The flight back to Nigeria felt surreal. Mira hadn't been home in over two years. Her heart thudded with a mix of dread and longing as the plane cut through the clouds. She kept glancing sideways at Noah, still baffled that he'd come with her.
He didn't say much. Just sat beside her, headphones in, occasionally stealing glances when he thought she wasn't looking.
She pretended not to notice.
But truthfully, she noticed everything.
How his jaw tightened when she sighed. How his fingers twitched when the turbulence hit. How, despite all the arrogance, he seemed genuinely concerned.
When they landed, the heat wrapped around her like a forgotten memory. The scent of roasted peanuts, dust, and earth hit her all at once. Nostalgia collided with pain. She clutched her bag tighter.
Her mother greeted her with open arms, eyes watery but strong. The house looked fine from the outside, but inside, drawers had been upturned and personal items scattered. Mira's father's photo had been thrown to the floor—cracked.
"I told you to come home sooner," her mother whispered.
"I know, Mama. I'm sorry."
Noah stood awkwardly in the background until her mother turned to him. "And this is...?"
"Noah Wilder," he said, offering a small, respectful bow.
Her mother's brows rose slightly. "Ah, oyinbo boy with manners. I like you already."
Mira rolled her eyes. "Don't encourage him."
Later that evening, Mira stood in the backyard, barefoot in the dry grass, staring at the mango tree her father planted when she was ten. The wind whispered through the leaves like a ghost's lullaby.
Noah joined her in silence. He didn't speak for a while.
"You loved him a lot, didn't you?" he finally said.
She nodded. "He was the reason I believed in dreams. He told me I could be anything—even when everyone else said I was just a girl from nowhere."
Noah's voice was softer than usual. "He'd be proud of you."
Mira looked at him, really looked, and saw someone different. Not just the cocky CEO or the man who accidentally ruined her pitch. He was human. Flawed. Maybe even trying.
"Thank you... for coming."
He shrugged. "You needed backup."
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't have to."
Their eyes locked in the fading light, and for the first time, silence didn't feel like a wall between them—but a bridge.
But bridges could burn just as easily as they could be crossed.