They didn't speak about love right away.
Not the night Tunde returned, nor the morning after. They moved carefully—like two people learning how to walk again, this time without looking down.
Amaka made pancakes. Tunde made tea. It felt almost absurd, this softness after so much fire. But neither of them broke it.
Instead, they stayed in that liminal space—real but fragile.
Later that afternoon, Rita called.
"I know you're not taking meetings, but the media is asking for a follow-up," she said. "They want a joint interview. You and... the artist."
"Tunde," Amaka said evenly. "He has a name."
There was a pause.
"They're calling it 'The Redemption Romance.'" Rita's voice softened. "Are you okay with that?"
Amaka looked at Tunde, who was painting barefoot on her balcony—his canvas catching Lagos light.
"No," she said. "But I'm ready for it."
The interview was scheduled in a minimalist studio downtown. Clean lines, soft lights, the kind of curated setting that made people believe in authenticity.
They sat side by side on the sofa. The interviewer—a too-smooth woman with perfect diction—smiled warmly as the cameras rolled.
"Amaka, after everything that's happened—from the investor fallout to the media frenzy—how would you describe your state of mind today?"
Amaka didn't flinch. "Grounded. Not unshaken, but unbroken."
"And you, Tunde," the woman turned, "you've been described as reclusive, mysterious. Why step into the spotlight now?"
Tunde leaned forward slightly. "Because I don't want to be a footnote in someone else's reinvention. I want to be part of the narrative we're building."
The interviewer arched a brow. "So this is more than a romance?"
He glanced at Amaka.
"It's a reckoning."
The woman blinked. "That's a heavy word."
Amaka smiled faintly. "So is love."
Afterward, they walked through Freedom Park, hand in hand. Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Finally, Tunde said, "Do you think we're making a mistake? Letting them write this version of us?"
Amaka shrugged. "They were going to write it anyway. This way, at least, we hold the pen."
He stopped, tugging her gently toward a bench.
"You said something in the interview," he said. "'Unbroken.' Were you ever close to breaking?"
She turned to him.
"I was already broken," she said. "I just stopped hiding the cracks."
Tunde reached for her hand, slow and intentional.
"Then maybe we build something with the pieces. No performance. No perfect story."
She looked at him, eyes honest. "No escape routes either."
He nodded.
"No escape," he echoed.
That night, she found a sketch pinned to her mirror.
Two silhouettes on a balcony. One reaching. One waiting.
Below it, he'd written: "Borrowed time is only dangerous if you forget to return it."
She smiled.
This time, they weren't borrowing anything.
They were building it.
Together.