CHAPTER 3: FACULTY WHISPERS

BECCA'S POV 

The walk to my apartment felt like walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Every rustle of the trees in the Abeokuta night felt like a hand reaching for my throat. Beside me, Josh was a silent, heavy presence, his breathing still hitched, his blood soaking into the makeshift bandage I’d tied. I felt like I was carrying a live grenade into my sanctuary.

Inside, my space was a refuge of lavender and citrus. My Bible sat on the small table, the gold-leafed edges catching the dim light—a silent witness to the chaos I had just brought across my threshold.

"What's your name?" Josh asked me.

"Becca," I answered him. My heart thudding, images of us together in the closet whirling in my head.

I pushed Josh toward the bathroom. "Wash the blood off," I commanded, my voice shaking more than I liked. I handed him a fresh towel and an oversized T-shirt—a sample I’d made for a project using heavy, high-quality jersey.

He took the shirt, his eyes roaming over my small frame with a lazy, dangerous snicker that made my skin prickle. "Guys spend the night here often, Sister Becca? Or do you just have a thing for seeing my butt?"

"Go and bathe, Josh," I snapped, the heat rising to my face so fast it felt like a physical burn. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. I retreated to the tiny kitchen, the linoleum cold under my feet. I began reheating the stew, the aroma of fried tomatoes and habanero filling the room, but my mind was stuck in that closet. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips on mine—a kiss that felt like a theft and an invitation all at once. Create in me a clean heart... The words felt like a plea for a rescue that was already too late.

Josh was surprisingly quiet as he ate. He devoured the rice and stew like a man who hadn't realized he was starving until the first bite hit his tongue. His sharp jawline worked in the dim light of my single bulb, and for a moment, the "King of NUAT" looked small. Vulnerable.

"Take the bed," I said, my voice stiff, keeping the kitchen counter between us like a barricade. "I’ll take the couch."

"Becca, I can’t just—"

"Hebrews 13:2," I cut him off, reciting the verse like a spell to keep the darkness at bay. "'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.' Take the bed, Josh. It’s the only one I have."

He gave a tired, lopsided grin—the kind that usually made the girls at the Faculty of Engineering faint in the hallways. "I’m definitely not an angel, Becca. You of all people should know that by now."

"I’m well aware of your status, Joshua," I murmured, turning my back to him.

I didn't sleep. I lay on my worn couch, the Psalms open on my lap, the rhythmic sound of his breathing coming from my bedroom. It was a masculine, heavy sound that didn't belong in my world. I prayed for my heart, for my tuition f*e balance, and for the boy who had evoked strange sensation in me and turned my life into a crime scene in under an hour.

When the morning light filtered through the curtains, I woke with a start, my neck stiff. The bed was perfectly made. The room was silent.

He was gone. No note. No "thank you." Just the lingering, intoxicating scent of his expensive oud cologne and the ghost of the metallic tang I had worked so hard to scrub away. It was as if he had never been there, except for the missing T-shirt and the heavy hollow in my chest.

I shook it off. I had a 300-level lecture. I was a student first. I dressed in my black gathered skirt and an off-white frilly blouse, pinning my hair back into a tight, sensible bun. I was the "Archive Girl" again. Or so I thought.

The moment I stepped onto the NUAT campus, the atmosphere shifted. It was thick, oily, and buzzing. The "invisible" wall I lived behind didn't just crumble—it exploded.

As I walked toward the Faculty of Food Science and Human Ecology, the whispers were like physical stabs.

"That's her, right? The quiet one from Home Science?"

"No way. Josh wouldn't touch that. She looks like she’s going to a funeral in 1960."

Then, the relentless drumbeat of notifications began. My phone buzzed in my pocket like a trapped hornet, over and over. I pulled it out, my heart dropping into my stomach. The campus blog, The NUAT Eye, had a new post.

“Who is the 'Sister' in the 100-yard skirt?”

“Is that the King of NUAT’s new charity project? He’s really lowered his standards for a bit of 'Holy' flavor.”

“She looks awkward... like a fashion blunder in slow motion! Someone tell her the 1920s called and they want their modesty back.”

I felt small. Exposed. But the worst was yet to come.

I reached the lecture hall and saw the crowd gathered at the central notice board. People were taking pictures, laughing, and huddling. As I moved closer, the crowd parted, eyes filled with a mixture of pity and malice.

In the center of the board was a grainy, high-contrast photo. It was taken from the shadows of the textile lab, the moonlight catching the edges of our silhouettes. It wasn't just two people standing close. It was Josh, his back against the wall, his hand buried in the hair at the nape of my neck, my face tilted up to his, eyes closed. To anyone watching, it didn't look like he was silencing me. It looked like I was begging for more.

Underneath, in bold, mocking red letters, someone had written: THE SAINT AND THE SINNER: WHO IS SHE WEAVING FOR?

My blood ran cold. The "sinister voice" from the night before flashed in my mind. The men in the black SUV weren't the only ones hunting. The campus was a jungle, and I had just been served as the main course.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just stood there, looking at the image of the girl I used to be, wondering if she was gone forever.