His Beloved

Smitten

# His Beloved

## Episode One

The third Sunday at Hope of Glory Church started like the previous two. Lively praise and worship filled the sanctuary, voices lifted in joy, hands raised toward heaven. I had found this place almost as soon as I moved to Victoria Island from Ibadan, desperate for something familiar in this new city where everything felt too fast, too big, too unfamiliar.

I was still settling into my new life. The job as secretary to the MD of an NGO had come after a year of applications and prayers, and now here I was, living with roommates I barely knew, navigating Lagos traffic, learning the rhythm of Victoria Island. Church was my anchor.

But today felt different.

After the sermon, the senior pastor called for announcements. “Our youth pastor will share some exciting news about an upcoming outreach.”

A man stepped forward to the pulpit, and my breath caught.

He was tall and dark, his complexion rich and shining under the sanctuary lights. But it was not just his appearance that held my attention. It was the way he carried himself, gentle and unassuming, as he adjusted the microphone.

Then he spoke.

“Good morning, everyone.” His voice was soft yet firm, each word clear and intentional. It wrapped around the congregation like a warm embrace, commanding attention without demanding it. “I’m excited to announce that our youth department will be organizing an outreach to Lekki Conservation Centre this Christmas season, which is about two months away.”

I found myself leaning forward, drawn in by the calm authority in his tone. He had a nice haircut, neat and well kept. Everything about him spoke of a man who took care of himself, who was well to do, who moved through the world with quiet confidence.

He looked exactly like the kind of man I had always imagined. Gentle. Soft spoken. Steady.

My heart did a small flutter in my chest, and I pressed my hand against my Bible, trying to ground myself. This was church. I should not be feeling this way in church.

But I could not help it.

After the service ended, I reminded myself why I had come early today. The choir. I wanted to join the choir. Singing had always been my escape, my joy, and in this new city where I felt so alone, I needed it more than ever.

I found the choir director near the front, a middle aged woman with a warm smile. “Good morning, ma. I’d like to join the choir.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She beamed at me. “You’ll need to speak with my assistant. He handles all the new member registrations. Let me find him for you.”

She scanned the thinning crowd, then her face brightened. “Ah, there’s Pastor Juwon. He can take your information. Pastor!”

My stomach dropped.

The man from the pulpit turned at the sound of his name, and suddenly he was walking toward us. Toward me. I smoothed down my blue and peach flowery gown, suddenly very aware of how I looked, of the heels on my feet, of everything.

“Yes, Choir Director?” His voice was even softer up close, gentle in a way that made my pulse quicken.

“This young lady wants to join the choir, but I need to attend to the first timers before they leave. Can you please take her number? Have the assistant contact her during the week.”

“Of course.” He turned to me, and for the first time, our eyes met properly.

He gave me a warm smile, polite and helpful, nothing more. But my heart was doing acrobatics in my chest.

“What’s your name?” he asked, pulling out his phone.

“Gbemisola,” I managed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Gbemisola Gbadamosi.”

“Beautiful name.” He typed it in carefully. “And your number?”

I recited the digits, watching his long fingers move across the screen. He smelled incredible, something clean and masculine and utterly distracting. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer.

“All set,” he said, looking up with that same warm smile. As he moved to put his phone back in his pocket, our hands brushed, just barely.

Electricity.

That was the only word for it. A shock of awareness that traveled up my arm and settled somewhere in my chest. My breath hitched, and I wondered if he felt it too. But his expression remained unchanged, kind and pastoral, and I realized with a sinking feeling that whatever I was experiencing, it was likely mine alone.

It did not help that I was ovulating. My body was hyperaware of everything about him: his height, his presence, the warmth radiating from him, that intoxicating scent.

“Someone will contact you this week about choir rehearsals,” he said.

“Thank you, Pastor.”

He nodded and turned to leave, but before he could take more than two steps, a dark, beautiful woman appeared at his side. She leaned close to his ear and whispered something I could not hear.

I watched, frozen, as he responded by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a set of keys. He handed them to her with an easy familiarity, and she smiled up at him before walking away.

My heart sank like a stone.

Keys. He had given her keys.

The realization hit me with uncomfortable clarity. He might be married. Of course he might be married. He was thirty, a youth pastor, established, the kind of man who would have settled down by now. And here I was, a twenty six year old who had just moved to Lagos, getting giddy over a man I did not even know.

I turned and walked quickly toward the exit, my heels clicking against the tile floor, my face burning with embarrassment at my own foolishness.

-----

Back in my shared apartment, I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. My roommates were in their own rooms, and I was grateful for the privacy. I replayed the morning in my mind: his voice, his smile, the way our hands had touched, the keys he had given that woman.

That night, I called Timi.

“So?” she said as soon as she picked up, her voice crackling slightly over the international line to Canada. “How was church?”

“Timi…” I groaned into the pillow. “I think I’m in trouble.”

“Tell me everything.”

So I did. I told her about the man at the pulpit, about his soft, firm voice, about the way he looked and smelled and made my heart race. I told her about the keys and the beautiful woman and my spiraling thoughts.

“Okay, first of all, is he fine?” Timi asked, ever practical.

“Very.”

“What does he do? Besides being a pastor?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I didn’t ask.”

“Gbemi.” She sighed. “Okay, real question. Can you see yourself marrying a pastor?”

The question hung in the air between us, heavy and complicated. I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

Could I see myself as a pastor’s wife? With all that it would require? The scrutiny, the expectations, the life of service?

“I don’t know,” I finally whispered.

“Well,” Timi said gently, “maybe you should figure that out before you fall any deeper.”

But as I hung up the phone and lay in the darkness, I knew it was already too late for that warning. Juwon’s face was already imprinted in my mind, his voice echoing in my ears, and no amount of logic or caution could change the fact that something had shifted in me the moment he spoke from that pulpit.

I just had no idea if he had felt it too.