Chapter Four

Funmi tried to take another spoonful of the pepper soup her host had so graciously offered, and painstakingly prepared, hoping the heat would awaken her dulled taste buds. But her throat clamped shut the moment the liquid touched it.

She stared at the meal, defeated.

Kayode had dropped it off about an hour ago, warm and fragrant, his parting promise to return for the plates hanging in the air like a silent expectation. She felt guilty. It was unfair not to eat at least half, especially given the effort he had put in, but the fear of vomiting and watching him clean up after her kept her rooted in indecision. She didn’t think her pride could survive such an ordeal.

He was trying, and that meant something. She tried too, one more spoonful. But it tasted bitter, unreasonably so. Her taste buds had clearly gone rogue. She swallowed with difficulty, gently set the bowl aside, sipped some water, and lay back down with a frown on her face. A few minutes later, she was fast asleep.

It was in that position Kayode found her when he returned fifteen minutes later.

He paused at the door.

The untouched bowl of soup sat on the table beside her. His shoulders sagged. For the umpteenth time that day, he questioned his decision to bring her home. He had no formal caregiving experience, no expertise, just a gut instinct and a strong sense of care for this woman who, despite everything, still kept him at arm’s length.

He stepped closer and noticed beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Was that a good sign or a bad one? The room was warm. The air conditioner was off and the windows were shut. That had to be it.

He quietly moved to open them.

Funmi stirred at the sound, but didn’t open her eyes. Her nose was stuffed, and the dull ache in her head had returned, proof that the painkiller was wearing off. She wasn’t ready to let him see her like this again. Let him think she was still asleep.

Then she felt it, cold water on her forehead.

Her body jerked instinctively, knocking over the bowl.

Kayode froze.

Water spilled across the floor.

Funmi flushed in embarrassment. She hadn’t asked for a cold towel, and she hadn’t wanted it. But before she could apologise for the mess, Kayode did.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently.

The apology stunned her. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

She watched silently as he went into the bathroom, returned with a mop, and cleaned the mess with quiet efficiency. Then, without a word, he picked up the now-cold meal and left the room.

The door shut behind him.

“I am a difficult guest,” she muttered to the empty room.

She meant it.

He was going out of his way for her, cooking, cleaning, adjusting to her moods, and all she had done was act like a tightly wound ball of pride and irritation. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone cared for her without asking for something in return. Even her extended family, who lived off her generosity, wouldn’t have done this much for her.

She needed to do better.

She reached for her phone. It was off. Likely his doing, to let her rest. She powered it back on, expecting maybe a few missed calls.

What she got was an avalanche, emails, texts, voice notes. This was the first time in years she had gone a whole day without worrying about work.

And, surprisingly, she hadn’t missed it.

She typed a short message to Kayode: Thank you. And I’m sorry for being such a difficult guest.

Then she dove into her inbox.

Ten minutes later, Kayode returned.

He had seen the message. It surprised him that she still had his number. Maybe she had blocked him before, back when his Happy New Month texts were frequent and her replies nonexistent.

But that didn’t matter now.

What did matter was the sight that greeted him at the door.

Funmi, hunched over a notepad and her phone, looked pale. Tired. Fragile. And completely immersed in work.

He watched her for a moment, equal parts impressed and concerned. Then he quietly turned around, went back to the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with a freshly warmed bowl of pepper soup and a can of lemon drink.

“I hope that’s your meal,” Funmi said without looking up.

“You know it’s yours,” Kayode replied, placing the tray on the side table.

Then, without asking, he took the notepad and pen from her hands.

Funmi looked up sharply, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t get what you’re trying to do.”

He smiled. She could shoot daggers with her eyes, but he was unmoved.

“You’ve got enough energy to write reports and send emails,” he said. “Let’s help you find the strength to eat too.”

“I can’t eat. I already tried.”

“Let’s try again. I’ll help you.”

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Funmi shifted away, pulling the duvet around her like armour. “Do you plan to shove it down my throat?”

“That’s the only way that spoon is entering my mouth,” she added under her breath.

She looked like a child pretending not to care, sulky, but vulnerable. Kayode felt something warm tug at his chest.

“I’ll use any means necessary… darling,” he said, surprising even himself with the endearment.

