The department's media lab was colder than usual. Angela clutched her file to her chest and tried not to look like she was unraveling.
But she was.
And the reason — the sin, the temptation, the boy who had grown into a man with a gaze too steady — was sitting at the corner desk, flipping through a project proposal like it hadn't just been his breath licking the curve of her neck in her dream last night.
Peter.
Wearing grey.
And those glasses that made him look too intelligent to be dangerous — which was exactly why he was.
She told herself she wouldn't talk to him. Wouldn't even look.
But he was already watching her — casually, almost playfully. Like he could smell her shame from across the room.
She hated how beautiful he looked when he concentrated. Hated how he pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand like it was some slow ritual. Hated that he still smelled like memory and manhood and musk.
"Angela," he said softly, as she approached.
She stopped. Her heartbeat betrayed her by stuttering. "Peter."
Their names always sounded like prayers when they said them to each other.
She didn't know why.
"Sit," he said, pulling out the chair beside him.
She sat, because saying no would feel like defeat. Their thighs touched briefly, and she tried not to flinch. Her skin remembered him. Even the parts of him she'd never touched.
He slid the file in front of her — their group's project outline.
"I added some thoughts on the topic," he said, voice low. "I hope you're okay with them."
Angela blinked as she read. The project was titled "Modern African Female Identity and the Sexual Gaze."
She looked up slowly. "Are you trying to kill me?"
Peter smiled without showing teeth. "No. I'm just studying you."
She shifted in her seat. "You're flirting."
"I'm observing. There's a difference."
Angela closed the file. "Why this topic?"
"Because it's real," Peter said. "It's what people aren't saying. What women aren't allowed to say. What girls like you feel… but are too holy to voice."
Her throat tightened. "You don't know me like that."
"I used to think I didn't," he said. "But then I started dreaming about you. And now I see you everywhere — even when I close my eyes."
Angela's legs crossed themselves. Her nails dug into the edge of the table.
"You shouldn't say things like that."
"You shouldn't wear this lip gloss," he replied.
She swallowed.
Peter leaned closer, just slightly. "You're scared of what you feel. I get it. But don't pretend I'm the only one burning."
Angela looked away. "We made a promise."
Peter sighed and leaned back, tension in his shoulders. "Yes. We did. And I'm not trying to break it. I'm just… tired of pretending I'm not haunted by you."
They sat in silence for a while, the buzz of the AC and the occasional footstep outside the door the only noise.
Angela finally spoke. "What do you want from me?"
Peter looked at her — really looked. "I want to know if you still want me… the way I've never stopped wanting you."
Angela's hand gripped her skirt under the desk. Her mind said no. Her body said touch him.
So she did something she hadn't done since they first made the promise.
She reached for his hand.
Their fingers locked. Warm. Electric.
Her eyes were glassy when she whispered, "I don't know what I want anymore."
Peter leaned close again — this time closer. His forehead brushed hers.
"We have to figure it out," he said. "Before this thing between us becomes too powerful to stop."
Angela nodded, and then whispered what neither of them was ready to say aloud before.
"I'm scared."She said
"So am I."Perer responded
Their faces were inches apart. Their breaths tasted like temptation.
And still… they didn't kiss.
Because promises, even when they're bleeding, still ask to be kept.