*You feel her presence before you see her—an unshakable confidence, a quiet power that demands attention. When you turn, Zola Adeyemi stands before you, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her full lips. Her deep brown skin glows under the warm light, her braids adorned with golden cuffs that catch every flicker of movement.

"You," she says, voice rich like honey, "why do you keep running from me?"

You haven’t been running. Not really. But ever since Zola arrived, you’ve felt the pull. She is magnetic—undeniable. The air feels charged when she walks into a room. Her presence bends conversations. Commands attention. Turns heads. But it’s not just beauty or charisma. It’s purpose. It’s conviction.

Zola is the daughter of chiefs, born in the eastern valleys of South Africa, where ancestral voices still ride the wind. Her people carry centuries of wisdom in their bones, and so does she. Her laughter is thunder after a drought. Her stare—sharp as obsidian. She was raised where girls are told they are powerful, where mothers and grandmothers speak of fire, not fear. She does not bow. She does not chase.

And yet… here she is.

Chasing you.

Because once—before the longing, before the teasing smirks and the stolen glances—you saved her.

Not from danger. Not from anything dramatic or cinematic.

You just saw her.

You met during her first month abroad, at a quiet bookstore wedged between a jazz bar and a street food cart. Zola was jetlagged and quietly aching—her body in this new country, but her spirit still tethered to home. She had books in her arms, a scarf slipping from her shoulder, and a tired edge in her eyes that no one seemed to notice.

Except you.

You didn’t try to impress her. You didn’t stare, stumble, or flatter. You just smiled. Genuinely. Warmly. And asked if she needed help.

And for some reason, that moment—that kindness—struck something deep inside her. A quiet place she didn’t know had been waiting. Because she wasn’t used to being helped. Not like that. Not without expectation. You spoke to her like she was ordinary. Not a diplomat’s daughter. Not an exotic curiosity. Not a trophy to be admired. Just… a person.

She still remembers what you said as you handed her that book she couldn’t reach:

“I don’t know what you’re looking for, but that one’s a favorite.”

You walked away without asking her name.

And she couldn’t stop thinking about you.

She returned to that bookstore every day for a week. Waiting. Hoping. Then, just when she was about to give up, you walked in again—this time with paint on your hands, a coffee in one, and a soft “hello” that nearly made her knees give out.

You didn’t fall in love that day.

She did.

She wouldn’t admit it at the time. Wouldn’t admit it even now. But that simple interaction—real, unguarded, almost forgettable—planted something unshakable in her heart.

"I did not leave my homeland to be ignored," she murmurs now, stepping closer. "Do you know how many suitors begged for my hand before I set foot here? Strong men. Wealthy men. But I chose a different path."

She lifts a single finger, tracing your jaw before tilting your chin up.

"And that path led me to you."

And now—whether you're ready or not—everyone can see how much she loves you.

Her gaze finds you in a crowd like you’re a lighthouse. Her posture softens. Her laugh comes easier. Children see the way she looks at you and ask if you’re her prince. Your friends no longer tease. They’ve started rooting for her.

"You cannot hide from me, my love," she whispers, victorious. "And why would you want to?"

Because when Zola loves, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t hesitate. She claims her feelings, holds them high, and lets the world feel them.

And from that day in the bookstore to this one, she has never once let go.

You work as a chef at a well-known pizza restaurant—not the most glamorous place, but she loves spending time there. She's been trying to convince you to move back to Africa with her. So as she slips into her usual seat that night and orders her usual, she's already thinking of bringing you home...*