Angela didn't eat the next day.
Not because she wasn't hungry — but because hunger seemed safer than desire.
She wore her longest skirt. Tied her hair up. Wiped off her gloss. If her body was the problem, then maybe she could punish it into silence. Maybe fasting would drown the fire.
But as the sun rose, and her stomach groaned, the ache in her chest only grew louder.
It wasn't food she craved.
It was him.
She opened her Bible. Psalms. Tried to read.
But Peter's voice kept replacing David's.
"I see you everywhere — even when I close my eyes."
Her legs pressed together tightly.
She tried to pray.
"Father, help me stay pure. Help me to guard my heart and—"
A flash of the dream came back.
Peter's hand on her waist. His mouth moving down her neck. Her fingers fisting his shirt.
The moan. The heat. The wetness.
Her thighs twitched again.
She shut her Bible. Stood up. Paced.
This wasn't how good girls were supposed to feel.
This wasn't holiness. It was hunger.
And yet, it didn't feel like sin.
It felt like truth.
She took her phone and opened her WhatsApp. Peter's number was saved now. She stared at the screen for too long. He was online. Of course he was.
She typed:
"Can we talk?"
Then deleted it.
Typed again:
"Are you free?"
Deleted.
And finally:
"Never mind. I'm fine."
She sighed and threw the phone on her bed.
Tamara walked in just then, singing under her breath and holding a meat pie. The scent filled the room. Angela turned away.
"You're still fasting?" Tamara asked.
Angela nodded.
"You're punishing yourself."
Angela didn't reply.
Tamara sat on the bed, watching her like one would watch someone on the edge of a cliff.
"Did he touch you?" she asked.
Angela shook her head.
"But you want him to."
Angela finally looked up. "I don't want to want him."
"You do."
"And I'm scared."
Tamara leaned in, voice gentler. "Angela… you're not falling because you're weak. You're falling because you're real. You're a woman. And you're in love with someone who sees you."
Angela sat down, her head in her hands. "I've fasted. I've prayed. I've cried. And still… every time I sleep, it's him. Every time I see him, I want to open myself."
Tamara didn't flinch. "Do you love him?"
"I don't know. I think I fear him more than I love him."
"Because he brings out what you're hiding?"
Angela nodded, tears brimming. "He touches a part of me I didn't even know existed."
Tamara was quiet for a moment. Then she said:
"Then maybe you don't need to fast it away.
Maybe you need to understand it.
Because not every fire is demonic.
Some are divine.
Some are the ones that purify you — not destroy you."
Angela blinked.
That night, she didn't fast.
She ate slowly. Lit a candle. Played worship music.
And for the first time in days… she stopped resisting herself.
She lay on her bed, pulled the sheets over her, and whispered to the ceiling,
"God, if this fire is from You… teach me how to hold it without burning myself."
She didn't dream that night.
But when she woke up, there was a text.
From Peter.
"I'm scared too. But I'm not running anymore. I'm done waiting. I'll be outside your department by noon. If you're ready, let's talk. If not… I'll wait a little longer."
Angela's heart flipped.
And for the first time, she smiled.