What began as chance visits slowly turned out to be a habit. Whenever loneliness pressed too heavily on her, Becky found herself at Koech's door.
That afternoon, Koech glanced at the sky and frowned. Dark clouds were massing in the distance, thick and deliberate, dimming the afternoon light.
"A heavy rain is coming." He told Becky who had already sensed the shift.
The air felt charged, restless. With each passing minute, the clouds swelled, swallowing the sun. She had spent most of the day there, and the thought of being trapped unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
"I've got to go," she said abruptly.
"You're not serious. You won't even reach the road before it starts pouring."
As if to prove him right, a blade of lightning split the sky and was instantly followed by a deafening crack of thunder that shook the windows. Then the rain came — sudden and violent.
Within minutes, puddles spread across the compound, merging into glistening sheets until the open field beyond resembled a flooded plain.
"From the look of things, you won't be going anywhere," Koech observed quietly.
Becky did not answer. She watched the rain lash against the windows, its rhythm growing louder, more insistent, as though sealing her in.
"I'd better start preparing dinner," Koech said, already turning toward the kitchen.
"I'll go back," Becky replied, though the words lacked conviction. "It's going to stop."
"With a thunderstorm like this, it's not even safe to walk in that rain. You can stay the night," he said over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.
Resigned, Becky sank deeper into the couch.
It wasn't long before the aroma of food drifted through the house. When Koech returned, he carried steaming dishes to the table — ugali, sukuma wiki, and fried beef. Becky hadn't realized how hungry she was until the first bite. The warmth of the meal spread through her, briefly quieting her nerves.
A couple of hours later, the dishes had been cleared away. The house settled into the hush of night. Koech noticed Becky stifle a yawn, her eyes glazing for a fleeting moment.
"It's getting late," he said gently. "Come. Let me show you to your room."
She rose and followed him down the long, narrow corridor, their footsteps muted against the floor. They passed the washroom and stopped at a small bedroom at the far end of the house. He ushered her inside, wished her goodnight, and withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
Becky lay on the bed, her hands folded over her stomach, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. But sleep would not come.
The storm continued outside, distant thunder rolling across the dark. And against her will, her thoughts drifted back to that afternoon at the restaurant — to the music, the closeness, the way his hand had lingered just a moment too long.
With a sigh, she sat up.
Maybe a shower would help.
She crossed to the closet and opened it. Inside, neatly folded bedsheets and towels were stacked with quiet care. She took one towel and draped it over her shoulder before stepping into the corridor toward the bathroom.
Once inside, she undressed slowly, as though delaying something unnamed. She hung her clothes on the wall hook, then reached for the tap.
The pipes shuddered. Water hissed to life — cold at first, sharp against her skin. She inhaled as it struck her shoulders, then steadied herself beneath it. Gradually the chill softened. She closed her eyes and let the stream travel down her back, over her breasts, along the curve of her waist. The steady rhythm calmed her breathing. The tension she had carried all evening began to loosen, dissolving beneath the spray.
Koech found no sleep either.
The thought that Becky was in his house — only a few paces from his bedroom — stirred a restless heat in him. He turned on his bed, willing his mind to quiet.
This was the sixth time she had visited. He told himself it meant nothing. Yet tonight fate had conspired to keep her there.
His thoughts drifted to Kararan Academy — to the spectacle she had made when she fought to see her son. He had admired her courage then. Beneath her beauty lay something fiercer: conviction, resilience, a refusal to be silenced. And yet, beneath that strength, he had glimpsed vulnerability. That memory unsettled him more than the storm outside.
He needed to sleep. He had to travel to Siongiroi the next day. Duty awaited him at Kararan Academy.
Perhaps a shower would steady him.
He rose, tied a towel around his waist, and stepped into the corridor. As he passed Becky's door, he noticed it stood slightly ajar.
"Becky," he called softly.
No reply.
He pushed the door open. The bed was empty, the sheets disturbed. For a moment he sat on its edge, listening.
Minutes passed.
A quiet unease tightened in his chest. He stood and moved down the corridor.
Then he heard it — a faint, steady hiss.
Water.
He followed the sound. It came from the bathroom.
He stopped outside the door.
He should turn back. He knew that. She deserved privacy. He had only meant to confirm she was safe.
Yet he did not move away.
Instead, he stood there, listening to the water strike tile.
His hand lifted almost of its own accord. He hesitated — then wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned it.
The door yielded.
"Becky," he said quietly.
She gasped.
Instinctively, she reached for the towel and pulled it up against her chest. Water streamed down her shoulders as she faced him, wide-eyed.
For a suspended second, neither moved.
He should leave.
He knew it.
But the sight of her — bare skin flushed from the water, droplets tracing the line of her collarbone — rooted him to the spot.
"When I woke up, I heard movement," he said, his voice lower than usual. "I went to your room. You weren't there. I got worried."
He took a step closer.
"I heard the shower. I just wanted to be sure it was you."
His gaze betrayed him. It drifted from her eyes to the slender curve of her shoulders, then lower, lingering before he forced it back up again.
"I couldn't sleep," she murmured. The towel trembled slightly in her grip. "I thought this might help."
The air between them thickened.
She reached for her blouse, lying where she had left it. Before she could grasp it, his hand closed gently around her wrist.
The touch sent a current through both of them.
For a heartbeat, she could have pulled away.
She did not.
He drew her toward him slowly, as though giving her time to resist.
She stepped into him instead.
His mouth met hers — not tentative, not questioning, but restrained only by the last thread of his will. The kiss deepened. Her fingers curled against his back. The towel slipped unnoticed to the floor.
Heat replaced the coolness of the water.
His lips moved from her mouth to her throat, and a tremor passed through her — unfamiliar, consuming.
Desire surged, fierce and undeniable.
He wanted her.
And she, in that moment, wanted him just as fiercely.
But even as his hands tightened around her, something in him recoiled — not from her, but from what this would mean.
This is not the time.
The thought cut through the haze.
With visible effort, he pulled back. His breathing was unsteady. For a moment he rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, wrestling himself back from the edge.
Breaking away felt like tearing flesh from bone.
He stepped back fully now, forcing distance between them, determined — however painfully — to reclaim control.