The architect of us

Chapter Five: After Hours

It was nearly 9 p.m., and the city had begun to quiet. The distant hum of traffic faded into the background, replaced by the soft whir of the ceiling fan above our makeshift worktable.

The shelter design was finally taking shape. The 3D render was open on Dami’s laptop, glowing between us like a shared heartbeat.

“We could push the walls of the therapy rooms back another meter,” I suggested, zooming in. “That way, there’s enough light and fewer shadows.”

He glanced at me. “You think about things most architects overlook.”

“I lived in a place like that once.”

His fingers froze on the trackpad. “You never told me that.”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t exactly dinner conversation during thesis week.”

“Still,” he said gently, “you can tell me now.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms folded. “It was after NYSC. I was broke, tired, and… stuck. A friend from church helped me find a place at a women’s home. I only stayed for two months. But I never forgot the smell of stale bedsheets. Or how cold the tiles were at night. Or how every wall screamed ‘temporary.’”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just watched me like I was a blueprint he was learning to read for the first time.

I cleared my throat. “That’s why I want this one to feel like forever.”

“You’re amazing, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. Most people build for money. Or ego. You build with memory.”

I turned back to the screen, but my fingers were trembling. I pretended they weren’t.

---

At some point, the power flickered.

Then died.

“NEPA,” I muttered.

Dami stood and lit the lantern by the window. The warm amber glow filled the room slowly, casting long shadows across the floor and over his face.

He looked older in this light.

Wiser. Softer.

Less like the boy I argued with at the university café and more like the man who had watched my hands tremble earlier and hadn’t said a word.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I’ll make noodles.”

“You cook now?”

He grinned. “Some people heal. Others learn how to boil water properly.”

---

We sat on the floor, our backs against a stack of plywood samples, eating from one bowl and sipping lukewarm malt drinks.

“I used to hate you,” I said suddenly.

He almost choked. “Excuse me?”

I laughed. “Back in school. You were arrogant. Loud. Always flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting with everyone.”

“You flirted with me.”

“I was serious with you.”

That silenced me.

“I just didn’t know how to show it,” he added, softer now. “You were different. You had this focus. Like the world was noise and you were determined to cut through it.”

“And yet you still distracted me.”

He chuckled. “You always let me.”

We stared at each other for a moment too long.

And then he brushed a strand of hair from my face.

My breath caught.

“Dami…”

He paused, fingers still near my cheek. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

I searched his eyes — and for once, there was no game in them. No teasing. Just patience.

Steady. Gentle. Safe.

“I don’t know what I want,” I whispered.

“That’s okay,” he replied. “We’ve got time.”

---

We didn’t kiss.

Not that night.

But when I finally stood to leave, he walked me to the road and waited until my ride arrived. He didn’t say much — just stood with his hands in his pockets, glancing at me now and then like he was memorizing the outline of my soul.

And when I got home, I found a text waiting:

> If this shelter becomes a home to others, it’s because it started with you.

Goodnight, Ada.

And for the first time in a long time, I slept without building walls around my heart.