I didn’t plan for it to happen. I wasn’t even in love with him. Dapo was just my friend, the type you could gist with about anything: work stress, annoying Lagos traffic, even embarrassing crush stories. He wasn’t “my type,” or so I thought.

It started that Saturday evening when I went to his place to drop off some things he asked me to help him get from Ikeja. He had been sick earlier that week, and I figured I’d check in on him.

“Stay small now, at least let me make you tea,” he said when I handed him the bag.

I hesitated. I should have left. But I didn’t.

We ended up sitting in his living room, talking. It felt easy, familiar. He’d changed into a simple black T-shirt and shorts, his hair slightly messy, and for the first time, I noticed how good he smelled, that clean, fresh scent that makes you want to lean closer.

I don’t even remember what we were talking about when the room suddenly felt… different. It was quieter, heavier, like the air had shifted. He leaned closer, and I caught a whiff of his cologne; warm, musky, intoxicating. I should have stood up, grabbed my bag, and left. But I didn’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, trying to sound playful.

He smiled, that slow, confident smile that made it hard to look away. “Maybe because you’re beautiful,” he said.

My throat went dry. I laughed it off, but my body betrayed me. My pulse quickened, my skin tingled, and for the first time, I noticed how good he looked in that simple black t-shirt.

One thing led to another, a hand brushing against mine, my head resting on his shoulder, his fingers grazing my thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then his lips were on mine, and I didn’t pull away.

It started soft, almost hesitant, but then it deepened. His hands explored me like they’d been waiting for this moment, and I let them. I let myself drown in the heat of it, in the way his touch made me forget my name.

Before I knew it, we were tangled up in each other, clothes scattered carelessly across the room. His skin against mine was fire; hot, urgent, and all-consuming. He kissed me like he needed to, like the world would end if he stopped. And when he finally slid into me, it was like everything exploded, my breath caught, my nails dug into his back, and the only sound in the room was the rhythm of our bodies and the sharp intake of our moans.

It was nothing like the movies; it was better. Messy, desperate, real. His whispers in my ear, the way he said my name like it belonged to him, the way he made me feel like I was the only woman in the world in that moment, it was all too much, too good.

When it was over, we just lay there, tangled in the sheets, breathing hard. The room was silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. My body felt like it had been set free, my mind still spinning from the intensity of what just happened.

I turned to look at him. He was already watching me, that small, unreadable smile on his face.

I smiled back, even though deep down, I knew the truth. I wasn’t in love with him. I didn’t even want to be. What happened between us wasn’t about love; it was about wanting, about giving in to something bigger than reason.

I didn’t regret it, though. Not one bit.

Because for that one night, in that dimly lit apartment with the city buzzing softly outside, I let myself feel something raw and unfiltered. Something that had nothing to do with love but everything to do with being alive.

And honestly? That was enough.

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