It started with late-night texts.
Not the kind that feel forced or flirtatious. The kind that carry weight where every word feels like a brick in the foundation of something real.
Mike would text her things like:
"U eat?"
"I'm still up working on code. Can't lie, I'm tired sha."
"U ever feel like Lagos is choking you?"
Danika didn't always reply immediately. But when she did, her messages were thoughtful, honest a little messy, a little raw. She didn't pretend to be perfect.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm running but not moving."
"My mom keeps calling me like I'm ten years old. I'm tired."
"I've been alone since I was 14, Mike. I don't know how to do 'normal.'"
By the end of that first week, they were talking every night. By the second week, Mike had memorized the way her voice cracked when she laughed too hard. By the third, he knew her favorite biscuit brand, the name of her landlord, and the sound of her sigh when she got frustrated.
Then one Friday evening, after a long day of failed job pitches and unreliable internet, Mike texted:
"Let's get out. Just me and you. My treat."
She replied almost instantly:
"Where?"
"Anywhere but here. Come out with me tomorrow."
The hotel wasn't fancy, but it was quiet tucked in a corner of Ikeja, with dim lights and a rooftop bar that overlooked blinking city lights.
Mike booked a room.
Not for sex. Not yet. He wasn't even sure she'd stay. He just wanted a space away from roommates, away from stress, away from the noise of trying too hard.
When she arrived, she looked simple but beautiful. A soft peach blouse. Black jeans. Her hair pulled back in a bun. No makeup. No filter. Just Danika.
"You're late," he teased, opening the door.
She smiled faintly. "Lagos traffic doesn't respect love stories."
They sat by the window, sharing a plate of suya and two bottles of Fayrouz. No music. Just them.
"So," Mike asked after a long pause, "you ever been in love?"
Danika looked at him, thoughtful. "Once. Maybe. But I think I loved the idea of not being alone more than the person."
Mike nodded. "I get that."
"What about you?"
"I tried. But she left when things got rough. Said she needed stability."
Danika smirked. "So she wanted salary love, not struggle love."
"I guess. What about your parents?" Mike asked.
Her smile faltered. She leaned back in the chair, suddenly distant.
"My dad left before I could walk. I don't even know his voice. My mom… she tried. But she's loud. Controlling. Doesn't know how to stay in her lane. She's moved in with me like three times already. Every time she comes, something breaks my peace, my space, my sanity."
Mike looked at her. Really looked.
"I'm sorry."
Danika shrugged. "I'm used to it."
"No one should have to get used to pain," he said quietly.
She didn't reply for a while.
Then she whispered, "You ever think maybe some people are born broken?"
Mike shook his head. "Nah. I think some people were just born in places that forgot how to hold them."
Danika looked at him, eyes glassy.
"You always talk like this?"
"Only when it's worth it."
They sat in silence again. But this time, it wasn't heavy. It was thick with something else the kind of silence that comes when two people start to feel safe with each other.
Mike stood up. Walked to the window. Looked down at the flickering lights.
"My mom lives in Ikorodu. My dad's in Osun. They've not spoken in years. I grew up like a visitor in both places. Maybe that's why I want something stable now."
Danika walked toward him. Stood beside him. Their arms brushed. Neither moved.
"You're different, Mike."
"You don't know me yet."
"I know enough."
The air between them changed. Not fast. Not wild. Just… shifted.
He turned to face her. "Danika… can I ask you something?"
"Hmm?"
"It's been eight months since I… since I've been with anyone. Tonight… if you're comfortable… can I hold you? Nothing more."
She looked at him not surprised, not offended. Just thoughtful.
"I'm on my period," she said. "Started after the pool, actually. Maybe chlorine triggers things I didn't know."
Mike laughed. "That's such a Lagos theory."
She laughed too. "But real."
"No pressure," he said gently. "Just wanted to be honest."
She nodded. "Then I'll be honest too. I like you, Mike. I don't know what this is. But it feels… soft. And I've never had soft before."
They laid on the bed that night, fully clothed, holding each other. She rested her head on his chest. He stroked her back softly, like calming waves.
They didn't talk much. But they didn't sleep quickly either.
It was the kind of night people rarely write about the one where nothing happens, but everything changes.
The next morning, sunlight slipped through the curtains. Mike woke up first, gently pulling away to freshen up. When he returned, she was sitting up, scrolling through her phone.
"My mom's asking for money," she said, no emotion in her voice.
Mike sat beside her. "How much?"
"Anything. She says she needs small help."
He looked at his phone. His account was down to 17,000. Still, he opened his banking app.
He transferred 10,000 to her immediately.
She looked at the alert. "You didn't have to"
"I wanted to," he interrupted. "That's what partners do, yeah?"
Danika leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
"Thank you."
They left the hotel together, hand in hand, stepping into the noise of Lagos like they were ready to take it on.
In that moment, Mike believed that love real love wasn't about sex, or status, or followers.
It was about showing up. Even when you're empty.
Even when you're bleeding too.