The hand on my shoulder is light—too light to mean anything, too much to be ignored.
Stephen leans in slightly. "You're thinking too much," he says, grinning like we share some private joke.
I blink, dragging myself back into the classroom. The debate ended minutes ago, but my mind is still spinning with Zion's words, his sharp responses, the way he sat there like a king waiting for someone to dare challenge his throne.
I glance across the room. Zion is pretending not to watch. He fails.
His body is too still. His fingers drum lightly against the desk, but his face is blank, unreadable. Michael says something to him, and he nods like he's listening. He's not.
The thing is, Zion never reacts. Not in public. Not where anyone can see.
But this? This is reaction.
And I love it.
Stephen's fingers press lightly on my shoulder before he drops his hand. "We move?"
I swallow a laugh. Oh, we moved Zion to the edge, no doubt.
Miriam is already packing up her bag, chatting about something I'm not even listening to. I stretch my arms lazily. "You guys go ahead. I forgot something inside."
Miriam squints. "Forgot what?"
I wave vaguely at the desk. "My biro."
Stephen tilts his head, amused. "You want us to wait?"
I smile sweetly. "For a biro?"
Miriam shrugs and tugs Stephen toward the door. "No wahala. We'll be outside."
As soon as they're gone, I check my phone. The message sits there like a burning coal.
ZION: We need to talk. Now.
I don't reply. Instead, I flick my gaze toward him.
He's already on the move, his bag slung over his shoulder. Segun says something, but Zion barely responds.
"Guy, you dey go?" Segun asks.
"Mm," Zion mutters.
Michael frowns. "What's 'mm'? Say real words abeg."
Zion exhales. "I get something to do."
"Something or someone?" Segun smirks, but Zion is already walking away.
I follow.
The spot is secluded, hidden from prying eyes. An old building at the edge of campus, its walls cracked from time and neglect. It's quiet, except for the occasional rustling of leaves.
Zion is there before me, standing like a shadow, arms crossed, shoulders tense.
I smirk, leaning against the wall. "You want to talk? Or you want to stare dramatically into the distance first?"
He exhales sharply, then turns to face me. His eyes are dark, unreadable. "What are you doing with Stephen?"
I blink. "That's what you called me here for?"
His jaw tightens. "Answer me."
I let the silence stretch. Then, slowly, I say, "Talking. Debating. Breathing the same air." I tilt my head. "Why?"
Zion takes a step closer, his voice lower. "He put his hands on you."
I scoff. "Zion, he touched my shoulder, not my bra strap."
His nostrils flare. Gotcha.
"I don't like it," he mutters.
I laugh, soft but sharp. "And what do you want me to do? Shrug off every man's touch like I'm allergic?"
Zion doesn't respond immediately. His fingers flex at his sides like he's holding something in. Then he says, "You slapped me the last time we spoke."
Now it's my turn to tense. I remember the sting of my own palm against his face. The way his head had turned slightly, but his eyes had stayed locked on mine, unblinking.
"You deserved it," I say, but my voice isn't as strong as I want it to be.
He steps even closer. I can smell him now—soap, a trace of cologne, something warm and familiar. "Did I?"
I swallow. "You brought up the sex tape."
Zion doesn't look away. "You think I don't regret that?"
I cross my arms. "Regret what? Saying it or thinking it?"
Silence. His fingers twitch, like he wants to touch me but knows better.
I smirk, trying to lighten the air. "Omo, why you dey stress? Don't tell me Zion the Great is jealous."
His lips press into a thin line. "You think this is a joke?"
I shrug. "I think it's funny that you care, but you're still too much of a coward to show it."
His jaw clenches. I swear, for a second, I think he's going to walk away. But then, instead of moving back, he moves forward.
The space between us disappears.
"You don't get it, do you?" His voice is rough, like he's holding back something dangerous.
"Enlighten me," I whisper.
He exhales harshly. His hand almost lifts, almost touches me. But then, at the last second, he lets it drop.
He steps back. "Forget it."
A bitter laugh slips from my lips. "Of course. That's what you do best, isn't it? Walk away. Pretend. Hide."
Zion's eyes flicker with something unreadable. Then—
He moves.
Not away. Toward.
And then he kisses me.
It's not soft. It's not careful. It's everything we've been holding back, shoved into one reckless moment.
His hands are on my face, his fingers sliding into my hair, and I feel the frustration in every movement, the jealousy, the anger, the need.
I don't hesitate. I kiss him back just as fiercely, just as hard, like I want to leave a mark.
His body presses against mine, pinning me to the wall. I feel his heartbeat slamming against my chest, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong.
But it doesn't stop me.
It never has.
Zion pulls away first, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine.
"This is a bad idea," he whispers.
I smile against his lips. "You say that every time."
He sighs, his hands still tangled in my hair. "I mean it this time."
I tilt my head. "Then walk away."
He doesn't move.
We both know he won't.