Same flat , different heart

Rihanna hears Jake's bike before she sees it. The sputter of the old Honda, then his voice calling her name over the street noise. She hasn’t been home in eight months. University in Ibadan felt far away until she stepped off the bus at Ojuelegba and the smell of Lagos — diesel, suya, rain on hot cement — hit her all at once.

Jake looks the same, and not. He’s broader in the shoulders. There's a thin scar above his eyebrow from the accident last year that he brushed off on the phone. When he hugs her, she smells engine oil and the cheap soap Mom still buys.

"You added weight," he says, grabbing her bag. "Or is that all books?"

"Shut up. You still can’t cook," Rihanna shoots back, and it feels normal for half a second.

Their flat in Yaba hasn’t changed. Same faded curtain Mom swears she’ll replace. Same crack in the living-room tile. Mom works night shifts at the hospital now, so it’s just the two of them till morning.

They eat noodles at the small table. Jake talks with his mouth full, telling her about his friend’s shop that might hire him, about NEPA, about the landlord. Rihanna laughs in all the right places, but she’s watching his hands. How they move when he explains something. How he still taps the table twice before standing up a habit from when they were kids.

Later she borrows his hoodie because her own is still in her bag and the fan is too cold. It smells like him. She tells herself that’s stupid.

At midnight Mom comes in, kisses them both on the forehead, and goes straight to bed. Jake offers Rihanna the bedroom "I'll take the couch like always."

Jake always taps the table twice before he stands up. Rihanna clocked it when they were kids sharing one plate of rice and arguing over remote control. Tap-tap. Then he’s gone.

Morning comes with Mom already out the door and the sound of Jake banging pots in the kitchen. He’s trying to make tea and burning the bread.

"Move," Rihanna says, pushing him aside. "You’ll burn the house down."

He laughs and steps back, leaning on the counter. "So you still remember how?"

She doesn’t answer. She’s focused on not looking at him too long. The kitchen is tiny — if she turns, her shoulder brushes his chest. It happens twice. Both times she steps away faster than normal.

They eat on the balcony because NEPA took light and the flat is too hot. Jake tells her about the mechanic shop — Oga might take him as apprentice next month. He’s excited, eyes bright.

"You’ll be good at it," she says without thinking.

He looks at her funny. "You think so?"

"Yeah. You fix everything." She stops herself before adding _except me._

After breakfast he grabs his keys. Tap-tap on the table. "Going to see Oga. Be back by six."

Rihanna nods. The flat feels too quiet when he leaves. She pulls out her textbooks but can’t read. Instead she washes the plates, folds the laundry, keeps busy.

He comes back late, hair damp from rain. No job yet. "Next week," he mutters, dropping on the couch beside her. The TV is on but neither of them watches.

Without meaning to, her hand lands on his knee when she reaches for the remote. She pulls back like it burned.

"You okay?" Jake asks.

"Yeah." She lies. "Just tired."

He nods, then stands. Tap-tap on the table. He disappears into the bedroom.

Rihanna stays on the couch, staring at that spot on the table. Two taps. Every time he does it, her chest tightens a little more.

She whispers to the empty room: "I’m screwed."

"Good to have you back, Ri."

"Good to be back."

She lies there after he’s gone, staring at the ceiling, hoodie pulled up to her chin. Her heart is beating fast for no reason. And that’s when she knows this isn’t just missing her brother.

It’s something else. And it terrifies her.