The days passed slowly in Nigeria. Mira spent most of her time helping her mother repair the damage in the house, clearing out the broken memories, one box at a time. Noah stayed, surprisingly patient, though clearly out of place. He offered to help whenever he could, fixing a door hinge, rewiring an old lamp, even cooking once—though Mira made him promise never to attempt Nigerian jollof again.
Still, something had shifted.
They no longer argued with venom in their voices. Instead, their conversations danced with banter, with an undercurrent of something deeper neither dared to name.
One night, after her mother had gone to bed, Mira stood on the rooftop of the house. The stars in the Nigerian sky were clearer than she remembered—unfiltered, wild. She held a warm cup of tea in her hands, letting the night settle into her bones.
Noah appeared beside her, barefoot and quiet.
"You really love it here," he said softly.
"It's home," she replied. "No matter how far I run, I always find myself drawn back."
He took the cup from her, took a sip, winced slightly. "You like it this bitter?"
She smirked. "Tastes better than your jollof."
"That's a low blow."
She laughed, and it surprised them both.
For a long while, they stood side by side, shoulders almost touching.
"Mira," he said after a pause, his voice uncertain, "why did you really take the job abroad?"
She looked at him, the weight of the question unexpected.
"Because I needed to prove I was more than just a name on a forgotten street. I wanted the world to know I existed… and that I mattered."
Noah studied her in the moonlight. "You do matter."
There it was again—that shift. That slow, creeping pull between them that neither could deny. She felt it in her chest, in the tremble of her fingers as she reached for the cup he still held.
Their hands brushed.
And suddenly, she wasn't cold anymore.
"Noah," she whispered.
He didn't kiss her. Not yet.
But he looked at her like he might.
And in that gaze, Mira realized something terrifying: this man, the one she'd once hated with fire in her chest, now saw through every wall she'd ever built—and he wasn't turning away.
Not yet.