Angela tries to avoid her feelings after the argument. But her body won't listen. Peter sits beside her in class. Touches happen. Her thighs betray her. It's sweet... but awkward and shameful.
Angela had done everything right that morning. Long skirt. Plain face. AirPods in. She told herself she was focused — not thinking about Peter, not dreaming, not feeling. Just a regular Wednesday.
But her body had other plans.
They were having a combined class on Gender & Identity in the big lecture theatre, and of all the seats that could've been free, guess which one she walked into?
Right beside him.
Peter.
Wearing a simple white tee and ripped jeans. No glasses today. Just raw face and clear eyes — the kind that made it hard to lie to yourself.
She told herself it didn't matter. She sat down quietly. She could handle it.
But then his thigh brushed hers. Once. Twice.
At first, she thought it was a mistake. Until he didn't move.
And neither did she.
The lecturer was talking about "the gaze" and "female ownership of the body" but Angela couldn't hear a single thing. Because her body had started speaking its own language — soft heat between her thighs, chest rising faster, lips parting just a little.
And that annoying scent Peter always carried — that faint mix of cologne and clean skin — it filled her nose and made her head feel light.
He leaned closer and whispered, "I like your hair like this."
She turned, and their faces were too close. Her mouth opened to say thank you, but it came out as a breath instead.
Peter smiled like he knew what he was doing. His knee nudged hers gently again — not obvious enough to draw attention, but enough.
Angela's thighs pressed together under her skirt.
Her hand gripped her pen tighter.
She was going to cry, or moan, or explode. She didn't know which.
This wasn't fair.
He was supposed to be the controlled one. The spiritual one. The "we'll talk when you're ready" one.
So why did he look like he wanted to devour her with just his silence?
She tried to focus on the lecture. Something about "emotional cues in cultural spaces." Her hand was still writing, but her mind was somewhere else — somewhere dark, soft, and sticky.
And her thighs — God, her thighs. They kept pressing together like they had a mind of their own.
"Are you okay?" Peter whispered.
Angela turned, flushed. "I'm fine."
"You're breathing fast."
"No, I'm not."
"You are."
His voice was too calm. Too steady. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.
She looked away. Focused on her notes. Wrote: "the gaze is often…" and then paused.
Because what was the gaze?
All she could see was his hand — the one resting so close to hers. The same hand that she'd felt in that dream. The one that had touched places he'd never seen in real life.
And then it hit her — a wave of heat. Strong. Unignorable.
Angela crossed her legs fast and squeezed her eyes shut.
No. Not here. Not now.
But it was already too late.
Her body had already said yes.
The lecture ended. She stood too quickly and her bag dropped. Peter picked it up, held it out to her with that same quiet look.
"You sure you're okay?"
Angela took the bag, held his gaze for a second too long.
"I need air."
"Want me to walk with you?"
She shook her head fast. "No. I mean — I'm good."
He didn't push.
Just nodded once. "Alright. But if you want to talk…"
She didn't let him finish. She turned and walked out of the hall, trying to ignore the fact that her legs were shaking and her skin was on fire and the part where she was angry with him.
When she got back to her hostel, she dropped everything, sat on the bed, and whispered to herself.
"Why can't I just be free from this torment "
Later that evening, Peter callsed to apologise but she ignored his calls.