The bookstore was quiet—an island of paper and imagination amid the endless Lagos chaos. Rain still drummed against the windows, softening the city's noise into something gentler, more forgiving. Inside, time seemed to slow. And Tolu, a man who lived by structure and blueprints, found himself wandering aisles built not of steel but of stories.
She was still there.
Amaka.
He didn't know her name yet, but her presence filled the room like perfume—delicate, bold, unforgettable. She moved like a woman who had long made peace with her own beauty. Not the kind that shouted for attention, but the kind that commanded silence. Her fingers drifted across book spines like she was choosing lovers, not literature.
He tried not to stare again. He failed again.
"You don't look like the kind of man who shops for poetry," she said without looking up.
He chuckled softly. "What kind of man do I look like?"
"The type who builds bridges, not metaphors."
"Close," he said. "I'm an architect."
She turned then, fully. Her eyes sparkled like candlelight on honey.
"And yet, here you are—standing between Pablo Neruda and heartbreak. That's poetry too."
Her voice was low, textured. It made him think of vinyl records and late-night jazz. It made him want to listen—even to the silence between her words.
They stood near the poetry shelf, just a breath apart. He could smell the rain on her skin, the faint scent of vanilla and earth. She was still slightly wet from the storm, droplets clinging to the curve of her neck. He wondered, just for a second, what it would feel like to press his lips to that place and feel the rain there.
"I'm Amaka," she said, holding out her hand.
"Tolu," he replied, taking it. Her palm was soft, warm, firm—like her presence.
They didn't let go right away.
"Do you believe in fate?" she asked, eyes dancing.
"I don't know," he said. "But if it looks like you in a blue dress, laughing in the rain... maybe I should start."
She laughed, a sound so genuine it vibrated something loose in him. It wasn't flirtation. It was energy. Alignment. Like the moment a song lyric hits exactly where your chest used to hurt.
"I write," she added. "Poems. Spoken word mostly."
"Would you read one to me?"
"You sure?" she teased. "They're not gentle. They bruise."
"Maybe I need to bruise," he said. "To feel again."
She watched him then—not like a woman studying a man, but like a writer studying a metaphor. Slowly, deliberately, she opened her notebook and began to read. Her voice wrapped around the words, made them pulse with rhythm and heartbreak and hope.
And Tolu stood there, utterly disarmed. Not by her beauty, or even her talent—but by the way she peeled herself open so freely. Unashamed. Unapologetic.
As she finished, her eyes met his. The silence that followed was thick with something electric—want, recognition, danger. A storm inside the storm.
"I should go," she said softly, closing her book.
"Will I see you again?"
She tilted her head, smiled faintly.
"If the rain wants us to."
Then she walked away—leaving behind the scent of vanilla, the echo of poetry, and a man who, for the first time in a long time, wanted more than just silence.