The danfo bus jerked to a stop in the chaotic Egbeda market area, horns blaring and conductors shouting "Owa! Owa!!" Zion helped Naomi down carefully, one hand on her waist, the other carrying their two light bags. The humid afternoon air smelled of roasted bole, exhaust fumes, and gutter water. Naomi's hand instinctively rested on her still-small belly — now about ten weeks along. They had left Ikeja that morning with heavy hearts and lighter pockets.They found a single self-contained room in a face-me-I-face-you building off the main Egbeda road. The landlord, a stout woman called Mama Tunde, collected ₦180,000 for the year upfront — almost everything Zion had saved from small editing gigs. "Una be husband and wife abi?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing how young they looked. "No bring trouble o. This place dey quiet."The room was tiny: one worn mattress on the floor, a small table, a single plastic chair, a standing fan that rattled, and a shared bathroom down the corridor. NEPA took light every few hours, forcing them to rely on a cheap rechargeable lantern. No kitchen — they cooked on a small kerosene stove outside or bought indomie and beans from nearby bukas.That first night, after unpacking, they lay on the thin mattress under the slow fan. Naomi's head rested on Zion's chest. "We really left Mama," she whispered, voice cracking. "One mistake on that balcony… now we're hiding like criminals. I regret it, Zion. I regret climbing on you that rainy night, begging you to enter me raw. Now I'm carrying my brother's baby in this small room."Zion's arms tightened around her. Guilt hit him fresh. "I regret it too. Every day. I should have stopped when your breast touched my shoulder during editing. But here we are. I love you… and this child." He kissed her forehead, then her lips — soft at first, then deeper. Their bodies responded despite the regret. Naomi straddled him slowly in the dim lantern light, her full breasts swaying as she sank down onto his thick cock. They moved together with emotional intensity — tears mixing with sweat, whispered "sorry" and "I love you" between moans. She came first, body shaking, then he filled her deep, holding her close as they cried quietly afterward.The next days were a crash course in survival. Zion woke early to shoot quick street vlogs around Egbeda market — okada riders arguing, women selling fresh fish, golden light on the busy expressway. He edited on his laptop using the occasional NEPA light, aiming to push "celedit" past 1,800 subscribers with better thumbnails and consistent uploads. But views were slow; money from AdSense was still far away.Naomi's morning sickness worsened in the second trimester. She vomited most mornings into the shared toilet, trying to stay quiet so neighbors wouldn't suspect. Zion would hold her braids back, rub her back, and bring cold sachet water. "This baby is reminding us of our sin every day," she said one morning, tears in her eyes. "We're half-siblings. People will call it abomination if they ever find out."They ate simple meals — toasted bread with sardine, bole and groundnut from the roadside, or cheap rice and stew. Evenings, they talked for hours on the small chair or mattress. Naomi worried about antenatal care. "I hear registration alone fit cost ₦50,000 or more for scans and drugs. How we go manage?" Zion promised to take more gigs editing wedding highlight videos for local photographers.By the end of the first two weeks, small cracks appeared. A nosy neighbor, Aunty Shade (a plump woman who sold provisions), kept asking questions: "Where una family? Why una no dey visit anybody?" Zion and Naomi smiled politely but felt the pressure. Their love remained strong — quick stolen kisses while cooking outside, long passionate sessions at night when the compound was quiet. But every climax now carried the weight of regret. "We got ourselves pregnant," Naomi would whisper afterward, tracing his chest. "As brother and sister. Sometimes I wish we could turn back time… but I can't stop loving you.