A fragile, beautiful rhythm had settled over them, a balm on old wounds. Mina's visits to the small Gwarinpa apartment were no longer just about Trisha. They were about the quiet communion of sitting on the floor, sharing a simple meal of rice and stew, talking about nothing and everything. The air, once thick with unsaid accusations and grief, now hummed with the gentle, painstaking work of a connection being rewired, strand by fragile strand.
Adams had learned. He could make a decent pot of jollof, knew the exact temperature of water for Trisha's bath, and had memorized the silly nursery rhyme that never failed to soothe her cries. He was no longer performing a part; he was living a life. And the quiet, consistent authenticity of it was the most profound apology he could ever offer.
One evening, after Trisha was asleep, they sat on the thin mattress serving as his bed, their backs against the cool wall, shoulders a breath apart. A comfortable silence stretched between them, filled by the distant, muffled sounds of the city and the steady whir of the fan.
"I got a job," he said, the words breaking the silence softly. His voice was calm, but a thread of hard-won pride ran through it.
Mina turned to him, her eyebrows lifting. "Where?"
"A small radio station. A start-up. They needed someone with media experience to help shape their programming." A wry, humble smile touched his lips. "The pay is… not much. But it's something I built. Myself."
The significance hung in the air, almost tangible. It wasn't about the money. It was about the origin. Myself.
"Adams… that's wonderful," she said, and she meant it. The smile that touched her lips was genuine, a sight that warmed him more than the humid Lagos air.
He looked at her then, truly looked at her in the soft, unforgiving glow of the single bulb. The harsh lines of stress around her eyes had softened. She looked like the woman he'd fallen in love with, yet etched with a new, formidable resilience.
"I couldn't have done it without you," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate register. "Without this… chance you didn't have to give me."
"I didn't give you a chance, Adams," she corrected him gently, the old bitterness finally absent. "You took it. There's a difference."
He moved slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat. His hand, calloused now from tasks he'd never before performed, covered hers on the mattress. Her fingers were warm. She didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She simply watched him, her breath catching in a soft, almost silent hitch.
The air in the small room shifted, the comfortable silence now charged with a potent energy—a current of memory, of profound loss, and of a longing so deep it was a physical ache.
He leaned in slowly, his eyes asking the question his voice couldn't form. May I?
Mina's gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips and back again. A silent war waged in her own—the ghost of past pain against the living, breathing reality of the man before her. The man who was trying.
She gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod.
His kiss was nothing like those of their past. It held no trace of performative passion or careless demand. It was gentle. A question. A whisper. A tentative homecoming.
When he pulled back, a shared breath hung between them. Mina's eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears. Not of sadness, but of an emotion so overwhelming it was terrifying.
Without a word, she leaned forward and kissed him back. This one was not a question. It was an answer.
That night, for the first time since before their world shattered, the cold space on the mattress between them disappeared. It was not a night of frantic passion, but of slow, tender rediscovery. A conversation of touch more eloquent than words. It was an act of forgiveness spoken with the body, a reclaiming of what was theirs, not in a sterile penthouse, but on a thin mattress in a room that held the honest scent of their life together.
Weeks bled into a month. Their secret intimacy became the sturdy foundation of a new, quieter world. They were a team again. Partners. They were poor, anonymous, and yet, in their shared struggle, happier than they had been in years.
The shift came on a bright Saturday morning. Mina was sweeping, the sharp, chemical scent of the disinfectant they used on the floor rising in the air. Suddenly, the smell turned cloying, thick, and vile. A wave of nausea, so violent and immediate, slammed into her. She clapped a hand over her mouth and ran for the shared bathroom down the hall, barely making it to the chipped toilet before she was sick.
She stayed there, kneeling, forehead pressed against the cool, concrete wall, taking deep, ragged breaths. Adams was at her side in an instant, his hand on her back, his face a mask of concern.
"Mina? What's wrong? Was it the eggs? I told that woman at the market they looked questionable…"
She waved him off, the motion weak. As the nausea receded, a cold, dawning realization began its icy creep through her veins. It was a feeling she hadn't felt in years. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion she'd blamed on stress. A sensitivity to smell she'd attributed to the city's fumes.
Her hand moved unconsciously, flattening against her lower abdomen. Her eyes, wide with a terrifying, hopeful, impossible thought, met his.
The timeline clicked into place in her mind with the precision of a lock. The night of tenderness. The missed cycle.
"Adams…" she whispered, her voice trembling on the edge of a precipice.
He saw the look on her face—the panic, the wonder, the sheer, undiluted fear. His own mind, so sharp and strategic in business, scrambled to connect the dots. And then it did.
His eyes widened. The color drained from his face, then rushed back in a flush. "No," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Mina… is it…?"
"I… I don't know," she stammered, pushing herself up from the floor. A new energy, born of panic, propelled her. "I have to… I need to be sure."
She practically fled, grabbing her purse with shaking hands, leaving Adams standing alone, shell-shocked in the bathroom doorway, the world tilting on its axis.
An hour later, she returned. She stepped into the apartment and closed the door softly behind her, leaning against it as if it were the only thing holding her up. In her hand was a small, white paper bag from the pharmacy.
She didn't speak. She just looked at him, her expression a fortress of unreadable emotion.
Adams felt the floor fall away beneath him. His heart was a frantic, trapped bird beating against his ribs. This changed everything. Their fragile, hard-won peace now hung in the balance of a single, life-altering line.
He finally found his voice, a hoarse crack. "Mina?"
She opened the bag and pulled out the box. Then, she held up a second, identical one.
"I bought two," she said, her voice eerily calm, a stark contrast to the storm in her eyes. "To be sure."
Without another word, she turned and walked into the small bathroom, closing the door.
The click of the lock echoed in the silent room. Adams stood frozen at its center, a man awaiting a verdict. The next three minutes were an eternity, each second stretching out, filled only by the deafening roar of his own heartbeat. A child. Another child. Conceived not in a palace of stability, but in a one-room apartment, with a father who was still learning to stand. A child born not of their first, careless love, but of their second, conscious chance.
The lock clicked again. The door opened.
Mina emerged. She wasn't holding the tests. Her hands were empty at her sides. Her face was pale, but her eyes were clear, blazing with a storm of emotions he could now begin to decipher: awe, terror, and a fierce, protective love.
She walked toward him until she was standing so close he could feel the warmth of her skin. She took his hand, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through him. Slowly, deliberately, she turned his hand over and placed his palm flat against her stomach, holding it there.
Her eyes never left his.
She didn't need to say a word.
The cliffhanger was absolute. Their second chance now had a heartbeat. And the terrifying, glorious weight of that new beginning was the only thing left in the world.