Just Us
1485 Words
The silence was loud.
Zina stood outside the upscale rooftop lounge nestled discreetly in the heart of Maitama, her heels clicking softly against the smooth marble tiles. A soft breeze kissed her bare shoulders, sending a chill down her arms that had nothing to do with the weather.
No cameras.
No stylists.
No strategy.
Just her.
And him.
She hated how much that idea scared her.
Damilare hadn’t sent a driver. She took that as a sign of respect—or maybe a test. Either way, she’d shown up. Clad in a navy blue off-shoulder dress that hit just below her knees, simple gold hoops in her ears, and her hair swept back into a low, easy bun.
Nothing screamed PR girlfriend tonight.
Maybe that was the point.
She stepped through the glass doors into the dimly lit lounge. The city lights glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting soft golden hues across the elegant interior. Jazz hummed from hidden speakers, the scent of wood, citrus, and aged whisky warming the air.
She spotted him at a corner booth, alone, one arm draped casually over the backrest.
No suit.
No tie.
Just a black shirt rolled to his elbows and slacks that hugged his legs a little too well.
Her heart did something stupid.
She walked toward him.
No hesitation.
No smile.
Just controlled grace.
Just Zina.
---
“You’re early,” he said as she slid into the booth across from him.
“You said no scripts,” she replied. “I’m here to keep it real.”
He studied her for a beat. Then nodded once.
“Drink?”
“I’m good.”
He poured her a glass of water anyway. She accepted it. Their fingers brushed briefly. The contact sent a jolt up her arm she pretended not to feel.
“You wanted to talk,” she said.
“I wanted to see you.”
Zina’s eyes narrowed, but her voice stayed even. “Is that the same thing?”
Damilare leaned forward. “It could be.”
The silence returned—charged this time. Like a string pulled tight between them.
“You’ve been distant,” he said. “Since the gala.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
She didn’t deny it.
“I need clarity, Zina.”
“I thought we were clear.”
“We were. Until we weren’t.”
His voice was low, deliberate.
Zina’s chest tightened. “Nothing’s changed.”
“You hesitated when I kissed you.”
“There were cameras—”
“There weren’t any when I whispered in your ear and your pulse jumped.”
She exhaled slowly. “This is a bad idea.”
“Maybe. But I’m tired of pretending that it’s just business when I’m two seconds from undoing every button on your dress.”
Her breath caught.
She hated that he knew it.
Hated it more that she wanted it too.
“I came here to talk,” she said.
“So talk.”
Zina held his gaze. “I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“You’re arrogant. Strategic. Calculated.”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
She blinked.
“That night,” he continued, “at the gala—you looked at me like you were waiting for me to mess it all up. I haven’t. I won’t.”
Zina crossed her legs slowly. “That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
She swallowed. The jazz hummed behind them, and the city stretched on through the glass, but Zina felt nothing but the heat growing between them—like a storm slowly unfurling.
“I don’t do messy,” she said, voice quieter now.
“You’re already in it.”
---
They didn’t touch. Not yet.
But the tension between them danced on a knife’s edge.
Zina finally stood. “Walk me to my car.”
Damilare rose without a word and followed her down the marble steps, through the warm air of the Abuja night. His hand hovered behind her lower back but never touched. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough.
At her car, she turned to him. Her keys in her hand. Her walls still up, but trembling now.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said.
He nodded. “For not lying to me. For showing up.”
She hesitated. “You’re dangerous, Damilare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Zina leaned against the car, arms folded, eyes searching his. “You make me forget myself.”
He stepped closer, just enough that the scent of his cologne curled around her.
“I want you to,” he said softly.
Her heart beat once.
Twice.
Harder.
She should leave.
She didn’t.
Instead, she whispered, “I told you not to kiss me again without warning.”
“I haven’t.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, letting his fingers trail her jaw.
Zina closed her eyes.
Breathed in.
Out.
And then—
She kissed him.
This time it wasn’t for the cameras.
It wasn’t strategic.
It wasn’t calculated.
It was slow.
Hungry.
A confession made of lips and soft gasps and the heat of two people finally breaking a rule they both helped write.
His hands found her waist, fingers splayed over the fabric of her dress. Her body arched into him as his mouth deepened the kiss, slow and controlled and devastating.
Zina whimpered—soft, involuntary.
His hand slid lower. Not groping. Just... anchoring.
Her knees almost buckled.
They pulled apart breathless.
“This is a bad idea,” she said again.
“I know,” he replied, voice husky. “Still want to get in the car?”
She stared at him for a long second.
Then opened the door.
---
Damilare’s Apartment — Thirty Minutes Later
Zina stood inside his living room like she’d entered another version of herself.
There were no plans here. No camera angles. Just dim light and too much quiet.
He poured her a drink—just one finger of whiskey. She took it without speaking. Her fingers shook slightly.
He noticed.
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
“I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”
Zina stared into her glass. “What if I do?”
He didn’t answer.
He just walked toward her. Slow. Intentional. Stopping only when they were chest-to-chest.
He took the glass from her hand and set it aside.
Zina looked up at him—eyes wide, guarded, but burning.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
She didn’t.
Instead, she reached for the top button of her dress.
It slid free.
His breath caught.
Then she guided his hand to the next one.
And he took it from there.
Button by button, like he was unwrapping something sacred. His fingers didn’t rush. Her dress opened inch by inch until it slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
Her skin was warm. Smooth. Laced with tension.
His eyes traveled her body slowly.
Zina didn’t hide.
She stood there in lace and strength and sharp vulnerability.
“Still watching?” she asked softly.
“Always.”
His lips found her collarbone, the corner of her neck, the line of her shoulder. Her fingers slid into his hair, her breath hitching with every kiss.
Their mouths met again—hotter this time. Urgent. Her hands slipped under his shirt, fingers dragging down the hard lines of his torso. He hissed softly when she bit his bottom lip.
“You talk too much,” she murmured.
“Then shut me up.”
She did.
And when they finally collapsed onto his bed, tangled in sheets and breaths and shuddered moans—Zina knew this wasn’t just physical.
It was surrender.
And that scared her more than anything else.
---
The Next Morning
Sunlight peeked through half-drawn curtains.
Zina stirred first, sheets tangled around her waist, her hair loose across one shoulder. Her body ached in the best ways. Her lips were swollen from kisses. Her thighs sore from how tightly she’d held him.
Damilare was still asleep beside her, one arm across her waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that made something warm and stupid flutter in her chest.
She stared at the ceiling.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
They’d blurred the line. No—obliterated it.
And now the question wasn’t whether it would complicate things. It was how fast.
She slid quietly from the bed, dressing in silence. Her dress was wrinkled. Her pride was dented. Her heart? She didn’t know what it was doing.
Before she left, she scribbled two words on the notepad on his desk:
> “No regrets.”
She wasn’t sure if it was a truth.
Or a lie she needed to believe.
- Writer
