Rain water

It rains for three days straight. Lagos turns grey, the street outside their flat floods up to ankle height, and NEPA behaves like usual — gone more than it’s on.

Jake doesn’t go to the mechanic shop. Oga called and said "wait till road clear." So he spends the morning fixing the leaking sink with tape and cursing under his breath. Rihanna sits on the counter watching, legs swinging, pretending to scroll her phone. The fan isn’t working, and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of wet cement from the balcony.

"You’ll shock yourself," she says when he shoves his hand under the pipe.

"Then you’ll save me," he grins without looking up. Water drips down his forearm and hits the tile.

She looks away, but not fast enough. There’s a new muscle in his arm she doesn’t remember.

By noon the sink stops, but the ceiling starts dripping in the corner by the fridge. Jake drags the blue bucket from the bathroom and slides it under the drip. Plink. Plink. Plink.

"It’s like a metronome," Rihanna mutters.

Jake snorts. "You and your big school words. Metronome. Na bucket dey sing."

She throws a balled-up tissue at him. He catches it one-handed. "Still got reflex."

Mom texts: _Stuck at hospital. Double shift. Lock door. Make food for your brother._ Then nothing.

By evening the power’s still out. They light the small kerosene lamp Mom keeps for emergencies. The flame throws their shadows big against the wall. Rihanna fills the pot while Jake digs out two packs of indomie and one egg.

"You put one egg for two people?" he says. "That’s wickedness."

"Manage," she says, but when she splits it, she gives him the bigger half. He pretends not to notice, but he always does.

They cook on the small gas ring, one phone torch propped against the pot because the lamp isn’t bright enough. Jake hums an old Davido song off-key. Rihanna stirs. In the tight kitchen their elbows knock, then knock again. She moves her arm. His stays.

When the food’s done they carry the plates to the living room and sit on the floor, backs against the couch, legs stretched out. Rain drums the roof so loud they have to talk louder.

"Do you remember," Jake says through a mouthful, "when Dad left and we thought it was because we ate his last meat?"

Rihanna snorts. "You cried for two days."

"You cried too! Don’t lie. You hid under the bed."

"Because you said he’d come back if we were quiet."

They laugh, and for a minute it’s just them again — 12 and 15, hiding under blankets during storms, convinced the thunder was God shouting.

Then the laughter dies. The rain is the only sound, and the bucket. Plink. Plink.

Jake leans his head back, eyes closed. "I’m glad you came back, Ri. It’s... better when you’re here. Mom’s tired. I’m tired. You make it less... I don’t know."

She wants to say _me too_ and leave it there. Instead her voice comes out small. "Jake?"

"Hm?"

Nothing. The word is on her tongue — _I love you_ — and it tastes like metal. She shoves a noodle in her mouth so she won’t say it.

Later he falls asleep first, head tipped toward her shoulder but not touching. His breathing evens out. Rihanna doesn’t move. She watches the rain slide down the window in long lines. Every few minutes a keke passes and paints the wall orange, then gone.

Her hand hovers over his — an inch away. She can feel heat from his skin. She doesn’t touch.

The bucket keeps time. Plink. Plink.

Sometime after midnight the rain slows. Rihanna finally whispers, so quiet she isn’t sure it leaves her mouth, "I wish you weren’t my brother."

Jake doesn’t stir. She’s both relieved and hollow.

She shifts just enough to rest her forehead against his shoulder — light, barely there, the way you touch something hot to see if it burns. It doesn’t. It’s solid. He smells like rain and soap and the hoodie she’s still wearing.

"I’m sorry," she mouths into the fabric.

She stays like that until her neck aches, then slides down until her cheek rests on the floor beside his knee. Not touching. Almost.

She falls asleep counting the drips from the ceiling. By morning she’ll pretend none of this happened.

But for now, with the rain.