The early morning hush was broken only by the muffled clatter of teacups in the kitchen. Nokwanda stood near the window, her silhouette backlit by the pale golden light of sunrise. Her eyes traced the garden paths absentmindedly, but her thoughts were elsewhere—curled up in the bed upstairs, tangled in Zenande's sheets and confusion.
She hadn't slept much. How could she, after last night?
She touched her lips with her fingers, remembering the kiss—remembering Zenande's trembling, her hesitancy, the way she had pulled away and whispered, "This isn't supposed to happen."
But it had. And Nokwanda's heart had never felt so open and terrified at the same time.
A quiet shuffling on the stairs pulled her back. Zenande appeared, her robe drawn tightly around her frame, her face pale with sleep, yet more vulnerable than usual. Their eyes met. Silence hovered thick in the air between them like fog after rain.
"Morning," Nokwanda said softly, her voice threading into the tension.
Zenande looked at her for a long moment, then nodded and walked past her toward the kitchen. No words. Just that distant, guarded energy again.
But Nokwanda wasn't going to play this game today.
"Zenande," she called, turning to follow her, "you can't just pretend last night didn't happen."
Zenande froze in front of the fridge. Her shoulders tensed, and for a second, Nokwanda thought she might actually say something. But instead, she reached inside and pulled out a bottle of water, twisting the cap like it had personally offended her.
"I don't want to talk about it," Zenande muttered. "It was a mistake."
"A mistake?" Nokwanda laughed dryly. "You kissed me, Zenande. You pulled me in and kissed me like you meant it."
Zenande finally turned to face her. "That was weakness," she said, her voice shaking with frustration. "I was confused."
"No," Nokwanda stepped closer, "you were real. That's the first time I've seen you without the anger, without the mask."
Zenande's eyes flashed. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're scared," Nokwanda whispered. "I know you've been hurt. And I know what it's like to build walls so high that even you forget what's behind them."
Zenande looked away.
"I'm not asking you to love me," Nokwanda added gently. "But don't run from it. Not from me. Not from yourself."
Silence stretched again, but this time, it was different. Charged. Heavy.
Zenande finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to do this. I've never... felt this way about a woman. And I hate how it makes me feel."
Nokwanda's heart softened. "You don't have to figure it out all at once. Just… stop pushing me away."
Zenande's eyes shimmered with something—fear, maybe even longing—but she nodded faintly. Just once.
That was enough. For now.
Zenande sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her robe was loosely tied, revealing the fading bruises on her arms—scars of memories she never spoke of. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked at the threads near the hem. She hated how exposed she felt. How naked her emotions had become.
A gentle knock on the bedroom door broke her trance.
"It's open," she said, her voice hoarse.
Nokwanda stepped in slowly, holding two mugs of steaming tea. "Rooibos. I thought it might calm us both down."
Zenande gave a tight smile and reached for the cup. Their fingers brushed, and the electricity of last night returned—burning and cold all at once.
"I didn't mean to push you," Nokwanda said, sitting beside her but keeping a respectful distance. "I just... needed to hear something from you."
Zenande nodded, sipping the tea. "I'm not used to people waiting for me to explain myself. Usually they just assume... and leave."
"I'm not going anywhere," Nokwanda replied firmly. "Unless you want me to."
Zenande turned to face her. "I don't want you to leave. But I don't want to be a story you regret either."
Nokwanda leaned in slightly, her tone low and serious. "You're not a regret. You're a woman I admire. A woman I'm falling for... slowly, uncontrollably."
Zenande sucked in a shaky breath. "That scares me more than anything."
"I know," Nokwanda said gently. "But sometimes, the things that scare us the most are the things that can heal us."
They sat in silence for a long while. The teacups eventually cooled. The sunlight faded into soft orange hues.
"I've never been loved gently before," Zenande finally admitted, her voice breaking. "It was always control, force, or manipulation. And I thought I deserved it."
Nokwanda moved closer, brushing a strand of hair from Zenande's face. "You deserve softness. You deserve to be held, not handled."
Zenande looked at her, eyes welling with emotion. "Why do you care so much?"
"Because I see the real you," Nokwanda whispered. "And I think she's beautiful. And worth every fight."
Zenande didn't answer. She leaned forward slowly, her eyes searching Nokwanda's, and then—this time with intention and no hesitation—she kissed her again. It wasn't rushed, or wild, but slow and honest, as if trying to memorize the feel of safety.
When they pulled apart, Nokwanda smiled. "So... are we still calling that a mistake?"
Zenande chuckled, the sound brittle but sincere. "No. Not a mistake. But a beginning."
Their foreheads rested together for a few seconds before Nokwanda stood. "Come eat. I made something light. And after that... let's just sit. No expectations. Just you and me."
Zenande nodded. For once, she didn't feel like running.
