The morning after felt lighter.
The sunlight that slipped through my curtain painted soft gold across Nathan's face. He looked peaceful, half asleep, his hand resting loosely over my waist like he was afraid to lose me even in his dreams.
For a moment, I just watched him.
The way his chest rose and fell. The faint hum in his throat. The kind of quiet that comes when your heart doesn't feel chased anymore.
It felt strange — the peace.
Beautiful, but strange. Because for someone like me, peace always came with a question mark.
After breakfast, I showed him around my school.
He wanted to see everything — the tall trees that looked like they were whispering secrets, the small garden behind the faculty building, even the noisy food stalls that sold burnt jollof and laughter.
He held my hand the whole time. Not tightly, not possessively. Just… softly. Like he was saying I'm here, without words.
We got ice cream on our way back. Mine melted too quickly. His didn't.
He laughed when he noticed me struggling with the dripping cone, leaning in to wipe a smear from my cheek.
And just like that, my heart did the thing I kept warning it not to do —
It opened.
We laughed until our stomachs hurt. Played silly games. Took random pictures.
And when he said, "I can't believe I'm this happy with you,"
I smiled and said nothing, because deep down, I couldn't believe it either.
That evening, though, something shifted.
Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was my thoughts catching up.
We were in my room again. The lights were dim, and the air smelled like rain.
I was quiet — too quiet.
Nathan noticed.
He turned off his phone, sat beside me, and said, "Elena, come here."
His voice was low, careful, like he didn't want to startle the version of me that hides when I overthink.
I sat beside him.
He pulled up a video on his phone — an old clip of him performing at a school concert.
He was younger, shy, voice shaking, holding the mic like it might run away.
He looked ridiculous. And adorable.
I laughed — loud, real, free.
He grinned. "Finally. I thought I'd lost you somewhere in your thoughts."
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I just wanted to see you smile again."
I stared at him, speechless for a heartbeat.
Because he noticed. He always noticed.
Before I could thank him, he leaned in — not rushing, just waiting for me to meet him halfway.
When our lips touched, it was soft at first. Then deeper.
He pulled me closer, one hand around my waist, the other brushing my cheek like I was something fragile.
Our breaths tangled. Our hearts found rhythm.
The kind of kiss that says I see you. I want you. But I'll wait if I have to.
He whispered my name between kisses.
"Elena."
Then, softer —
"I'm falling for you. Promise me you won't disappoint me."
His voice trembled a little when he said it, like the words carried more fear than he wanted to admit.
And in that moment, I froze — not because I didn't feel the same, but because I did.
I didn't answer.
My body stayed close, but my mind drifted.
Two months wasn't long enough to unlearn pain, to rebuild trust, to believe again.
Inside, I was whispering things he couldn't hear:
What if you're like the rest? What if you change? What if I open up again and lose myself in someone else's version of love?
But he just kissed my forehead and pulled me into his chest.
We stayed like that for a long time — the hum of his heartbeat filling the silence between us.
That night, under the dim light, his hands traced my back like poetry. His breath against my neck made me forget the world for a while.
It wasn't wild. It wasn't desperate.
It was slow. Tender. Almost sacred.
And even as my body melted into his warmth, my mind whispered —
Don't fall too fast.
Don't love too deep.
Not yet.
But maybe love doesn't wait for "not yet."
Maybe it just happens — softly, then all at once.
And as sleep found us tangled together, I realized something simple, something terrifying:
This — this peace, this closeness, this love —
was exactly what I prayed for.
And that's what scared me most.