Funmi didn’t seem to register it, too caught up in her annoyance.

“I’m not the enemy,” he added more gently. “I just want you to get better. We’re on the same team, your team.”

She blinked. His voice was soft, persuasive. Disarming.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice small.

“Why are you taking the risk—?”

“Because you’re special,” he said, cutting her off.

Funmi laughed awkwardly, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“I’m serious,” Kayode continued. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

He took her hand, held it for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re not just anyone.”

And just like that, the room shifted.

Funmi’s headache dulled.

She hadn’t misheard him earlier. He had called her “darling.” She wasn’t imagining this. Something had changed. Something was changing.

Kayode moved beside her and gently guided her head to his chest. His hand slid into her hair, running slow, calming circles against her scalp.

Funmi stilled.

His heartbeat was fast. So was hers. But she didn’t pull away.

In that moment, wrapped in silence and warmth, the chaos of the world receded.

Eventually, Kayode pulled back.

“Will you try to eat now?”

She hesitated. “I’ll embarrass myself if I do. What if I throw up?”

“Give me work,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be happy just to see you try.”

That made her laugh – soft, tired, but real.

She nodded. “Okay, Kayode. For you, I’ll try.”

His heart swelled.

“But you have to do something for me too,” she added. “For every two spoonfuls I take, you let me answer an email.”

Kayode chuckled. “How about five?”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she took the spoon and fed herself the first bite.

He smiled. He was winning.

It took four hours, but she finished the entire bowl.

She only did it so she could work, but Kayode didn’t care. She was eating. That was what mattered.

Eventually, she convinced him to send for her laptop and essentials. Her staff responded like clockwork—impressive, but not surprising. Even in casuals, in someone else’s bed, she commanded excellence.

James called around evening. With his guidance, Kayode changed her drip and adjusted her medication. It wasn’t easy, but Funmi was cooperative, more relaxed than she had been all day. Work gave her purpose. And Kayode… gave her a strange sense of calm.

James promised to bring her test results in the morning.

Kayode prayed it wasn’t COVID. But even if it was, he wasn’t leaving. Not now.

Funmi was a fighter. And so was he.

And this… this was no longer a crush.

He wanted her. In his arms. In his life. In his bed. As his wife.

Funny, he thought. She’s already in my bed. But she’s nowhere close to being mine.

Teach me dear Lord, to thread carefully with this woman. You know my weakness, I am not your best behaved son, but I am a changed man. Your work in me has been working. Today though, I am struggling. I want to touch her, hold her and snuggle under those sheets with her in my arms. Lord help me, I am struggling.

Around midnight, a thunderclap rattled the windows.

Funmi stirred.

Kayode was asleep in the chair beside her, his body slouched in a deeply uncomfortable angle. The poor guy must have dozed off watching her. The rain and the hard seat clearly weren’t enough to rouse him.

She turned to him fully.

And for the first time since she met him, she really saw him.

He was a fine man.

She blushed at the thought, but didn’t stop her eyes from roaming. His arms. His jaw. The gentle rise and fall of his chest.

And just like that, her sharp business mind clicked in; the one that always made her one step ahead of everyone. 

This man has feelings for me, she thought. And they didn’t start in the last forty-eight hours.

The question was, what did she plan to do about it?

It was ridiculous. Absurd. The man caring for her—cooking, cleaning, risking everything—was her friend’s younger brother. A vendor in her company. And maybe even younger than her.

Then again…

In Yoruba culture, “Brother Soji” didn’t necessarily mean a decade apart. It could mean a year. Or months.

Still, even if they were the same age, it was inappropriate.

Wasn’t it?

The rain poured harder.

She needed to help Kayode get over these feelings. That was the responsible thing to do. As soon as she was well enough, she would leave.

But thunder cracked again.

Kayode jolted awake.

Their eyes locked.

And in those few seconds, everything shifted again.

Her heart leapt. She looked away quickly, but it was too late. He’d seen it. Felt it.

Kayode stood, walked to the windows, and shut them. Then turned to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first.

“I’m fine,” she finally whispered, sinking deeper under the covers.

But she wasn’t fine.

Because the ache in her chest now had nothing to do with illness.

She closed her eyes, and heard him leave the room.

But when she slept, her dreams were full of him, like he was still there with her.