The rooftop of Sora Lagos pulsed with life under the deepening indigo sky. String lights draped like golden threads across the open terrace, reflecting off polished concrete floors and the occasional flash of a phone camera. The city sprawled below in a glittering chaos—Victoria Island's high-rises stabbing upward, the lagoon a dark mirror threaded with boat lights, and the distant hum of generators reminding everyone that power was still a luxury in parts of this beast of a city.
Elara leaned against the railing, champagne flute in hand, the bubbles tickling her nose as she tried to catch her breath. Her legs still burned from the sprint up the last set of stairs, but the ache felt good—alive. Winning the Urban Quest had come with more than just bragging rights; the prize was a weekend voucher for a luxury stay at one of the Lekki resorts, plus dinner for two at this very rooftop bar. Irony of ironies: the voucher was now hers to share with the man who'd spent the entire day driving her up the wall.
Kairo stood a few feet away, chatting animatedly with the event organizer, his laughter carrying over the low Afrobeat thumping from hidden speakers. He looked infuriatingly relaxed, dreads catching the light, that easy grin flashing every time he gestured with his hands. Elara watched him surreptitiously, telling herself it was only because she needed to plan her escape. She wasn't about to spend the rest of the evening playing nice.
But the view from up here was distracting. The skyline shimmered like scattered diamonds, and for once, the smog seemed to have taken a night off. She could almost pretend Lagos was beautiful instead of exhausting.
"Penny for your thoughts, princess?" Kairo appeared at her side, two fresh glasses in hand—one palm wine for her, one beer for him. He set the palm wine down on the railing beside her.
"Don't call me that," she said automatically, but there was less bite in it now. Exhaustion had softened her edges, or maybe it was the alcohol. "And I'm thinking about how I'm going to cash in that voucher without you attached to it."
He chuckled, low and warm. "Too late. The fine print says 'team winners.' We're stuck together for the weekend getaway unless one of us forfeits."
Elara narrowed her eyes. "You read the fine print?"
"Always. You don't survive freelance photography in this city without knowing when someone's trying to screw you over." He took a sip of his beer, eyes never leaving hers. "Besides, admit it—you had fun today."
She opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it. The truth was, she had. The adrenaline of the chase, the cleverness of the clues, the way Lagos unfolded in layers she'd never bothered to notice before. And yes, even bantering with him. It had felt... freeing.
"Fine," she conceded grudgingly. "It wasn't terrible."
"High praise." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you kept pretty close all day. Almost like you didn't want to lose me in the crowd."
Elara felt heat creep up her neck. "I was making sure you didn't cheat."
"Uh-huh." His smirk was back, full force. "Keep telling yourself that."
Before she could fire back, the organizer's voice crackled over the speakers, announcing photos for the winners. They were herded to the center of the terrace for group shots—arms around shoulders, fake cheers, the whole performative nonsense. Kairo's arm slid around her waist casually, like it belonged there. She stiffened but didn't pull away. His hand was warm through the thin fabric of her tank top, and she hated how aware she was of every point of contact.
The photographer snapped away. "Smile, lovebirds!"
"We're not—" Elara started, but Kairo just laughed and pulled her tighter for the shot.
When the flash died down, he didn't let go immediately. Instead, he murmured against her ear, "You smell like victory and vanilla. Dangerous combination."
She elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "Personal space, Adebayo."
He released her with exaggerated reluctance, but his eyes lingered. "Come on. Let's get out of here before they make us do victory laps."
They slipped away from the crowd, finding a quieter corner near the edge where the music was muted and the breeze off the water cut through the humidity. Elara sipped her palm wine, letting the sweet tang settle her nerves.
"So," Kairo said after a moment, "what's the plan for the weekend? You going to use the voucher?"
"I should," she admitted. "I haven't taken a real break in... God, years. Work's been nonstop."
"Same." He stared out at the city. "Chasing shots, deadlines, clients who ghost after you deliver. It's a grind."
For the first time, she saw something real behind the cocky exterior—fatigue, maybe even loneliness. It made him seem less like an annoyance and more like... a person.
"What kind of photography do you do?" she asked, surprising herself with the genuine curiosity.
"Everything. Weddings pay the bills, but street stuff is what I love. Capturing the raw pulse of Lagos—the okada riders dodging danfo, the market women laughing at dawn, kids playing in flooded streets after rain. The stuff no one else bothers to frame."
Elara nodded slowly. "I get that. Copywriting feels the same sometimes. Everyone wants glossy perfection, but the real stories are in the messy bits."
They talked then—really talked. About growing up in different parts of the city (her in the quieter Ikoyi bubble, him in the louder, grittier Surulere), about dreams that had shifted under the weight of adulting, about how neither of them trusted easily. The champagne loosened tongues, and the night stretched on.
Eventually, the bar began to thin out. Kairo glanced at his watch. "It's late. You need a ride home?"
"I can get a Bolt," she said, but there was hesitation in her voice.
"Let me drop you. My bike's parked downstairs. Safer than trusting an app at this hour."
She eyed him. "You have a bike? Of course you do."
He grinned. "Guilty. It's a Yamaha—nothing fancy, but she gets me where I need to go."
Against every instinct screaming caution, Elara agreed.
The ride through nighttime Lagos was electric. She clung to his waist as they wove between cars, the wind whipping her ponytail, the city's neon blurring into streaks of color. His back was solid against her chest, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart—or maybe it was hers racing.
He pulled up outside her building, killing the engine. The sudden quiet was deafening.
"Thanks for the lift," she said, swinging her leg off but not stepping away yet.
"Anytime." He turned to face her, helmet under one arm. Moonlight carved shadows across his features. "So... about that weekend voucher. You in?"
Elara studied him, weighing the risk. This man infuriated her, challenged her, made her feel things she hadn't in years. Walking away would be smart. Safe.
But safe had become boring.
"I'm in," she said finally. "But on one condition."
"Name it."
"No more 'princess.' And if you annoy me too much, I'm pushing you off the canopy walkway at Lekki Conservation Centre."
He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. "Deal."
As she turned to head inside, he called after her.
"Elara?"
She paused at the door.
"For what it's worth... I don't hate you either."
She smiled despite herself. "Good. Because hating you is still my favorite pastime."
The elevator ride up felt longer than usual. In her apartment, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off sweat-damp clothes, and stood under the shower, letting cool water wash away the day's grime. But it couldn't wash away the memory of his arm around her, or the promise of more days like today.
She crawled into bed, phone buzzing with a new message.
Kairo: Pick you up Saturday 8am sharp. Pack light. Adventure awaits. 😏
She typed back before she could overthink it.
Elara: Don't be late. And bring coffee.
His reply came instantly.
Kairo: Yes ma'am.
She laughed into her pillow, a small, secret sound. Whatever this was—annoyance, attraction, something dangerously in between—it had already shifted the axis of her carefully ordered world.
And deep down, she wasn't sure she wanted to shift it back.
But as sleep pulled her under, a faint unease lingered. That shadowy figure from the rooftop bar—had it been her imagination? Or had someone really been watching them?