đź“Ť Makoko Safe House, Lagos
🕢 7:30 AM | Wednesday Morning
The morning light crept gently through the thin curtains, illuminating the aftermath of their global battle—empty mugs, tangled chargers, half-eaten akara on plates. The safe house felt less like a home and more like a bunker where exhaustion had settled thickly in the air.
Bayo stared at his phone, thumb hovering over the last card he hadn't tried yet.
DECLINED.
A quiet sigh escaped him. "I'll sell my Patek," he murmured, unfastening the luxury watch from his wrist. "It should carry us for a few months."
Across the table, David didn't look up from his laptop. "MIT emailed again. Gave me twenty-four hours to reverse my deferral." His voice was flat, depleted. "I let the deadline pass."
The words hung in the warm, cramped air like a confession.
Maka's hand brushed gently against Bayo's beneath the table—soft, steady, grounding. Her quartz bracelet glowed faintly with a warmth that felt strangely alive, like it sensed their fraying resolve.
Iya David emerged from the kitchen corner with steaming bowls of oatmeal. "Revolutionaries still need breakfast," she said with a fond sigh. Her gaze lingered briefly on their joined hands—curiosity there, but no judgment. "And even a river needs banks to guide its waters."
They ate in silence, comforted by her presence. Through the wooden walls, children's laughter floated in from the floating houses nearby. Life, stubborn and hopeful, continued.
As David synced course materials to Bayo's tablet, he said quietly, "No more cloud access for you. You'll need local copies." The casual generosity of it—the unspoken assumption that they shared everything now—hit Bayo harder than any political or philosophical lesson.
This, he realized, was what family meant.
---
đź“Ť Okoro Family Shop, Surulere
đź•ś 1:30 PM | Wednesday Afternoon
The shop smelled of drying spices and electrical dust. Maka's father wiped the counter over and over—something he only did when deeply anxious. Her mother watched the disconnected cameras with a tight jaw. Zara stood arms folded, wearing the expression of someone choosing caution over celebration.
"So," Zara muttered, leaning closer. "You're dating the son of the man trying to destroy everything you're building?"
Maka held her sister's gaze but didn't flinch.
Bayo, meanwhile, knelt under the counter with a screwdriver and a tangle of new wires. His white designer shirt was already smudged with grime, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. Sweat glistened along his brow, but he worked without complaint.
"You don't have to do this," Maka whispered.
"I know," he replied softly, tightening a screw. "But I want to."
Her father finally exhaled when the new monitor flickered on, showing every angle of the shop. "You could have sent one of your team," he said quietly.
Bayo shook his head. "I don't have a team anymore. Just… me."
Silence. Then Maka's mother exchanged a subtle look with her father—one of cautious approval.
For the first time since stepping into the shop, Maka felt the space between her two worlds shift—narrowing, just a little.
As Bayo knelt fixing the television, Maka's mother watched him with new understanding. "Your hands know work," she observed quietly.
"I'm learning," he said, tightening a connection. "Turns out design skills translate to more than just sketches. I've been helping local businesses with their branding. The payments are small, but..." He shrugged, wiping grease on his jeans. "It's honest."
Maka's father grunted approval. "Honest work feeds the soul better than easy money."
In that moment, Bayo understood this was another kind of currency—respect earned through competence, not inherited through privilege.
---
đź“Ť Adewale Academy Courtyard
đź•’ 3:00 PM | Wednesday
Walking across campus hand-in-hand felt like weaving through invisible minefields.
Legacy Club members whispered behind manicured hands.
River Guard members offered uncertain nods.
Security officers eyed them longer than necessary.
Professor Durojaiye intercepted them with a stack of papers. "The scholarship committee wants to see you, Maka. Your recent… activities… have raised concerns." His eyes flickered pointedly to their clasped hands. "And Bayo—your father requested a meeting with you and the board of trustees."
Before either could respond, Amina jogged up, breathless. "Some River Guard members are worried," she said gently. "They think this relationship might be a liability."
