Abuja never truly slept.Even at five in the morning, when the sky was still a pale wash of grey, the city hummed quietly. Generators rumbling, early traders arranging their goods, taxi horns echoing in distant streets.
Nene stood at the bus stop in Wuse, clutching a small black bag to her chest.Inside it:Two neatly folded chef jackets, worn notebook filled with handwritten recipes,and a single photo of her late mother.
Her palms were sweating, not because of the heat, but because today was the day everything could change.
The restaurant was called The Ember Room.
One of the most exclusive fine-dining restaurants in Abuja. Politicians dined there. Oil executives celebrated there. Diplomats hosted private dinners there.
And she, a girl who grew up in a single-room apartment in Nyanya, had somehow been hired as a line chef.She still didn't fully believe it.The bus arrived. She got in, she didn't sit.Her heart beat too loudly.
The Restaurant
The Ember Room stood tall and intimidating in Maitama, glass walls, dark wood panels and soft golden lights glowing even in early morning.
Nene paused outside the entrance.
This place did not look like it belonged to someone like her,she inhaled deeply. "You belong anywhere your skill can stand," her mother used to say.
She pushed the door open, the kitchen was already alive. Steel counters gleamed, knives flashed, sauces simmered gently on low heat.
And then she saw him - Head Chef Adesina Adeyemi.
He stood near the pass, sleeves rolled up, dark chef jacket fitted perfectly across broad shoulders. His presence alone commanded silence.He wasn't loud, he didn't need to be.His voice carried calm authority.
"Refire that plate," "Reduce the heat","Timing is everything."
His face was sharp. Strong jawline, deep brown skin, eyes that missed nothing. His beard was trimmed precisely. His movements were controlled, graceful.
He turned, their eyes met. And for a second, just one second, the entire kitchen disappeared.
His gaze lingered. Assessing, curious, not dismissive, not impressed either. Just… aware.
"You're the new hire," he said. His voice was smooth, low and steady. "Yes, Chef." Nene kept her chin lifted. "Experience?" she swallowed and replied, "Four years catering, abilities pprenticed under Chef Emeka in Garki."
His eyebrow lifted slightly, "Emeka throws pans."
"Yes, Chef." A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Felt somewhat between amusement and respect.
"Good. That means you won't cry in my kitchen." "I don't cry," she replied before she could stop herself. A few heads turned then silence followed.
Adesina stared at her, "Good," he repeated softly and walked away. But her skin felt warm long after he left.
The first week was merciless. Adesina ran his kitchen like a battlefield. Precision, discipline, and perfection. Nene burned her wrist on hot oil, cut her finger while rushing and remade a sauce four times because it lacked depth.
Each time, he stood beside her. Not touching, not yelling, just watching.
"Balance the salt with acid", "Let the garlic bloom, not burn", "Control your breathing."
She hated how close he stood. Hated how her senses sharpened when he was near, hated how aware she became of his cologne mixed with smoke and spice. But more than that - She loved how he pushed her. No favoritism, no softness, just belief.
The First Spark happened two weeks in. They were testing a new appetizer. A reimagined suya dish with a modern twist.
Nene hesitated. "Chef… what if we use tamarind glaze instead of honey? It would cut through the spice better." The other chefs paused, you didn't casually suggest changes to Adesina's dishes.
He turned slowly, "Show me." Her hands shook slightly as she prepared it, she plated it carefully.He tasted, closed his eyes, the kitchen held its breath.
He swallowed, then looked at her. "Again." Her heart dropped.
She made it again.He tasted again, this time, he didn't close his eyes. "This stays," he said calmly. "Your version."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. No smile, no praise. But something had shifted. He saw her now, not just as a new hire. But as a chef.
Days turned into weeks, the tension built slowly. Their hands brushed when passing plates, their shoulders nearly collided in tight corners. His voice lowered slightly when he spoke directly to her.Her laughter softened when he was near.They never crossed lines, never flirted openly.
But the energy between them was undeniable, even the other chefs felt it. Yet neither said anything, because the kitchen was sacred and ambition came first.
One evening, after an exhausting private dinner for a senator's birthday, the staff cleared out early. Nene stayed back to finish inventory. She didn't notice Adesina still in the office, until she turned and found him watching her from across the kitchen. "You don't have to stay," he said. "I know." "Then why?" She hesitated.
Because going home meant facing unpaid bills. Because success meant survival. Because failure wasn't an option. "Because I don't get second chances," she said quietly.
Something changed in his expression.He walked toward her, slowly. The air thickened.
"You think I do?" he asked. They stood too close now. The kitchen lights dim. The city quiet outside.
His eyes weren't hard anymore, they were intense and personal. "You're talented," he said softly. Her breath caught. "You're disciplined. You learn fast."
She swallowed. "Don't waste it trying to prove you belong. You already do."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. He was close enough now that she could feel his body heat.The space between them was barely inches.
And neither moved away. His hand lifted slightly, hesitated, then dropped back to his side.
Professional. Always professional.
"Go home, Nene," he said gently.
But his voice wasn't steady anymore. She nodded and walked out, but she felt his eyes on her the entire way.
That Night she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.The way he looked at her, the way his voice softened when he said her name.
And somewhere across Abuja, in a quiet apartment in Asokoro, Adesina lay awake too. Thinking about a girl who smelled like smoke, spices and ambition.
They were playing a dangerous game. Neither willing to admit the connection, neither brave enough to cross the line.But the tension was building, and fire, once contained too long eventually burns.