The next morning came slow and heavy for Abraham. He woke with the memory of Glory's laughter still ringing in his head, the brightness of her eyes, the nearness of her face. The way her lips had parted slightly as if waiting—for what? For him? He rolled onto his back and groaned. If not for Chika barging in at the wrong moment, maybe things would have taken a turn he couldn't ignore.
But what then? He rubbed his face, staring at the ceiling. He'd known Glory since childhood, seen her grow from the barefoot girl chasing dragonflies around the compound into the woman who now unsettled him with a single glance. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.
The sound of pots clanging in the kitchen pulled him back. Chika, of course.
By the time Abraham walked out, Chika was already spreading butter over half-burnt bread, humming off-key to some pop song.
"You no go greet?" Chika asked without looking up.
"Good morning," Abraham said flatly.
Chika grinned. "Ehn, better. You dey behave like say dream beat you."
Abraham shook his head, reaching for a cup of water. He didn't want to talk, not yet.
As if summoned by his thoughts, there was a soft knock on the door. Chika's eyebrows shot up, a teasing smile already forming. "Na who dey come this early? Abi—"
Abraham shot him a look sharp enough to cut, and Chika laughed, raising his hands in surrender.
Glory stepped inside, carrying a small cooler. Her hair was tied back neatly, her dress simple but elegant. She greeted them with that same steady smile, though Abraham noticed the slight hesitation in her eyes when they landed on him.
"I thought I should bring breakfast," she said, setting the cooler down.
Chika clapped his hands together dramatically. "God bless you! I knew my prayers will work today."
Glory laughed, though her cheeks flushed slightly. Abraham muttered a quiet thanks, avoiding her gaze.
The meal spread quickly—pap, bread, and akara balls. Chika dug in like a man rescued from starvation, chattering as if determined to fill every gap in the air. Glory responded politely, but her laughter was softer, more careful than usual.
At one point, Chika excused himself to fetch something from his room, leaving them alone.
The silence was deafening. Abraham glanced at her, found her looking down at her plate, pushing a piece of akara around with her spoon. His chest tightened.
"Thanks for this," he said, his voice lower than he intended.
She nodded, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. Just for a second. Long enough to stir the memory of last night's unfinished moment. Her lips parted as if to speak, but the sound of the gate clanging shut broke the spell.
Emperor's voice carried in even before he stepped through the doorway. "Martial! Where you dey?"
Abraham sighed under his breath.
Emperor strode in, tall and booming as ever, grinning like the world belonged to him. Beside him was Miracle, his cousin. The contrast between them was almost laughable. Where Emperor wore loud colors and carried himself with flamboyance, Miracle's outfit was plain—a clean white shirt and dark trousers. His expression was calm, his steps measured, as though he moved at a pace only he understood.
"See food everywhere!" Emperor exclaimed, eyes wide as he spotted the table. "And you didn't call me? Martial, you're wicked."
Glory shook her head, amused despite herself. "Good morning, Emperor."
"Good morning, my dear." He spread his arms dramatically, then turned to Abraham. "Have sense, my friend. Invite a man when food is involved."
Behind him, Miracle stepped forward quietly. He greeted Abraham with a firm handshake, then Chika, then Glory, each with the same calm tone.
"Good morning," he said simply.
Glory offered him a small smile. "You must be Miracle. Emperor has mentioned you."
Miracle nodded. "Yes, ma. I'm staying with him for a while."
Chika leaned closer to Abraham, whispering just loud enough. "Na wah oh. Two cousins, but see difference. One dey like generator, the other like candle."
Abraham nearly laughed but bit it back, glancing at Miracle again. The young man didn't seem offended by Emperor's boisterousness. If anything, he looked…steady. Grounded.
As Emperor attacked the leftover akara balls, Glory gathered the plates, and Miracle rose instantly to help. "Let me carry that," he offered.
"Oh, it's fine—"
"I insist," Miracle said, his tone firm but gentle. He took the plates without further fuss, carrying them to the kitchen as though it were the most natural thing.
Abraham watched him go, raising an eyebrow. Miracle was polite, almost to a fault. But there was something else—something in the way he carried himself that felt different, heavier, as if every word and action carried intention.
Emperor, meanwhile, sprawled on the sofa, already launching into a story about a girl at the motor park who had mistaken him for a Nollywood actor. His voice filled the room, drawing laughter from Chika.
But Abraham barely heard him. His eyes drifted once again to Glory, who was wiping the table with slow, deliberate motions, her face tilted away from his. The memory of her laughter, of her eyes locking with his, came rushing back. He swallowed hard, turning his gaze away just as Miracle reentered the room, his presence quiet but commanding in its own subtle way.