On the Bus, Neva sits by the window, the glass cracked open just enough to let in the October breeze.
Rhett takes the seat beside her, his gaze fixed on her with quiet intensity. Strands of her hair lift and flutter in the wind, brushing across her face.
She's dozing off, soft and serene, while Rhett watches, falling deeper—hopelessly, beautifully.
There's no road he will take to reverse the life he has had before her.
He doesn't want to forward with a life where she won't be there.
And so he lives the present—the now with her wholly, enlightenedly.
Her head slowly tilts towards the window, then drops to his shoulder.
Gently, he adjusts her, careful not to wake her. When she shifts slightly, his heart skips—afraid he's disturbed her. But no—she only nestles in more comfortably.
He smiles softly. God, he could kiss her soul out.
Moments pass in a quiet blur—until the bus screeches to a sudden halt.
It jolts forward with a grating noise, and the passengers lurch. Rhett instinctively wraps an arm around Neva, steadying her.
Her eyes fly open, dazed and wide. Her peaceful nap, shattered. She blinks, half lost in sleep and glances at him, still caught in the warmth of his arms.
"Are you alright?" he asks softly.
She nods, pulling away slightly, the remnants of sleep fading fast.
The driver rushes out, checks the engine, then announces, "Some electrical fault—engine trouble. Sorry, folks, you'll have to get off here."
Groans rise through the bus. Passengers complain under their breath but shuffle off anyway.
The bus has stopped in the middle of a long road flanked by wide grassy meadows.
"We're only twenty minutes from home," Rhett says, helping Neva off. "Want to walk the rest?"
She glances around, breathing in the cool October air, then nods. "Sure."
.
.
.
They begin walking on the road, the air crisp and biting. She securely holds onto her handbag and the bouquet of flowers, while he takes the weight of her shopping bags.
Neva hugs her arms close; her dress is thin, and the light cardigan barely helps.
"Take my jacket," Rhett says, slipping it off.
"I'm fine," she protests, shaking her head. "You just recovered from a fever. You're injured too."
"Stubborn," he mutters, already draping the jacket around her shoulders.
She frowns, reaching to take it off, but he catches her hand. His grip gentle.
"It would kill me if the girl I like got sick—when I could've stopped it."
She pauses, eyes meeting his. Her cheeks flush from more than just the cold. "Thank you," she murmurs.
They continue down the road, quiet and content, until they reach her door.
"Here," she says, gently shrugging off the jacket and offering it back to him.
He takes it, his eyes soft.
"I had a really good time today, Angel. Being with you… it's the best part of my day."
"Me too," she replies, smiling slyly. "You'd make a good lover."
The words catch him off guard.
His smile falters into a stunned laugh. He hadn't expected that. Not from her.
He blushes, flustered. "Goodnight, Angel," he mumbles, handing over her shopping bags, turning to leave.
"Wait."
He stops, and turns back to her.
"It's time to change your dressing."
And just like that, he's back inside her apartment, seated on the light blue velvet couch as she gently tends to his wound with careful, practiced hands.
"Done. It's healing fast," she says with a smile, lifting her gaze.
But he's not looking at the bandage.
He's been watching her the whole time—her thick lashes, her lips, the small crease between her brows when she concentrates.
Her eyes are the sky, mesmerizing, shimmering and alive.
His stare, the deep ocean, pulling her in.
His heart rages inside his chest. His bones burn with the fire of holding back.
Then he doesn't.
He leans in.
And in a mystifying beat of a heart,
his lips meet hers—cold against her warmth.
Soft.
Sure.
No permission. No planning.
Just need.
Just pure, aching bliss.
She gasps faintly—heart soaring.
Her soul flys away. The kiss deepens. Their breaths mix, sweet and wild.
Time seems to stop,
And the world fades away.
He kissed her without thinking or deciding.
But because he couldn't have done anything else.
Because she holds the very breath he'd lost.
And a living body needs a little air.
Either of them not moving—he's alive.
Their souls recognises—tied from above.
Made from each other.
Made for each other.
The first time their eyes met, heaven rejoiced.
And the seconds their lips touched—
The rather familiar feeling surges again.