Saturday came with one of those lazy rains — the kind that makes the air soft and the heart louder. Angela had been in bed all day, her hoodie pulled up, replaying Peter's speech from class over and over.
It wasn't just what he said.
It was how he said it.
The way he stood up for her like she was worth protecting. Like she wasn't a rumour, or a mistake, or a statistic.
She was his woman — even if he never called her that out loud.
By 4:02 p.m., her fingers had already typed:
"Can I come over?"
He didn't ask why.
He just replied:
"Yes. No one's around. I'll be waiting."
---
Peter's room was quiet.
Smelled like him — that mix of clean laundry, old books, and something deeper. Something boyish.
Angela stepped in, dropped her tote by the bed, and stood awkwardly near the table.
"You sure you're okay?" Peter asked.
She nodded.
He tilted his head. "You don't look okay."
"I just wanted to be around peace for a bit."
That shut him up.
He walked over slowly and hugged her. No words. No hands straying. Just warm, firm arms around her waist — and her face tucked under his jaw like it belonged there.
She exhaled. For the first time all week.
They stayed like that. For too long.
His fingers moved to stroke her braid.
Then, softly: "You want to talk?"
Angela shook her head. "I just want silence. With you."
Peter led her to the bed. They sat, side by side. Thigh to thigh.
They didn't talk.
But silence has weight.
And when his hand accidentally brushed her knee, Angela flinched.
He looked at her. "Sorry."
She didn't move. Just whispered:
"If you touch me again…"
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
Because he heard the rest.
I won't be able to stop it this time.
Peter swallowed. "Then maybe I shouldn't move at all."
Angela's voice cracked. "But I want you to."
The air between them shifted. Hot. Full. Holy and dangerous.
Peter leaned in — slow, cautious.
But Angela didn't wait.
She pulled him in by the shirt and kissed him hard. Not sweet. Not shy. Just need.
He kissed her back, this time with everything he'd been holding in.
Her hoodie slid off.
His hands found her back.
Their breaths tangled.
He laid her gently on the bed, lips moving from her jaw to her neck. She gasped — soft and sharp.
His hand hovered near her waistline. Waiting.
"Angela," he breathed, "tell me to stop."
She didn't.
She just pulled him closer.
But then — as his fingers brushed the skin under her shirt — her eyes fluttered open.
And something changed.
She froze.
Reality hit her like a cold slap.
She pushed him back.
Hard.
Peter stumbled up, chest rising. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Angela sat up quickly, pulling her hoodie back over her head. "I shouldn't have come. This was a mistake."
Peter stood still. "No. It wasn't. But maybe we're still not ready."
Angela's hands were shaking. "You make it hard to wait."
Peter stepped forward. "You think I'm not struggling too? I want you every second. But I also want to honour what we started."
She looked at him — eyes full of tears and fire. "Then let's not be alone again."
He nodded. "Agreed."
And just like that, they drew another line.
Not because they didn't want each other.
But because they wanted something more than just wanting.