(HER POV)
I didn’t expect to see him here, not in a Lekki duplex lit with red LEDs and scattered with sweaty bodies grinding to Ayra Starr.
Not at this kind of house party.
But there he was. Same lazy lean. Same way his eyes scanned the room like he was too bored to be impressed. Same wristwatch. Same dimples that only came out when he smiled for real, which was rare.
I froze by the drinks table. My can of Smirnoff Ice paused at my lips. He turned. Our eyes met like the bass dropped just for us.
He didn’t look shocked. Just… tired. Like seeing me did something to his chest, he wasn’t ready to process.
He walked over, casual as ever, and said,
“Thought you hated house parties.”
I sipped. “I thought you moved to London.”
His lips twitched, half a smile, half regret.
“Did. Didn’t stay.”
I nodded like it was small talk. Like he didn’t leave without saying goodbye. Like I hadn’t cried for someone who was never really mine.
I hated how much I still wanted him.
The music jumped. Someone shouted in the hallway, a fight or a conversation, who knew. But it suddenly felt too open. Too bright.
“Come,” he said.
I didn’t ask where.
He led me to the guest room. Dim light. The door barely shut. The air between us, thick with unsaid things. I leaned against the edge of the dresser. He stood by the door, like he wasn’t sure if he should come closer.
“I messaged,” he said.
“Three months after you left?”
“I didn’t know how to explain why I left.”
“You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”
“I didn’t know we were anything to explain.”
That one landed.
I looked away, blinking back the sting. The silence between us had always spoken louder than words. But tonight, it screamed.
He moved closer.
“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Even when I didn’t message. Even when I was there, pretending I was living this amazing life. Even when I saw your posts and told myself I didn’t miss you. I did. I do.”
I inhaled sharply.
His hand found the dresser behind me, just above my shoulder. He leaned in, slow. His voice dropped.
“You’re angry. I get it. But you still feel this too, right?”
I tried to shake my head. My lips parted, but no sound came out.
His forehead grazed mine.
“You can go back to pretending you don’t like me,” he whispered, “and I can go back to pretending I don’t love you. But for tonight…”
His other hand brushed my waist, light, respectful, but wanting. My breath caught.
He hovered, close enough for me to back away if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
His lips barely touched mine, soft at first, like a question. Then firmer, like he’d gotten an answer.
I melted into it.
The kind of kiss that held apology, memory, ache, and promise.
Outside, someone shouted, “Oya spin it again!” and the party roared.
But in that small, quiet room, the only thing that spun was my head, tilted slightly as I kissed him back.
(HIS POV)
I saw her before she saw me.
At first, I thought my mind was playing games, conjuring her up the way it always did when the music was low and the lights were dim, or when someone walked past wearing her perfume.
But no.
She was real
Standing by the drinks table in a fitted top that clung to her like it belonged there. Braids pulled back like she didn’t care who was watching, when I knew she always did.
Her lips were mid-sip when she noticed me. Froze. Just like that. Same way she used to freeze when she was trying not to cry during our late-night arguments.
The bass dropped. Our eyes locked.
God, I missed her.
I moved before I could talk myself out of it.
“Thought you hated house parties,” I said, trying to sound casual. It wasn’t.
She said, “I thought you moved to London.”
I smiled. A soft, guilty smile.
“Did. Didn’t stay.”
Didn’t stay. Couldn’t. Not with what I left behind.
The party blurred. Fake laughter. People shouting over music that didn’t slap. None of it mattered. Only her.
So, I said, “Come.”
And when she followed, I knew. Part of her still felt it too.
We found a guest room. Dim light. Familiar tension.
She leaned back on a dresser like she was trying to keep space between us. But I knew that lean. She always did that when she was scared of getting hurt.
“I messaged,” I started.
She didn’t flinch. “Three months after you left?”
I exhaled. “I didn’t know how to explain why I left.”
“You didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”
“I didn’t know we were anything to explain.”
God, I hated myself for that line.
I said it out of fear. She heard it as a blade.
Her eyes dropped. She blinked too fast.
I moved closer. Her perfume hit me, the same warm, vanilla scent. It felt like a memory I wasn’t ready for.
“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” I said. “Even when I didn’t message. Even when I was there, pretending I was living this amazing life. Even when I saw your posts and told myself I didn’t miss you. I did. I do.”
She didn’t speak. I could hear her breathing.
I stepped in. Braced my hand against the dresser, just above her shoulder. Our faces close enough that I could feel the heat of her skin.
“You’re angry. I get it. But you still feel this too, right?”
She tried to shake her head. Her lips parted, maybe to push me away, maybe to ask why now. But no words came.
So, I said the thing I’d practised in my head for months. The thing I’d never dared send in a voice note.
“You can go back to pretending you don’t like me,” I whispered, “and I can go back to pretending I don’t love you. But for tonight…”
I watched her eyes. No resistance, just ache. So, I leaned in.
One hand slid gently around her waist. The other stayed anchored above her head, like letting go might ruin everything.
My lips brushed hers, soft, unsure, like a question.
Then she tilted her head just slightly. Gave me her answer.
And the rest of the world? Gone. The party. The guilt. The hurt.
Only her.
Here.
Tonight.