Amour, Yaoundé.

“Bonjour, mon chaton,” Jacques said as he entered the study, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. She glanced up from her computer, offering him a soft smile and a slight nod.

He was shirtless, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants, and as he approached the desk, she swallowed hard. She suddenly felt lightheaded. Was it from waking up by 2am to work on the dashboard authentication, or from the sight of the man now standing in front of her, bare-chested and way too distracting?

The aroma of croissants wafted into the study. He must have bought them the previous evening from Selecte, her favorite boulangerie, and was heating them up in the oven.

Outside, the city came awake… taxis honking their horns, the distant chatter of early risers in the quartier, while Kaysha’s Bien plus fort que mes mots played on Radio Tiéméni Siantou.

She had first heard Kaysha during her first visit to Yaoundé; over time, he had become her favorite artiste. Oh, Yaoundé, city of seven hills. Red earth, cool air, morning mist that rolled in heavy, and music that made the heart glad. She sighed, lost in thought until Jacques’ deep voice nudged her back to the present.

He set the mugs down and reached for her. “Viens ici”. Without hesitation, she let him take her hands, his grip firm but warm as he drew her close.

She felt his arms tighten around her waist and she closed her eyes. They swayed, hips slowly grinding against each other in rhythm with the slow, sensual music. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. not the dashboard, or the croissants, or the coffee getting cold... not even Femi, far away in Lagos, worried she hadn’t called all day.

None of it mattered. Just Jacques. Only him.