The morning they left was quiet but heavy. Chris had agreed. Bella had smiled, but her smile had been small, cautious. There was tension between them—an unspoken truth that this meeting wasn't only about her mother. It was about everything that had led to this moment.
They chose to escape before the confrontation — a brief holiday in Spain. A way to breathe before plunging into reality.
–––
At the airport, Chris walked beside her like he owned the world. Bella noticed — in his posture, in the way his arm brushed hers at every step. She looked away, pretending not to notice, but her pulse betrayed her.
"I'm glad we're doing this," Chris murmured in her ear as they queued for check-in.
Bella hesitated. "It's… sudden."
"No," he said, taking her hand. "It's exactly what we need. Time."
She didn't answer. She let his hand squeeze hers. Let his presence anchor her. Around them, the station buzzed with wheels clattering, voices echoing, and constant movement. Yet between them sat a silence, heavy and charged.
On the plane, she sat beside him. He reached for her hand halfway through the flight, sliding her fingers between his. She didn't pull away. Instead, they spoke in low tones about ordinary things. They talked about the weather, her playlist, an assignment she hadn't finished. But both knew the truth: this trip was no holiday.
He leaned toward her at one point, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "You've been quiet," he whispered.
Bella looked away, her heart skipping. "I'm… thinking."
"About us?"
She didn't answer. But she squeezed his hand back.
–––
The moment they stepped into Abuja, it felt like coming home and stepping into foreign ground all at once. The air was warm, carrying the mix of earth, exhaust, and the faint spice of pepper soup from street vendors. Bella's heart beat a little faster. Her mother's house wasn't far — but her thoughts swirled with anticipation and dread.
Her mother, Mrs. Amara Phillips was a private investigator. Always busy. Always moving. Always away. She was back now on a long contract, away from the shadow of a recent divorce. Bella hadn't seen her in two years.
Chris was quiet on the drive there. He glanced at her, reading her silence like a book he wanted to finish.
When they arrived, her mother's expression was polite but reserved. She welcomed them, her voice measured. "Chris. Bella."
Chris offered his hand with a smile. Her mother's grip was firm, brisk, more business than warmth. Bella noticed the coolness.
They settled in. Chris helped unpack. He moved with ease, slipping into a rhythm that made Bella watch him with soft fascination. That night, after her mother had gone to bed, they lay together in the quiet of the guest room.
–––
It became their rhythm. Nights where her mother was away, when the house fell into hushed stillness, became theirs.
Chris knew her body. He knew her moods. He kissed her in the early hours, traced her skin like a map, his hands both gentle and urgent. They whispered under sheets, letting the night stretch long.
One night, Bella woke to find him watching her. "You're beautiful," he said. His voice was soft, almost reverent.
Bella turned toward him, letting herself melt into his gaze. "Don't make promises," she murmured.
"I'm not," he said, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. "I'm only stating facts."
Some days were simple. But nights were different. On those nights, they gave themselves fully—sometimes rough, sometimes tender, always consuming.
Each night bound them tighter. Still, the weight of what waited in her mother's house hung over them like a shadow.
–––
Three weeks later, on the eve of Chris's return to base, the air carried a sharp charge, almost electric. That night, they stayed in the kitchen. They laughed, teased, and shared the food she cooked even though he had tried to stop her.
Later, alone in her mother's guest room, they stood facing each other. Chris's shirt hung open. Bella's hair was cascading over her shoulders, her nightdress clinging to her skin.
He stepped closer. His fingers slid along her jaw, down her neck. "Don't want to leave tomorrow," he murmured.
Bella's breath caught. "I don't want you to leave either."
Their lips met—slow at first, testing, tasting. Then urgency took over and restraint disappeared. His hands roamed her body, tugging at clothes until they fell in a trail to the floor. Skin met skin—warm, needy, desperate.
Chris pushed her down onto the bed, his mouth trailing along her throat. His teeth grazed her collarbone before his lips closed around her nipple. She arched into him, gasping as his tongue circled and sucked, her fingers clutching at his hair.
His hand slid lower, parting her thighs, stroking her until she was trembling under his touch. She whimpered his name, already trembling. He groaned, sliding two fingers inside her, curling deep until her body shuddered.
"Chris—please," she breathed, her hips lifting to meet his hand.
He pulled back only long enough to slide down between her legs, his mouth replacing his fingers. When his tongue replaced his hand, she broke apart. Her body bucked against him as he licked her open. First faster, then harder—until she was grinding against his face. She moaned as release ripped through her.
He climbed over her, his chest heaving, his cock hard and throbbing against her thigh. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking until he hissed between his teeth. Then she guided him inside her.
The first thrust stole her breath. He filled her, stretched her, drove into her with a hunger that made her cry out again. Their rhythm built—deep, hard, relentless. Every thrust made her wetter, every grind drew a new sound from her lips.
Then he pushed into her. Her nails dug into his back as he thrust harder, deeper, the bed slamming against the wall. He groaned her name into her ear, his hips driving fast, her body gripping him tighter, pulling him in.
She shattered first, convulsing beneath him, her moans breaking into sobs of pleasure. He gave in, thrusting harder, faster. He moaned and he spilled inside her and collapsed against her chest. They lay trembling, slick with sweat, lost in release.
He didn't let her go. Even as his breathing slowed, he kissed her again. His hand traced lazy circles on her thigh until sleep pulled them under.
–––
The morning came too soon. Chris was already gone, the bed still warm from the night before. Later, Bella lay tangled in the sheets, her skin tingling with the memory of his touch, kiss and the way he made her feel.
She traced the curve of her neck with her fingertips, feeling the echo of his hands. A small, wistful smile curved her lips.
But beneath that sweetness was a deep, unshakable unrest. She had gone into this trip looking for answers. Instead, she had found more questions.
Questions about desire. About loyalty. About what it meant to want someone so completely.
And questions about herself.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach. A strange flutter had settled there these past days — subtle, yet persistent. She brushed it off as exhaustion. Yet, deep inside, something whispered otherwise.
She rose, moving to the window. The city of Abuja stretched before her in gold light. Somewhere far below, life went on. But in her chest, something had shifted.
She didn't know if it was fear. Or longing. Or the unmistakable pull of fate.
All she knew was this: whatever happened next, nothing would ever be the same.
Then came the sound of a door clicking shut behind her. She stilled, breath caught in her chest, unaware that what came next would change her life forever.