I stood in front of Lia's mirror one last time, smoothing my skirt down nervously. The outfit she had chosen still felt unreal on me—an ivory silk blouse tucked neatly into a navy A-line skirt that skimmed just below my knees. It was elegant without trying too hard, modest but confident. My heels were simple, nude, just enough height to make me stand taller.
"You look like someone who belongs in quiet rooms with expensive art," Lia had said earlier, adjusting my hair into soft waves.
Now, waiting outside the museum, I wasn't so sure I felt like I belonged...but I wanted to try.
Then I saw him.
Femi Caldwell stepped out of a black sedan with the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly who you were. He wore a tailored charcoal jacket over a crisp white shirt, no tie, dark trousers fitted perfectly. A leather watch hugged his wrist, understated but unmistakably expensive. Nothing about him was loud, yet everything about him drew attention.
"You look lovely," he said simply, his voice calm, warm, sincere.
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "Thank you. You look… very put together."
He smiled slightly. "I'll take that as a compliment."
The museum was quiet in a way that felt respectful—cool air, polished floors, voices lowered instinctively. As we walked side by side, there was space between us, but not distance.
We stopped before a display of Benin Bronzes, their intricate carvings catching the light.
"These pieces," Femi said softly, "tell stories without words. Power, hierarchy, memory. They weren't just decorations—they were history recorded in metal."
I leaned closer, studying the details. "I've seen pictures before, but standing here… it feels different."
"Because it is," he replied. "These artifacts weren't meant to be distant. They were lived with."
We moved on....to carved masks, terracotta sculptures from Nok, ancient tools that spoke of civilizations long before textbooks existed. He spoke gently, not to impress, but to share.
"The Nok people understood form and balance centuries ago," he said, gesturing to a figure. "Sometimes I think we forget how advanced our history really is."
I looked at him, genuinely impressed. "You know a lot about this."
He chuckled quietly. "My mother would be pleased to hear that. She's big on art. Collects pieces, attends exhibitions… she raised me to see art as memory, not luxury."
That surprised me. "So this—this love for art—it came from her?"
"Yes," he nodded. "She believed beauty should make you think, not just decorate a wall."
I smiled, something warm settling in my chest. There was something intimate about learning this, not flashy, not dramatic. Just… human.
As we walked, there were small moments that stayed with me.
The way he slowed his steps to match mine.
How he angled his body toward me when I spoke.
The way he listened, really listened—without interrupting.
At one exhibit, our hands brushed accidentally. He didn't pull away immediately, but he didn't press either. Just a brief touch. Intentional. Respectful.
"I like how curious you are," he said quietly.
I laughed softly. "I like how you explain things without making me feel small."
He met my eyes then, something thoughtful passing through his expression. "I would never want to do that."
And I believed him.
By the time we reached the museum exit, my head was full—not just of history, but of questions. About him. About myself. About why this calm, measured man unsettled me more than anyone ever had.
This wasn't fireworks.
It was something quieter.
Something that lingered.
And somehow, that made it far more dangerous.