KELVIN
My day started like any other — or at least that's what I thought.
I was up before sunrise, working out with the rhythmic beat of music and the sound of my breathing. I had a bad dream and forgot what it was about. I hardly dream, and anytime I do, something bad happens. I was terrified a bit, I tried to stay focused but I couldn't. Was it about my business? Was it about my family or my relationship? I thought.
The air smelled faintly of citrus and steel. Every rep, every stretch, felt like fuel. When I finally stopped, sweat slicked my arms, my heartbeat was steady, and my reflection in the mirror looked... confident. Maybe even unstoppable.
By afternoon, the weather turned poetic.
The rain came down in soft sheets, brushing against my windows, humming quietly as if the city had decided to take a deep breath. When the sky cleared, it left behind a kind of calm that made everything feel softer — the air, the light, the edges of thought.
I freshly showered and dressed in a light shirt that clung comfortably to my frame, decided the moment was perfect for a small reset. My apartment looked good — modern, neat — but the art on my walls? Boring. I wanted something that felt real. Something with soul.
So I headed to my favorite art shop.
Inside, the scent of wood, paint, and coffee hung in the air. Jazz played low, wrapping the space in warmth. I strolled between the aisles, my fingers brushing frames as I scanned one painting after another — until one stopped me cold.
It was a portrait — not of a face, but a body. A woman's back, lit with golden tones, curves accentuated in a way that felt both bold and intimate.
I tilted my head, a small smirk forming. I knew that shape. I knew it.
My heart did a quiet, ridiculous skip. "No way," I murmured under my breath. The artist had somehow captured Amaka.
The memory of her laugh — the way she threw her head back slightly when she teased me — flashed through my mind. So did the last time we saw each other, that look she'd given me when words failed.
Before I knew it, my phone was already in my hand.
"Hey... you." I said, glancing around.
"Well, that's one way to start a conversation. You miss me already?" She asked smiling.
"You have no idea. I just walked into this art shop, and guess who's staring back at me from the wall?"
"Hmm. Hopefully not a mirror, because that sounds like trouble." She teased.
I laughed softly. "Cute. But no. It's you. I swear, this painting — the lines, the posture, the way the artist caught the light — it's you."
"Kelvin, are you saying I've been immortalized in oil paint?"
"I'm saying you've been haunting art galleries without even knowing it. And it's driving me crazy, because I can't stop staring."
"That sounds like you. Always finding ways to make me blush without even trying."
I grinned, leaning one elbow against the counter. "Then I'm doing something right. You should see this piece, though. It's... I don't know. It's like the painter knew you — your energy, the confidence. It made me remember the way you move, the way you..." I stopped and chuckled. "Never mind. You'd just call me dramatic."
"You're not wrong. But now I'm curious. How about you show me instead of just talking about it?"
"You read my mind. Come by. I'll show you the painting — and maybe make you some tea. Or something stronger."
"That depends on what you're planning."
"Nothing innocent, I can promise you that." I smirked.
Her laugh was soft and low — the kind that lingered.
"Send me the address, Kelvin."
"Right away." I said, hanging up.
And as soon as the message delivered, my chest tightened with a mix of anticipation and warmth.
I bought the painting, and a few others for good measure, before stepping back into the cool post-rain air. The pavement glistened, reflecting city lights like tiny stars. I couldn't stop smiling as I walked to my car, my pulse just a little faster than before. I knew how my evening was going to end, wrapped in Amaka's arms. The portrait didn't really look like her, I just made it up just to have her around my space. I've longed for this moment, and I'm glad my plan worked.
The drive home felt longer than it should have. My mind ran wild, imagining the things I would do to her body when she let me, replaying her voice, her laugh, that teasing like that always left me off-balance.
By the time I got home and parked, the clouds had cleared completely. The air was cool, still carrying the scent of rain. I glanced at the painting resting in the passenger seat and laughed quietly to myself.
"Amaka," I whispered, "you have no idea what I'm about to do you."
The weather outside was chilly when Amaka arrived. My apartment glowed softly in the lamplight; the air smelled faintly of Brandy and something darker—anticipation, maybe. I was already drinking, setting up the mood.
I opened the door before she could knock twice. The sight of her pulled the breath right out of me. She looked the same—no, different somehow—more effortless, more sure of herself. She was always composed.
"You look surprised." She said, smiling.
"I'm just wondering if the painting came to life."
She rolled her eyes but smiled, stepping past me. "Smooth as ever."
Her gaze found the painting immediately. She stopped, folded her arms, tilted her head. "So this is me, huh?"
"That's you," I said quietly. "Every line of it."
