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The brand of noodles that had been a staple in Nigeria since my childhood was Indomie-instant, effortless, and satisfying. It was clearly stated on its packaging. But what Nathaniel Johnson Innoson was preparing was a far cry from instant.

I watched, in hunger, as he expertly combined his "Chinese sauces"-a medley of soy sauce and sesame oil-into the sizzling pan of crab legs, plump prawns, and vegetables. The aroma wafting from the pan was intoxicating, making my stomach growl with anticipation.

As he explained the cooking process, his words became a gentle hum in the background, lost on my hunger-addled brain. I focused instead on his skilled hands, their veins visible beneath his light brown skin as he stirred the ingredients with precision.

I clenched my fork, holding it like a lifeline, as Nathaniel announced, "Now, the final touch." His eyes sparkled with mischief, and I recalled he had used those words five touches ago.

Twenty minutes of watching him cook had taken its toll. My hunger had reached critical levels, and my cognitive function was dwindling. A faint ringing echoed in my ears, and my vision began to blur.

"Almost ready," Nathaniel teased, and I was on the brink of tears until I saw him turn off the gas.

I sighed in relief as Nathaniel began plating. "Abeg, please, just bring the pot," I begged, seeing he was taking too long.

He threw his head back and laughed, then placed the still-hot pan beside me, jumped up to sit on the counter, and handed me a fork.

I forgot all about the grace and began to eat.

Only when I could form coherent thoughts did I say, "This tastes so good, thank you, but please warn me next time you want to prepare this."

"Yes, ma," he replied, laughing softly.

I smiled as I ate, feeling warm inside that he had taken the time to cook something for me.

Out of curiosity, I asked, "Where have you been? You just disappeared after dinner last time."

Nathaniel's expression turned sheepish. "Sorry, I didn't tell you before leaving."

I waved it off. "You don't have to apologize. I mean, it's your-"

"I apologize; it was wrong," he cut me off, and I mumbled, "Okay."

There were times I was just so shy around him.

He pressed on, "I had a photo shoot for a brand launch in London. It was impromptu-one minute I was in my room, the next, on a plane."

"London?" I asked, surprised.

"Yeah," he replied. "It was fun."

I tried to wrap my head around the fact that he was in London and back in Nigeria in four days.

"So... Tell me about Wole Soyinka's book without smut," he said, drawing me out of my calculations.

I glared at him. "When will you stop teasing me?"

"It's the only way I can get your attention," he chuckled. "I remember when you'd visit with your mom; you'd always have your nose buried in a book. I'd try to talk to you, but you'd run off. I eventually let you be."

I froze. He tried to talk to me? Did he notice me?

"Why would you want my attention?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Because I find you interesting," he said, his gaze locked on mine. "And I wonder what's hidden in those pages you love so much."

For a moment all I could do was stare at him, a million and one thoughts racing through my head at the same time.

"But life is meant to be lived outside your books," Nathaniel said, his tone serious. "Explore, go places, talk to people. Don't just underline wishes in books."

Something about his words ignited a spark within me. I longed to explore, but in my world, being invisible felt safer. "I wish I could," I mumbled. "The truth is, as much as I love the books and how fun they are, I get sad and tired of feeling like the best parts of my life have been lived inside my own head."

I cringed immediately at the words. They were something I had never said to anyone.

I hesitated unsure whether to say it out loud. "I'm not like you," I admitted, my voice low but firm. "You're out there attending headline events, making headlines. I... I feel like a guest in my own life sometimes. Like I'm borrowing space in this mansion, in this world. Books- they're the only place I feel like I fit."

Nathaniel tilted his head, his gaze sharp yet gentle. "You think I fit?" he asked a trace of disbelief in his tone. "Half the time, I feel like an actor in someone else's script. Playing a role I never wanted."

I blinked, caught off guard. "You? But everyone-"

"Everyone sees what they want to," he interrupted. "I let them. It's easier than explaining that I'm just as lost as the next person."

His words tugged at my heart.

"I decided to embody the worst rumors-the parties, the girls, the entitled persona. Being rebellious is like holding a big middle finger to the world," he continued, "but fighting millions is exhausting. It's insanity."

Nathaniel's gaze locked onto mine, his eyes searching. "You have a choice to do whatever and be whoever you want. You're lucky."

My heart swelled with empathy, drawn to the lost, trapped boy behind the facade.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I never knew."

As we sat together, our faces inches apart, I saw the beauty and vulnerability in his eyes. I felt a flutter in my chest. At this point, there wasn't a point in pretending I didn't feel a maddening attraction to him, but I didn't want to be like the others who were drawn to him by mere attraction. I wanted to know him.

"I have a bucket list," I shared, my voice trembling. "Things I want to do in senior class. I've done nothing on that list."

Nathaniel's lips curved into a smile.

"Make one with me? We can be invincible together," I suggested. The thought sent my heart racing with anticipation and fear.

"It's a deal," he agreed, his eyes sparkling. "We start tomorrow. No pretending."

I nodded, uncertainty mingling with excitement. "Tomorrow. No pretending."

A comfortable silence fell between us before I said, "Thank you for the noodles."

Nathaniel's smile lingered. "Thank you for giving me something to look forward to."

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