Maka squeezed Bayo's hand—gently but firmly. "Then they've misread him. He's not the enemy."
Bayo's thumb brushed over her knuckles—an unspoken thank you, tender and steady.
---
đź“Ť Campus Art Studio
đź•— 8:00 PM | Wednesday Evening
The studio was silent, bathed in warm lamplight. Paints lined the walls like soldiers at attention. Bayo motioned for Maka to follow him to a locked cabinet.
"I've never shown this to anyone," he murmured as he unlocked it.
Inside were sketchbooks filled with breathtaking art—Yoruba symbols merged into neon skylines, sprawling Lagos streets painted with futuristic clarity, cultural motifs fused with visions of what Nigeria could be.
Maka lifted a page, breath catching. "You made these?"
He nodded, shy but proud. "This is the world I wish existed. Somewhere between tradition and innovation."
She ran a finger lightly along the sketch, her hand brushing his—just briefly, but enough to make both of them pause.
"You see beauty everywhere," she whispered.
"You make me brave enough to show it," he replied.
Before the moment deepened, Layo burst in, eyes wet. "They suspended my father. Indefinitely."
Maka immediately reached for her. Bayo rested a comforting hand on Maka's shoulder, steady and supportive.
The small triangle of comfort between them felt fragile but real.
---
đź“Ť Dean's Office
đź•™ 10:00 AM | Thursday Morning
The dean steepled his fingers, every movement cool and controlled. "Your scholarship is at risk, Maka," he said. "Your relationship with Mr. Adebayo raises concerns about bias, conflict of interest, and campus stability."
Maka kept her posture tall, even as heat climbed her neck.
Beside her, Bayo shifted—his knee lightly brushing hers, offering silent reassurance.
A message from FeFe buzzed across her screen:
POISON PILL at 96%. They're adapting.
Trouble on every front.
---
đź“Ť Omega Wing Dorm
đź•“ 4:00 PM | Thursday
The intervention began with tension so thick it seemed to reshape the room.
David cleared his throat. "We aren't saying break up. Just… remember people are counting on you."
Layo's voice was sharper. "My father is suspended because of all this. I need both of you focused."
Amina added, "The Alliance is targeting vulnerabilities. Your relationship is one."
Another message pinged:
Phoenix planning to exploit your romance. Move carefully.
Bayo and Maka exchanged a look—serious, but still full of something soft neither could deny.
---
📍 Academy Rooftop – Their Spot
🕢 7:30 PM | Thursday Evening
The argument was quiet, but heavy.
"Sometimes I wonder," Maka whispered, "if you'd even see me without the revolution."
Bayo stared at the skyline. "And I wonder if you'd trust me without my father as the villain in your story."
Her bracelet glowed suddenly, projecting words from Alimotu's old journal:
"Love and revolution are siblings—they demand courage, sacrifice, and clarity."
The tension between them softened, as if the city breeze itself urged them closer.
Bayo exhaled shakily. "I'm scared of failing you."
Maka stepped close, resting her forehead lightly against his chest. "Then let's be scared together."
His hand hesitated before resting gently at her waist. A respectful touch. A steadying one.
And slowly, the distance between them dissolved—not through heat, but through tenderness.
---
đź“Ť Makoko Rooftop
đź•š 11:00 PM | Thursday Night
The city below glittered, reflecting off the dark water. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, their legs dangling over the edge of the roof.
A message arrived:
I'm safe. Can't help directly anymore. Make it count.
—IT Admin
The weight of the world settled again on their shoulders.
But then Maka said quietly, "We can't separate the personal from the political. We fight so people can live lives where love isn't a liability."
Bayo twined his fingers with hers slowly, deliberately. "You're not my weakness," he murmured. "You're the reason I keep going."
The bracelet pulsed once—warm, almost approving.
And in that fragile space between defeat and determination, they reclaimed a small pocket of peace.
Not passion.
Not heat.
Just connection—gentle, honest, necessary.