Heart Fire.

Chapter Eight: "Not Her PK but Pulpit PK"

PK’s P.O.V:

Korede woke up with the relaxation of someone who had slept well in body, and in mind.

First conscious thought was not “I need to pray” or “I have that meeting by 9.”

It was: I wonder if she slept well.

He shut his eyes again and exhaled.

“Father, good morning,” he muttered. “Please deliver me from nonsense.”

He dragged himself up… morning prayers, quick worship playlist, shower, tea. By the time he sat at his desk in church, the pastoral day had already started moving: 9 a.m. counselling; 10:30 department review; 12:00 logistics meeting

He tried to be fully present. He really did.

But at odd pockets of silence, between “Let’s close in prayer” and “Pastor, one more thing”... his eyes kept sneaking towards his phone.

No message.

Not that she owed him a message.
Not that he was expecting one.
He was just… aware.

Because they had a rhythm. She had not checked in. She usually did…

By 11:47 a.m., he glared at himself internally.

Korede, you are a grown man. Get a grip.

He lasted till 2:03 p.m.

Then, under the guise of “simple courtesy,” he picked up his phone and typed:

PK → Solape:
“Hope your day is going well.”

Short. Neutral. Perfectly harmless.

He put the phone face down on his desk like it had insulted him.

He pretended not to notice the way his pulse jumped every time there was a small vibration… only to find out it was email, or a WhatsApp group he didn’t ask to be in.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then forty.

Then almost an hour.

A tightness started building in his chest that he refused to examine too closely.

She’s probably busy. She works with food. Food people are busy. Calm down. You need deliverance, sha.

He rubbed his hand over his beard and forced his focus back to the document on his laptop.

Still, the silence stung in a way he didn’t expect.

Solape’s P.O.V:

Solape did not ignore his message. She just didn’t see it.

Naija Tapas swallowed her whole.

She stepped through the restaurant doors and felt something in her relax. Polished wood. Warm lighting. The low murmur of early customers. And then, behind the double doors—her real habitat:

Heat.
Metal.
Sizzle.
Voices.
The controlled chaos of a Lagos kitchen.

Dele held the door open with his hip, grinning. “Welcome to my war zone.”

She laughed. “This place is beautiful.”

“Beautiful ke? It’s fine. It’s small. One day we’ll expand,” he said. “Come and see the line.”

He took her through each station—the grill, the cold area, the pass. Staff called him “Oga Dele” with the affection of people who genuinely liked their boss.

He explained how their Friday rush could choke a grown man.
How customers wanted Instagrammable plates and “authentic flavour” at the same time.
How tomatoes had become an enemy of progress with current prices.

She soaked it all in—asking questions, making jokes, tasting little spoonfuls of sauce.

This was her world. Her language. Kitchens and food and people who understood that a good plate could feel like a hug.

It wasn’t a date.
It didn’t feel like a date.
They were just two food people doing food things.

After a while, Dele handed her an apron. “Chef, we can’t waste your talent. Come and join us.”

She squealed. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious. Let them know a real Lagos babe entered this kitchen today.”

She tied the apron securely and moved into the line like she had always belonged there. They plated tapas, argued about plantain-to-sauce ratio, shouted playful insults over the clatter of plates.

She propped her phone up at one point and filmed a quick behind-the-scenes story—laughing, a bit flour-streaked, Dele suddenly sticking his head into the frame like an overgrown child.

“Abeg, shift,” she said, shoving him away with her shoulder. But she was laughing.

Two hours passed in a blink.

It wasn’t until a lull hit and she stepped aside to drink water that she finally grabbed her phone.

12 missed WhatsApp messages.
2 emails.
1 Telegram notification.

And one text from PK.

PK — 2:03 p.m.:
“Hope your day is going well.”

Her stomach dipped.

“Omo,” she muttered.

She wiped her palm on her apron and typed back quickly:

Solape → PK:
“Sorry! I was filming in a kitchen. Day has been great. Hope yours is okay too?”

She hit send, then waited a bit to see if he would respond. When he didn’t, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and returned to the line.

PK’s P.O.V:

The notification had popped up while he was between two meetings.

Solape added to their story.

He should have ignored it.

He didn’t.

