The only reason I agreed to this bonfire was food.
Not vibes. Not networking. Definitely not Stephen.
Miriam had dangled the magic words—grilled chicken, puff-puff, small chops—and I had folded like bad government policies.
Now, standing by the fire, a suya stick in one hand and a cold Coke in the other, I decided maybe this night wasn't such a bad idea.
The air smelled of roasting meat, charcoal, and the familiar warmth of too many bodies in one place. A small circle of students laughed over a private joke. Another group huddled near a Bluetooth speaker, arguing over song choices. The fire flickered, reflecting off their eager faces.
It was a nice night.
That was until Stephen showed up.
I felt him before I saw him—the sudden hush in my personal space, the unmistakable air of a man too comfortable for his own good.
"Ah, look at my Arìké," he announced, slipping in beside me like he belonged there.
I sighed. "Must you call me that?"
He grinned. "Name too sweet."
Before I could protest, he plucked my Coke from my hand, took a sip, and handed it back like we shared things.
I scowled. "You know, normal people ask before hijacking someone's drink."
He licked his lips. "You don't strike me as someone who likes normal."
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died on my tongue when I caught movement from across the fire. Zion.
Seated with his usual crowd—Michael, Segun, a few others—he was watching.
Correction: He was pretending not to watch.
His posture was relaxed, arms stretched over the back of the bench, one long leg resting over the other. But his eyes weren't at ease.
They flickered once, twice, in my direction before locking onto something else.
I took a slow sip of my drink, amused.
I was watching him lose composure.
Beautiful.
"Nice night, abi?" Stephen asked, oblivious to the brewing tension.
"Free food," I said. "I'm satisfied."
He chuckled. "Of course. My Arìké does not fall for small things. Only premium enjoyment."
Before I could roll my eyes properly, someone clapped their hands.
"Guys, let's play a game!"
The groans and cheers were immediate. Moremi—of course—was the one rallying people into a truth or dare.
I had no plans to participate. But somehow, the universe had other ideas.
Stephen went first.
"Truth or dare?"
He stretched lazily, flashing a smirk. "Truth."
Adaobi crossed her legs, eyeing him playfully. "Since you're single, tell us—what's your dream girl?"
A few people ooh-ed. I didn't react.
I should have, though.
Because Stephen turned to me. Looked me dead in the eye. And started talking.
"My dream girl," he began, voice slow, deliberate. "She's confident. Knows her worth. Sharp-tongued. Sharp-minded. But if you know her well, you'll see the softness under all that fire."
The group had gone quiet. I could feel eyes shifting between us.
He kept going. "She's not perfect, but that's what makes her real. She doesn't need to beg for attention. When she walks into a room, you notice. And if you ever get close enough, really close, you'd be lucky to keep her."
By now, I was holding my breath.
And the bastard was still looking at me.
Smooth. Convincing. Too damn good.
Moremi fanned herself. "Somebody turn off the fire. This heat is too much."
Laughter. Teasing. A few side-eyes in my direction.
I shook my head and reached for another suya stick. "Very inspiring, Stephen. When are you submitting this poem to WAEC?"
He laughed. "You don't believe me, Arìké?"
I raised a brow. "I believe you're enjoying this game too much."
Across the fire, Zion wasn't laughing.
He wasn't even looking in our direction. But his fingers drummed against his knee—a small, restless movement. His lips were pressed together, his jaw tight.
Michael nudged him. "You dey alright?"
Zion blinked once. "I'm fine."
Liar.
I knew that look.
I knew him.
And this? This was jealousy.
Nobody else might have seen it, but I did.
And suddenly, this bonfire was even more entertaining than I expected.
The game went on. People laughed, flirted, dodged dares, made fools of themselves. I was about to quietly slip away when someone called my name.
"Jade, truth or dare?"
I sighed. "Truth."
Funke grinned like she'd been waiting for this. "What's the most unexpected place you've ever kissed someone?"
A fresh wave of laughter rolled through the group.
I smirked. "Classroom."
People gasped.
Adaobi's mouth fell open. "Jokes! When? How? With who?"
I shrugged. "It's called truth not testimony service. Next person, please."
The game continued, but I wasn't paying attention anymore.
Because Zion?
He had stiffened.
It was subtle—most people wouldn't catch it—but I saw the way his hand clenched around his drink, the slight shift in his breathing.
Zion was thinking about it.
Remembering it.
The first time we kissed.
It was late. The classroom was dim, only half-lit by the corridor lights outside. We had been arguing about something stupid—I didn't even remember what. But I remembered him.
The way he had looked at me.
The way I had looked back.
The way neither of us had moved away when the space between us had disappeared.
That kiss had been an accident. But what happened after that?
So much.
I bit into my suya, letting the memory sit between us.
Stephen, meanwhile, was still busy enjoying himself.
At some point, he had moved closer. An arm resting behind me. His voice dropping low whenever he spoke to me. And that damn nickname—Arìké—rolling off his tongue like it belonged to me.
The whispers had started.
I caught snippets of my name and Stephen's name hovering on lips .
I ignored them. I had learned long ago that people would always talk.
But Zion?
He looked like he wanted to break something.
And for the first time in a while, I wondered—how much longer before he does?