Becky Shikunyi

Six months later, the scent of cinnamon and vanilla still clung to the air — but now it mingled with something new. Laughter. Jazz. And the quiet rhythm of two hearts learning how to beat in sync. Lisa’s bakery had grown — not in size, but in soul. The walls still wore their soft cream paint, the counters still bore the daily dusting of flour, but now there were signs of life beyond survival. A second espresso machine gleamed in the corner, a gift from Malik after she finally admitted her old one sputtered more than it steamed. A framed photo of the rooftop tasting night hung near the register — her in red, him in black, both of them caught mid-laugh, unaware the moment had been captured. And behind the counter, next to her apron, hung his. He didn’t bake. Not really. But he was there. Every morning. Every late night. Every moment she needed someone to lean on — or push her forward. Lisa had never believed in partnerships. Not after Daniel. Not after the betrayal that left her r...

The morning after didn’t come with tangled sheets or whispered promises. It came with silence. Lisa stood alone in her bakery, the early light spilling through the windows in soft gold streaks. The scent of vanilla and yeast filled the space, familiar and grounding. Her hands moved on autopilot — kneading dough, prepping trays, setting timers — but her mind was still on the rooftop. On Malik. On the way his voice had dropped when he said he wasn’t walking away. On the way he hadn’t kissed her — not quite — but had come close enough to make her forget every rule she’d written for herself. She hated how much she’d wanted him to close that last inch. The bell above the door jingled. Lisa didn’t look up. “We’re not open yet.” “I’m not here for a croissant.” Her heart stuttered. She turned. Malik stood in the doorway, dressed down in a charcoal T-shirt and jeans, a coffee in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes. He looked different in the daylight — less polished, more r...

Lisa didn’t sleep that night. She tried. She lay in bed, eyes closed, body still, but her mind wouldn’t quiet. It kept replaying Malik’s words, the way he’d stood in her bakery like he belonged there. Like he wasn’t afraid of the mess beneath her surface. Because there was a mess. One she’d spent years cleaning up, hiding behind perfect pastries and polite smiles. But Malik? He didn’t flinch. And that terrified her more than anything. By morning, the sky was bruised with clouds, and the scent of rain clung to the air. Lisa stood at the window of her apartment, coffee in hand, watching the city stir. Her phone buzzed on the counter. Malik : 8pm. Rooftop. One last tasting. No pressure. Just… come. She stared at the message for a long time. Then she typed a reply. Lisa : One last. And hit send. The rooftop was empty when she arrived. No music. No crowd. Just the city lights flickering below and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. The tasting table was set again — two ...

The rooftop had emptied. The crowd had thinned to a few lingering guests nursing cocktails and murmuring over city views. The music had softened to a low, sultry hum — jazz with a heartbeat. Nairobi glittered below, a sea of lights and secrets. But up here, the world had narrowed to two people. Lisa stood at the edge of the rooftop, her hands resting on the cool glass railing, the wind teasing strands of hair from her bun. The red silk of her dress clung to her skin, still warm from the heat of the kitchen, the spotlight, the way Malik had looked at her like she was something rare. Something dangerous. Behind her, footsteps approached. Slow. Certain. She didn’t turn. “You stayed,” Malik said, his voice low, close. “I wasn’t sure I would,” she replied. “Why did you?” Lisa exhaled, watching the city pulse below. “Because I wanted to see what you’d say when no one else was watching.” A pause. Then, “And what do you think I’ll say?” She turned to face him. Malik stood just a bre...

The dress was a statement. Red. Silk. Backless. It clung to Lisa’s curves like it had been stitched for her skin alone. Every step she took felt like a dare — not just to the world, but to herself. She hadn’t worn red in years. Not since the night she’d walked away from a life that nearly consumed her. But tonight wasn’t about the past. It was about power. About reclaiming the parts of herself she’d buried beneath flour, sugar, and silence. The rooftop lounge loomed above Nairobi’s skyline like a secret whispered only to those bold enough to listen. From the moment she stepped out of the elevator, the city’s chaos melted away. Up here, everything was curated — the lighting, the music, the scent of citrus and smoke that lingered in the air like a promise. And then she saw him. Malik. He stood near the bar, dressed in black. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes — those dark, unreadable eyes — locked on her the mo...

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to the air like a soft blanket, wrapping itself around the tiny bakery Lisa had built with her own two hands. It was her sanctuary — a place where sugar masked sorrow, and spice whispered secrets only she understood. The hum of mixers, the low jazz curling from the corner speaker, the golden afternoon light filtering through lace curtains — it was a world she’d crafted from scratch. Safe. Predictable. Hers. Outside, Nairobi pulsed with life — matatus honking, street vendors shouting, the sun baking the pavement until it shimmered. But in here, time slowed. In here, she was in control. Lisa stood behind the counter, her apron dusted in flour, piping the final swirl of buttercream onto a tray of cupcakes. Her fingers moved with precision, but her mind wandered. She’d been up since dawn — baking, prepping, avoiding the ache that sometimes crept in when the world got too quiet. The bell above the door jingled. She didn’t look up. Probably another...