The first time Angela saw Peter again, it wasn't in a dream.
It was in the middle of a breezy Tuesday afternoon — just after her class on media ethics, when she'd lingered under the mango tree beside Faculty of Arts, scrolling through a voice note she didn't plan to reply. The air smelled of chalk, cologne, and fresh desire.
He looked like sin that had found salvation and decided to wear both as a fragrance.
Black tee, low voice, unreadable face. The same man who used to tutor her in 100 level — the one who always sat at the back of the library, speaking softly but watching her like he knew she was more than her good-girl act. The one who told her, "We shouldn't do this now. If by your final year you still feel this way, then… maybe."
She hadn't seen him in months. No chats. No warnings. Just silence and space.
And then, that day, Peter appeared — standing like time had paused for him.
"Angela."
He said her name like a secret. Not a greeting.
She blinked once. Swallowed. "Peter."
A thousand memories passed in two seconds. His fingers brushing hers during handouts. Her lips parting the first time she caught him watching her too long. The unspoken promise they made to keep things holy, focused. Waiting — that was the deal. Until she matured. Until it was safe.
She had waited. Prayed. Fasted. Suppressed.
But now? Now he stood in front of her with deeper eyes, broader shoulders, and a voice that rumbled like an unfinished sentence.
She tried to look away, but he stepped closer. Not too close, but just enough that she could smell something on him — not cologne. Something raw. Feral. A scent her body remembered but her mind denied.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
"Final year project defense is next week. I came to check on my supervisor," he replied. Then his eyes dropped to her lips for the briefest second. "And maybe I was hoping to see you."
The wind blew. Her thighs clenched involuntarily.
She hated that her body still remembered how he made her feel — even though they'd never touched. Not really. Just long looks, breathless pauses, and that one night in the chapel corridor where he leaned in so close, she thought heaven would split if their lips met.
Angela looked around, suddenly aware of the students passing by. She took a step back.
"We shouldn't be talking."
Peter smiled. "You're in 200 level. Grown. Glowing." He leaned against the tree and added, "Still hiding behind the rules?"
She wanted to slap him.
She wanted to kiss him.
"I'm not hiding," she said, but it came out like a lie.
There was a silence between them. The kind that wasn't empty — it was full of everything they didn't say. He reached into his bag and handed her a notebook.
"You dropped this last time. I've kept it. For months."
She took it with trembling hands. Their fingers touched.
And that was it.
The world didn't explode. The clouds didn't part. But something inside her — deep, wet, hungry — opened.
Later that night, Angela couldn't sleep. She tried to pray, but her lips kept whispering his name. And when she finally dozed off, she dreamed of him.
Not just his face.
His hands.
His breath.
His mouth.
And hers — opening to him like she'd waited a hundred years.
When she woke up, her thighs were damp. Her heart was loud.
She stared at her ceiling and whispered, "God… what's happening to me?"
But heaven stayed silent.
And Peter was back on campus.