I tell myself not to look for him.
It's a ridiculous thought this isn't a movie. Weddings end, guests leave, life continues. Whoever he is, he'll disappear into the Lagos night like everyone else.
Still, my eyes keep drifting.
He's moved closer to the aisle now, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed. There's an ease about him that stands out in a room full of nerves and excitement. He doesn't look restless or distracted. He looks… present.
When the couple kisses and the room erupts into applause, I finally breathe. My work isn't done yet, but the hardest part is over. I turn to signal one of the ushers—
And nearly collide with him.
"Sorry," he says at the same time I do.
His voice is calm. Deep, but not overwhelming. The kind of voice that doesn't demand attention yet somehow holds it.
"No, that was my fault," I reply automatically, stepping back.
He smiles then. Not wide. Not flirtatious. Just a small curve of his lips, like he finds the moment quietly amusing.
"You're very good at what you do," he says.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
He gestures gently toward the ballroom. "You kept everything together. I noticed."
Something about the way he says it—matter-of-fact, sincere—throws me off. Compliments usually come with expectations. This one feels… clean.
"Thank you," I say, unsure why my chest warms slightly. "I try."
"I'm Daniel," he adds, extending his hand. "The groom's cousin."
I hesitate for half a second before taking it. His handshake is firm but not overpowering. Warm.
"Amara," I reply. "I'm the event planner."
"Clearly," he says, eyes flicking briefly to my clipboard. "You look like someone who plans for every possible outcome."
I huff out a small laugh before I can stop myself. "That obvious?"
"Only to someone who does the same," he replies.
I study him more closely now. There's nothing flashy about him—no loud confidence or forced charm. Just quiet assurance. Intentional pauses. He listens as much as he speaks.
Dangerous.
"Well," I say, gently pulling my hand back, "if you'll excuse me, I still have a schedule to protect."
"Of course," he says easily, stepping aside. "I won't get in your way."
I walk off, but I can feel his gaze on me—not heavy, not intrusive. Just aware.
Later, during the reception, I catch him again. He's talking to an elderly woman, bent slightly to hear her better. Laughing softly. When she pats his arm, he doesn't pull away.
Something twists inside me.
I'm refilling my water bottle when he appears beside me again, like he's always been meant to stand there.
"You haven't eaten," he says.
I raise an eyebrow. "Are you monitoring me now?"
He smiles. "Observing. There's a difference."
I should shut this down. I should nod politely and move away.
Instead, I sigh. "Occupational hazard."
He hands me a small plate. Jollof rice, grilled chicken, plantain.
"I told the caterer it was for me," he says. "But I think you need it more."
I stare at the plate, then at him. "You barely know me."
"I know you've been on your feet all day," he replies calmly. "And that you care too much about everyone else."
I take the plate.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
He nods once. "You're welcome, Amara."
And the way he says my name—like he's memorizing it—makes me uncomfortable in the most unsettling way.
Because I realize something then.
This man isn't trying to impress me.
He's just being himself.
And somehow, that feels more dangerous than anything else.