I nod. “Lagos. Yes. I went to boarding school and learned to assimilate, but my parents always insisted we hold tight to our roots. We speak Igbo at the table. Still go to all the obnoxious parties. And to this day, we still get side-eyed if we don’t kneel when greeting our elders.”
Her expression softens. “Sounds kind of…regal.”
I smile. “It can be more chaotic than it sounds. But it taught me a lot. Loyalty. Honor. How to show up for people, even when it’s inconvenient.”
She shakes her head, then lets out a dry laugh. “Meanwhile my family is a full circus. Wild. Loud. Dysfunctional as hell.”
“I like wild,” I say, before I can help myself.
She glances at me, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“I’ve been known to flirt from time to time. Just trying to turn it up for my wife, is all.”
“Let me guess. Uptight Nigerians don’t flirt often, either?” she jokes.
“I’ve never really been accustomed to it. I’m more direct than cunning.”
We slow to a stop, standing at the edge of the go-kart track. Engines roar and kids laugh like the world hasn’t given them a single reason not to. Aspen stands beside me, her face tippedup just enough that the arcade lights catch the soft curve of her cheek.
I glance at her, curious. “Where’d you get the name Aspen? And don’t tell me it’s where you were conceived or something dreadfully unoriginal.”
She smiles, a little mischievous, and shakes her head. “It’s where my dad proposed to my mom. They go back every year for their anniversary.”
I blink. “Very romantic.”
“You sound shocked.”
I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “I suppose I am. My father doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body and I’m cursed with the same fate.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says sarcastically.
“I’m serious. One year, for my mum’s birthday, he surprised her by paying off the mortgage in full.”
She gasps, hand flying to her chest. “You are lying.”
“Swear on my life. Goat stew went flying. There was yelling. My uncle had to step in before she murdered him.”
She laughs so loud, people glance over. “Your mom must’ve been livid.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. From that moment on, he’s been banned from buying gifts without consulting my sister first. She now curates all acts of sentiment in our household.”
Aspen shakes her head, still laughing. “If my dad tried that, my mother would end him.”
“Exactly. Like I said, I’m cursed with the same fate. I think that’s part of the reason I’m so awkward when it comes to romance. It wasn’t modeled in my home. We had respect, tradition, and duty. But flowers, candlelight, and poetry?” I glance down at her, the humor fading into something more sincere. “That’s not something I’m accustomed to.”
She doesn’t tease me or mock the admission. Instead, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against mine in a way that feels subtle yet reassuring.
“I don’t need poetry,” she murmurs. “Just real.”
And somehow, I believe her.
She’s quiet for a heartbeat, staring off into the light-streaked distance with an unreadable expression. Without looking at me, she asks, “So, you’re the type to just go in for the kill? No pretense?”
There’s a challenge vibrating in her voice. It’s a dare dressed up as casual conversation. She’s read me perfectly. That’s exactly the type of man I am. I’m predatory by nature, and I’ve been hunting this specific moment since the second I heard her voice in the pods. I knew then that I’d have to have her. I knew I’d have to make her mine. I’m only indulging in this walk, taking my time with this beautiful creature, because I’m already certain that one night as her husband won't be enough.
So, I walk with her, praying the night drags on a little longer.
And because I’m not sure if I’ll ever get this chance again, or if she’ll call out the “safe word” the second I pull away, I decide to stop playing. I go in for the kill.