She studied it longer than I expected. Then she turned, eyes meeting mine—steady, unreadable. "You know it doesn't really look like me."
I took a slow step closer. "No," I admitted, "but when I saw it, I thought of you anyway. The way you move. The way you look at people when you're not pretending to."
That earned me a small laugh, the kind that softened her features. "You really did call me here just to tell me that?"
"Maybe," I said, voice dropping a little as I grabbed her waist. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what would happen if I did."
My words hung in the air like smoke.
Amaka set her purse down on the couch, slipped out of my grab and walked a slow circle through the room, fingertips grazing the back of a chair, the frame of the painting. "You always did like playing with tension," she murmured.
I followed her with my eyes. "Only when it's worth it."
She turned again, closer this time. Close enough that I caught the trace of her perfume. The silence between us felt alive, vibrating, like the moment before lightning.
"Kelvin," she said softly, "you're staring."
"I've had practice," I replied. "You make it difficult not to."
For a long moment we just stood there, watching each other—the kind of silence that said more than words could. I wanted to touch her more, I wanted to kiss her instantly, but i maintained my composure — allowing myself burn slowly.
Then I nodded toward the hallway. "Come on," I said lightly, "there's something else I want to show you."
She raised an eyebrow. "Another painting?"
"Something like that."
She hesitated—half a smile, half a question—then followed me. The sound of our footsteps down the short hallway was slow, measured, each one drawing the space between us tighter.
I paused by the doorway of my bedroom, glancing back. "Still trust me?"
She gave a soft laugh. "That's a dangerous question."
"Only if you answer honestly."
Her eyes lingered on me, then she stepped closer, the air thickening around us again. "Then I guess we'll see," she said.
And with that, she crossed the threshold. I smiled and shut the door behind us.
Later, we laid side by side, still and comfortable in the calm that follows too much laughter and too many confessions. The glow from the bedside lamp fell across her shoulder as she turned toward me, tracing a lazy line along the sheet.
"I never knew you were this strong. So strong that you almost broke my waist" she chuckled
"I'm a man, not a woman. Besides, you make it easy. I like you, I like this new thing we have." I said, watching her closely.
"I like you too. But I feel some type of way you know?" She asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable.
"Why? What's wrong?"
She hesitated for a moment, and said, "The fact that I have strong intimacy with three friends that knows themselves. It's wild, isn't it?"
"Do you regret it?" I asked, caressing her cheek.
"Not really, I'm just here for one thing I do not tamper with — and that's money. Nothing else really matters."
The mood was gentle, unhurried—until my phone vibrated across the nightstand.
I reached for it absently, then froze when I saw the name flashing on the screen: Sonia.
For a second I didn't answer. Then I caught Amaka's questioning look and forced a calm breath before picking up.
"Hey, uh... babe. What's up?"
I listened, expression tightening. "You're what? You're on your way here?"
Amaka sat up slowly, reading my face.
"Yeah, yeah, of course... no, that's fine. I'll see you soon."
I ended the call and exhaled hard, running a hand through my hair.
"That didn't sound like good news."
"That was Sonia. She's coming over. Now."
For a moment we just stared at each other, both processing the same thought. Then I swung my legs off the bed, already moving towards the wardrobe.
"Amaka, I'm so sorry," I said quickly, voice low but urgent. "You have to go—please don't take it the wrong way. She can't know you were here."
She nodded once, practical and calm. "I get it. No drama."
I hesitated, guilt flickering across my face. "Let me... just hold on." I pulled out my phone again, opened my banking app, and looked at her. "I don't want you leaving upset. What's your account number?"
"Kelvin..." she began, but I cut her off gently. "Please. Just let me do this."
She sighed, gave in, and a few taps later, her phone buzzed with the alert. She glanced at the amount—half a million—and looked up at me with a faint, unreadable smile.
"You always did know how to say thank you," she murmured.
I managed a smile back, but my eyes were restless. "Go through the back elevator. I'll walk you out."
Within minutes she was gone, her perfume lingering faintly in the hallway. I watched the elevator doors close, my heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and regret.
Then turned on my heel and moved fast—straightening sheets, spraying diffusers, lighting a few candles. The apartment began to smell like citrus and cedarwood instead of memory.
I ducked into the shower, the water running cool against my skin, trying to wash away the panic as much as the sweat.
By the time I stepped out and threw on a clean shirt, the doorbell rang. The scent of rain drifted in again as I crossed the room, steadying my breathing.
Sonia's silhouette stood behind the frosted glass with her luggage.
I gave the living room one last glance, straightened a frame on the wall, and reached for the handle.