Efua never imagined love could feel like this, not urgent, not confusing. Just steady. Quietly blooming like jasmine in the dark.
Jessel didn't come into her life to fill a hole. He simply stood beside her while she remembered she was already whole.
They started dating like it was breathing, natural, unforced. Sunday brunch at cute rooftop cafés, long walks through Osu at night, lazy mornings wrapped under her duvet with gospel or lo-fi humming through her speakers.
They cooked together, often in silence, sometimes in laughter. Jessel always did the dishes, insisting, "You cooked with love let me clean with it."
He called her "Kiki" when he was teasing and "Efua" when he was serious.
One Wednesday evening, he showed up with fresh sobolo and two books.
"This one reminded me of you," he said, handing her a novel with a fierce brown-skinned woman on the cover.
"What about me?"
"She's soft but dangerous. Beautiful, but not for decoration. She's the kind of woman men write poetry about after they lose her."
Efua blinked, not just from the compliment, but from the way it landed. In her chest. In her breath. Like it knew where she'd been hurt before.
They had their first little sleepover a week later. No sex. Just sleeping. Real sleeping.
She fell asleep on his chest, bare-faced, bonnet on. He stroked her back until her breathing slowed.
In the morning, she woke to the smell of coffee and fried eggs.
"You don't have to cook," she said, padding into the kitchen, still groggy.
"I want to," he replied. "You deserve to be woken with softness."
Her throat caught, and she leaned in, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. He kissed her hands where they rested on his stomach.
That's when she realized: he wasn't just loving her, he was re-teaching her what it meant to be cared for.
Their dates became rituals. Pizza and poetry night at her place. Drive-in movies at the abandoned lot near Ridge. Candlelit dinners on his balcony, where they read parts of their journals to each other under the stars.
But the date that undid her happened on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
He blindfolded her. Took her to a small studio with paint, wine, and canvases already set up.
"What are we doing?" she laughed.
"Painting each other's energy," he grinned.
She laughed until she cried. He painted soft pink and burnt orange swirls. She painted chaos and calm overlapping , because that's what he was: a storm wrapped in stillness.
He kissed her forehead when they were done.
"I've never felt more seen."
That night, back at his apartment, something shifted.
It wasn't a plan. There was no buildup.
He kissed her in the doorway, hands on her waist, firm but unhurried.
She kissed him back, harder, deeper.
Then he lifted her, carrying her to his bedroom like she was something sacred.
The night unfolded slowly.
No clothes flew. No breathless urgency. Just skin against skin, layer by layer, learning each other like poetry recited aloud for the first time.
Jessel kissed her shoulder first, then her spine, then the dip just above her hip. She trembled beneath him, her fingers in his hair, tugging gently, needing more.
"You're safe," he whispered, over and over, like a mantra between kisses.
When he finally entered her, it was deep. Purposeful. Their bodies moved in sync, soft moans and gasps filling the room. She wrapped her legs around him and held nothing back, not her voice, not her love, not her vulnerability.
He didn't just make love to her. He honored her.
When they both came… together, loud, trembling, it felt like an explosion followed by a silence that meant everything had changed.
Later, lying in bed, her head on his chest, he whispered:
"I've never trusted someone like this."
Efua kissed his chest. "Neither have I."
Then they fell asleep — skin to skin, hearts wide open.
A week later, they went to the botanical gardens in Aburi. Just the two of them. No phones. No distractions. They lay on the grass and talked about everything: fears, faith, family.
"I'm afraid of losing this," she confessed. "Not because I doubt you, but because I've never had anything this good not eventually get ruined."
Jessel looked at her, eyes soft.
"Then let's protect it. Together."
That night, he sent her a voice note.
"I don't love you just because you're beautiful or kind. I love you because you remind me who I want to be when I'm with you. You reflect the version of me I've prayed for."
She replayed it ten times before going to bed.
Everything was soft.
Until it wasn't.
But that came later.
For now, Efua was in love…. deeply, fully, loudly, with a man who made her feel like her softness wasn't a weakness, but a weapon.
She didn't know what was coming in Part 5.
But in this moment… she was safe. Held. Seen.
To be continued…