Angela wasn't sure why she went.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was weakness. Maybe it was that restless hunger she hadn't fed since that fight. But when Peter texted:
"I just want to talk. Please."
And followed it with:
*"Common Room. Block C. 7pm.
She didn't reply.
But she went.
The sky was moody, grey and full of silent thunder. The hallway was quiet. Her sandals echoed softly as she approached. When she stepped into the common room, she found him sitting by the window, light casting shadows over his jaw.
No smile. Just those eyes.
"Hey," he said.
Angela nodded. "Hey."
Peter stood. "Thanks for coming."
She shrugged. "I almost didn't."
He stepped closer. "But you did."
"Yeah."
Silence.
Not awkward. Just charged.
"I messed up," he finally said. "I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I was scared… and when I'm scared, I push."
Angela looked away. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. I just want honesty."
Peter stepped closer. "You always make me want to be honest. Even when it hurts."
Her chest tightened. She hated how much she still wanted him.
"I don't know what we're doing," she whispered. "One minute we're holy. The next, we're…"
She paused.
He filled in the rest. "Hungry."
She nodded. "Yeah."
Then it happened — he reached for her hand. She didn't pull away.
Just like that… they were standing face to face again. Closer than they should be.
Angela swallowed. "We said we'd wait."
Peter's hand slid up her arm. "We've been waiting."
"Not long enough."
His other hand cupped her cheek. "Angela…"
"Peter, don't."
But her voice was already trembling. Her knees already soft.
And then — as if the storm inside her finally cracked open — she pulled him in.
Their lips crashed.
Not soft. Not slow.
Desperate.
His hand found her waist. Her fingers tangled in his shirt. Their bodies pressed like magnets pulled from opposite ends of the world.
Angela felt her back hit the wall.
Peter kissed her like he was trying to breathe through her mouth. His lips moved from her mouth to her jaw, then lower — to that sensitive place just below her ear.
Angela gasped. "Stop… Peter… we can't…"
But her body was saying the opposite. Her fingers clung. Her thighs parted slightly.
And then — he did stop.
He froze.
His forehead pressed to hers, chest rising like a storm wave.
"We're not ready," he whispered, voice broken. "If I don't stop now… I'll go too far."
Angela nodded slowly, lips swollen, eyes glassy.
Peter stepped back.
Both of them were shaking — from guilt, from need, from the pressure of promises and the pain of wanting what they still believed they shouldn't touch.
Angela wiped her lips. "That was…"
Peter nodded. "Yeah."
She whispered, "We need space."
He nodded again. "I know."
She turned and left.
No goodbye.
No kiss on the cheek.
Just silence — heavy and holy and hurting.