Nicholas Pov
We settled into a quiet rhythm.
Nathan claimed the far end of the living room, spreading his gadgets out with careful precision—laptop open, cables coiled, screens lighting up one by one. He slipped into focus fast, fingers moving like this was familiar territory. It probably was. Work was his way of keeping control when everything else felt unstable.
I moved the other way, pacing slowly as I made a few calls. Short conversations. Low voices. Names dropped without explanation. Each one a thread that would matter later. Lagos didn't run on noise—it ran on who knew who, and who owed what.
When I was done, I set my phone aside and finally exhaled.
Nathan had already rolled out his mat. He didn't say anything, just nodded once before starting his routine—slow stretches, controlled breathing, grounding himself the only way he knew how. Watching him like that did something to my chest. Calm. Centered. Steady in the middle of a city that never slept.