He tapped.

The video filled his screen— Her in an apron, face slightly shiny from heat, grinning at the camera. Dele beside her, leaning in, flour dust on his shirt, doing one exaggerated chef bow.

Text on the story:
“Inside kitchen glory @naijatapaslagos”

They looked… comfortable.
Like they had done this a hundred times.
Like some part of her belonged in his world.

His throat tightened.

It wasn’t that they were being inappropriate.
If anything, it was tame… just laughter, jokes, shared work.

But something about seeing her like that, with someone else, in a space that lit her up…

There was a sting he could not label without embarrassing himself before God.

Just then, her reply to his message came in.

Solape:
“Sorry! I was filming in a kitchen. Day has been great. Hope yours is okay too!”

He swallowed.

The right thing to do would be to reply like normal.
Like the whole of him hadn’t just gone silent watching a 15-second video.

Instead, he typed:

PK → Solape:
“Glad to hear. Have a good rest of your day.”

Period.

No emoji.
No joke.
No voice note with that small smile she always dragged out of him.

He stared at the message a moment, then locked his phone.

The annoyed part of him muttered,
You’re being ridiculous. She’s free. She can go anywhere.

The wounded part of him, the one he didn’t want to acknowledge, whispered,
…But you wanted to be the one who saw her like that first.

He dragged himself into his next meeting, internally rebuking his own heart.
“Lord, once again, Abeg o. Because I clearly need help.”

Solape’s P.O.V:

By the time she finally left Naija Tapas, she was… happy.

Tired, but happy.

Her feet ached. Her hair smelled like smoke and spice. Her camera roll was full of food footage.

She took an Uber home, humming along to the radio, replying to comments on her last post.

It wasn’t until she was in the shower, warm water undoing the day from her shoulders, that the thought dropped:

I haven’t really talked to PK today.

And she… missed him.

Mid-lather, her stomach did one small, unnecessary flip.

Not in the dramatic romance-movie way.
Just… the soft “my day feels incomplete without your voice note” way.

When she came out, wrapped in a towel and smelling like she owned a skincare brand, she finally picked up her phone to check.

His reply from earlier stared back at her.

PK:
“Glad to hear. Have a good rest of your day.”

She frowned.

That was… short.

Just… “Have a good rest of your day.”

Her chest pinched.

“Oya, calm down,” she told herself, dropping the phone on the bed and moisturising with unnecessary aggression. “Maybe he was busy. Even you, you did not chat him up today.

She decided to send him a message.

Solape → PK:
“Hey, hope your day went well? I’m sorry. I had a very busy day. I missed talking to you today.”

She stared at the message like it was a risky investment.

Three blue dots.

They appeared almost immediately.

Then:

PK:
“Fine, thank you.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

Fine, thank you?

Who was “fine, thank you”?

That was not her PK.
That was the PK… the pulpit version, the crisp, official, “God bless you” version.

The version he used for new members and random uncles who said “Man of God, can I see you for two minutes?”

She refused to be offended.

She refused.

So she tried again.

Solape:
“Everything okay?”

Another quick reply.

PK:
“Yes. Have a good night.”

She stared at the words.

No joke.
No follow-up question.
No “How was Naija Tapas?”
No curiosity.

Just full stop.

The tightness in her chest turned into something sharp.

She dropped the phone on her stomach and stared at the ceiling fan.

“What is this again?” she muttered. “It’s probably nothing.”

Still, the weight remained.

She opened their chat.

The contrast hurt.

Days of back-and-forth voice notes, memes, reels, shy jokes, “I needed that laugh,” “Thank you for this,” “You’re doing too much,” “I’m glad it helped…”

Then today… like someone had shut a door halfway.

She chewed her bottom lip and, after wrestling with herself for a full five minutes, typed:

“Goodnight”

She groaned and pressed a pillow over her face.

Something had shifted. She could feel it in the way his “Goodnight” felt like a door closing.

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Author’s Note: Our PK is a little bit petty ooo.😂 Which one is “Yes, have a good night”

Catch up: Read Chapter one here, Chapter two here, Chapter three here, Chapter Four here, and Chapter Five here, Chapter Six here, and Chapter Seven here.

See you next week.❤️