty, Talia reached for the wine bottle she'd picked up at the mall. "It's not the fancy kind you're used to," she said, half-teasing, "but it's smooth enough."
He accepted the glass, studying the faint pink on her cheeks that wasn't from the wine yet. "You underestimate yourself," he said quietly. "This is better than most of my dinners this month."
She gave a small laugh but didn't meet his eyes. "You don't have to flatter me, sir."
"I'm not."
The words lingered in the air a moment longer than they should have.
The outage outside had stretched into the night, the world beyond her apartment silent. Somewhere down the hallway, the hum of a generator started faintly, but here in her space, the candlelight danced in small pools across the walls.
He leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping over her apartment — the neat arrangement of groceries, the bright throw pillows, the careful touches of someone building a new life. "You've done well for yourself," he said, softer now.
Her lips curved, but her tone held something guarded. "Trying. One step at a time."
When she stood to clear the table, the hem of her silky dress brushed against his leg. She froze just for a second before moving away. In that pause, something unspoken passed between them — the kind of awareness that couldn't be easily undone.
He stayed seated, watching her in the kitchen, the candlelight catching the sheen of her hair and the curve of her shoulders. He didn't remember the last time he'd noticed such small details.
When she returned, she offered him a warm towel for his hands. Their fingers touched briefly — and this time, neither of them pulled away too quickly.
"You should go before the lights come back," she murmured, not quite looking at him. "People might… talk."
He gave a slow nod but didn't stand immediately. "Maybe I don't mind if they do."
Her eyes flickered up to his, startled, but before she could reply, the low hum of the tower's lights coming back filled the silence. And just like that, the moment shifted — but it didn't disappear.