The dining area was filled with soft lighting, the scent of grilled vegetables and honey-glazed chicken drifting through the room. Nokwanda had prepared the table with quiet intention—nothing fancy, just enough to make the space feel cared for. Zenande approached slowly, still wrapped in her robe, but the tension that usually clung to her shoulders seemed lighter.
They sat opposite each other, sharing glances between bites, as if both afraid that speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile connection they'd built in the bedroom.
"I'm surprised," Zenande said finally, using her fork to chase a carrot across the plate. "You didn't ask more questions after what I said."
"I will," Nokwanda replied, smiling softly. "But not tonight. Tonight, I just want to feed you and make sure you're okay."
Zenande's lips twitched. "You know how hard it is for me to believe that?"
"I know," Nokwanda said. "But I'm not here to rush you. I want to be here… for all the messy parts."
Zenande took a slow breath, pushing her plate slightly aside. "I want to try. To let someone in. But I'm terrified of being consumed by it."
"You won't be," Nokwanda said. "I'm not here to break you. I'm here to walk with you—if you'll let me."
A heavy silence followed. Zenande stood up and walked around the table toward Nokwanda, who looked up at her with patient, open eyes.
"Come with me," Zenande said quietly.
Nokwanda followed her into the lounge. The room was dimly lit, the rain starting to tap against the windows like a soft lullaby. Zenande stood facing the glass, her arms crossed in front of her.
"When I was married," she began, "I thought I was happy. But it was a performance. I smiled when he wanted me to. I dressed the way he told me. I shrunk myself every day until I didn't know who I was anymore."
Nokwanda said nothing, simply listening.
"One night," Zenande continued, "he told me I was embarrassing him. That I didn't behave like a wife should. That night he slapped me. Just once. But it was enough."
Nokwanda stepped closer, her hands at her sides. She didn't try to touch Zenande, but her presence was grounding.
"He apologized the next day," Zenande whispered. "And I forgave him. Until he did it again. And again. Until forgiving became survival."
Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them.
Nokwanda finally reached out, gently placing her hand on Zenande's back. "You're not there anymore."
Zenande turned slowly and fell into Nokwanda's arms, her body trembling with silent sobs. Nokwanda held her close, not saying a word, just anchoring her with warmth.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time didn't matter.
When Zenande finally pulled back, she searched Nokwanda's eyes. "Can I trust you with my heart?"
"You already are," Nokwanda said softly, brushing her thumb over Zenande's cheek.
Zenande leaned in again. This kiss was deeper, hungrier, layered with all the pain and healing she couldn't speak. They moved slowly toward the couch, touching gently—exploring, understanding, and comforting each other without urgency.
Clothes fell away like old armor, discarded without shame. Their bodies tangled on the couch, not in lust, but in a vulnerable need to be seen—fully, nakedly, honestly.
Zenande whispered Nokwanda's name like a prayer, her fingers trembling as they traced her skin. "You feel like peace," she murmured.
And for the first time in years, Zenande didn't feel broken.
The room was still. Their breaths slowly calmed, bodies nestled under a single throw blanket on the couch. Outside, the rain had softened to a whisper, as though the sky itself was trying not to disturb the moment between them.
Zenande's head rested on Nokwanda's chest, her fingers drawing slow, aimless circles on her skin. The vulnerability in her voice was new, fragile like porcelain.
"I didn't expect to feel like this," she whispered.
"Like what?" Nokwanda asked, brushing her fingers through Zenande's thick, untamed hair.
"Like I've found something I've been running from my whole life."
Nokwanda's heart clenched. "You haven't been running. You were just surviving, Zenande. This… us… it's different."
Zenande sat up slightly, her eyes meeting Nokwanda's in the dim light. "That scares me."
"It scares me too," Nokwanda admitted. "But I'm not afraid of loving you."
Zenande bit her bottom lip. "I've never been in love with a woman before."
"And?"
"And it feels more honest than anything I've ever known."
Silence settled again. Nokwanda leaned forward and kissed her—slow, intentional, like they were sealing an unspoken promise.
Zenande pulled away and smiled through tear-streaked cheeks. "I want more nights like this. But I also want to heal—completely. For real. Not for you. For me."
"I'll be beside you every step," Nokwanda promised.
Zenande chuckled softly. "You're stubborn, you know that?"
"Only when it comes to what I want."
"And what do you want?"
"You. The real you. Not the version the world forced into a box."
Zenande leaned her head back, exhaling deeply. "Then I guess we'll have to start rewriting my story."
Together, they got up from the couch and walked to the bedroom. Not for sex, not for passion—but to hold each other as two souls tired of carrying the weight of the past alone.
Zenande lay awake for a long time, watching Nokwanda sleep. Something inside her was changing. Walls were coming down, brick by brick. And for once, she didn't feel naked in a terrifying way—but in a freeing one.