The rain had just stopped over Victoria Island, leaving the streets glistening under the soft Lagos sunset. Amara clutched her tote bag tightly, navigating the puddle-filled sidewalk as she hurried toward the BRT station. She had just finished a grueling day at the architectural firm where she interned, and all she wanted was to get home, curl up, and forget the world. But Lagos had other plans. As she stepped into the crowded station, her phone slipped from her hand and slid across the wet floor. Before she could bend to pick it up, a pair of clean, polished loafers stopped right in front of it. “Careful,” a deep voice said, handing her the phone. “Phones don’t like puddles.” Amara looked up — and froze. Standing before her was a man who seemed like he’d stepped out of a GQ magazine cover. His neatly trimmed beard framed a kind smile, and his crisp white shirt contrasted beautifully against his dark skin. He had an effortless confidence about him. “Thank you,” she said softly, ta...