The night faded slowly into morning light.
I woke up before him — his arm wrapped around me, steady, protective. His chest rose and fell in rhythm, a sound I could've listened to forever.
For a while, I just watched him. There was something peaceful about seeing him like that — unguarded, gentle, real. Not the boy who laughed loudly or teased endlessly, but the one who breathed softly, like he carried both light and ache inside him.
When he finally stirred, he smiled, still half-asleep.
"You've been staring," he said, voice husky with sleep.
"Maybe I was making sure this isn't a dream," I whispered.
He chuckled and pulled me closer. "Then don't wake up yet."
We stayed like that for a while, tangled in warmth, skin to skin, listening to each other breathe.
Then, out of nowhere, he asked,
"Elena, what do you like about me?"
The question caught me off guard.
I looked at him — really looked — at the curve of his lips, the softness in his eyes, the faint scar near his chin.
"I like that you listen," I said quietly. "You don't just hear words; you notice what I don't say. I like that you make ordinary moments feel special. I like the calm you bring."
He smiled faintly. "You're too good at this."
Then his tone shifted, deeper, a little unsure.
"What do you think I should work on?"
That question — it wasn't playful. It came from somewhere honest.
I touched his hand. "Maybe… just learn to trust more. Not everyone comes to hurt you."
He sighed, staring at the ceiling. "You sound like you already know I've been hurt."
I stayed quiet.
He turned to face me, eyes softer now. "My last relationship — it broke me in a way I didn't expect. I gave too much. I thought love meant giving everything until I had nothing left. But when she left, it felt like she took the best parts of me with her."
He paused, then added, "Sometimes I still feel like I'm learning how to love again."
I didn't know what to say. I just reached out and traced the lines of his palm with my fingers.
"Then let me meet you there," I said. "Halfway. No rush."
He smiled faintly, like that was enough. Maybe it was.
Later that day, we cooked again — this time, he insisted on doing everything himself. He made jollof rice, humming as he stirred the pot, stealing glances at me.
When he noticed me watching him, he grinned. "What? You're falling for the chef, aren't you?"
"Maybe," I said. "Depends on how this rice tastes."
He laughed and came to stand behind me, arms circling my waist.
"Then I'll make sure it tastes perfect," he whispered.
The day stretched into evening. We ate, talked, and played his unreleased songs again. He asked for my opinion after every verse.
"This one reminds me of you," he said softly.
"Why?"
"Because it sounds like peace. But also pain. The kind that makes peace worth it."
He didn't know how that sentence stayed with me.
Later, we shared a bottle of wine — nothing too heavy, just enough to make the air lighter.
He asked if I'd ever taken alcohol before.
I laughed. "You want to get me drunk?"
"Maybe I just want to see how you laugh when your guard is down."
And he did. He saw me laugh. He saw me talk too much, dance around the living room, tease him until he finally pulled me into his arms and whispered, "You're trouble."
His lips brushed my neck, slow and teasing. I shivered.
"You're beautiful when you're like this," he said, kissing my shoulder. "Free."
We ended up in the shower again — water, warmth, and wild laughter blending into something softer, something sacred.
No rush. No words. Just trust.
That night, as we lay in bed, he whispered into the quiet,
"I think I'm falling deeper, Elena. Don't let me fall alone."
I didn't answer — not because I didn't want to, but because love, for me, still carried scars.
Instead, I held him tighter, letting my silence say what my fear couldn't.
And in that silence, I prayed —
that maybe this time, love would stay.