The resort had a strange stillness that made every glance feel louder than it should.
Amaka stirred her tea slowly, watching steam curl upward from her cup. Across the patio table, Tunde had gone back to sketching, the edge of his charcoal catching light every time he shaded a line.
She couldn't tell if he was drawing her. But she felt it.
"You always this quiet in the mornings?" she asked.
He didn't look up. "Only when I'm trying not to ruin a moment."
"You think this is a moment?"
He finally met her gaze. "You don't?"
That stopped her. For someone who claimed not to perform, he knew exactly where to hit a line that stuck.
She sat back, sipping her tea. "Don't romanticize this. We're on borrowed time."
"I know," he said. "That's what makes it honest."
They went kayaking that afternoon—more her idea than his. The guides at the resort gave them life vests and told them to avoid the far rocks. The sea was calmer than the day before, but still moody.
Amaka paddled hard, used to effort. Tunde moved more slowly, deliberate with every stroke. Their tandem kayak glided unevenly at first, then fell into a rhythm.
She liked the silence between them. It wasn't awkward. Just full.
Halfway through, she asked, "What was she like?"
He didn't ask who she meant.
"She was kind," he said. "Gentle in a way that made you believe the world could be, too."
"And you lost her out here?"
He nodded. "She went swimming alone. Current pulled her under."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not."
She looked at him.
"I mean, I am. But I'm also tired of people saying sorry like it's a cure. It isn't. Grief is like... a shadow you learn to stop fighting."
She didn't say anything. Because she got it.
That evening, back at the villa, Amaka stood in front of the mirror, her reflection softened by candlelight. Her hair was wrapped in a loose scarf, and for once, she wasn't wearing anything branded or bold. Just a linen dress and bare feet.
Tunde appeared in the doorway with a bottle of palm wine and two cups.
"Figured we might as well toast the end of the world," he said.
She smirked. "Is that what this is?"
He handed her a cup. "Feels like it. But in a good way."
They sat on the floor, the soft hum of ocean air sneaking in through the open balcony doors.
"I Googled you last night," she said, after two sips.
Tunde laughed. "Of course you did."
"You were... big. Like mural-on-Bourdillon-Road big."
"I used to think visibility was the goal," he said. "Now I think peace is."
She nodded slowly. "Peace sounds nice."
Tunde looked at her differently then. Not like a stranger, or a scandal, or a story. Just... a person. Real. Close.
"Why didn't you delete the video?" he asked.
She swallowed. "Because deleting it would've made me complicit in hiding it. I decided to own it instead."
He nodded. "That's brave."
"It was survival."
Another long pause. Then:
"This doesn't feel fake anymore," he said softly.
"No," she admitted, "it doesn't."
He leaned in slightly. Not enough to kiss her. But enough for her to feel the gravity of it.
She didn't move.