The morning after the kiss felt colder than usual.
Zenande sat by the window, a thick blanket wrapped around her legs, eyes trained on the rolling clouds above. Not even the promise of sunlight could warm her. Her mind wasn't here — it was somewhere back in that small, breathless moment when her fingers touched Nokwanda's face. When she kissed her. When she let go — and then, just as quickly, pulled back.
She hated that moment.
She needed that moment.
And now it haunted her.
Behind her, the quiet click of the kitchen door opening made her tense, but she didn't turn around. She already knew who it was. The sound of Nokwanda's soft steps across the floor had become a melody her body recognized — and now, rejected and desired all at once.
"Good morning, Ma'am," Nokwanda said, her voice level but distant.
Zenande flinched at the formality. It had been Zenande last night. And now it was Ma'am again?
Good.
No.
She didn't know what she wanted anymore.
"You can skip the performance," Zenande said, voice sharp as glass. "I'm not in the mood for acting."
"I wasn't acting." Nokwanda's tone remained respectful, but the edge beneath it was undeniable. "You're still my boss."
Zenande turned, her expression unreadable. "Is that what we're going to pretend now? That nothing happened?"
"What do you want me to say?" Nokwanda took a step forward, clutching the tray of breakfast she had brought — oats, fruit, black tea, and a folded napkin. "That I'm confused? That I barely slept because I'm trying to understand what that kiss meant? Because if that's what you want, say so."
"I don't want anything," Zenande snapped, immediately regretting how harsh it sounded. "I didn't ask you to kiss me."
Nokwanda's hands tightened around the tray. "You touched me first."
Silence.
Zenande looked away. Her jaw clenched, fists curling under the blanket.
"You should leave," she whispered. "Go out. Do something useful today. I need space."
Nokwanda hesitated. She stared at the woman before her — proud, broken, scared. And then she turned, placing the tray on the table.
"I'll clean the linen cupboard," she said stiffly. "And I'll water the garden."
Zenande didn't respond.
She sat still, paralyzed by emotion, staring out at nothing. And as Nokwanda's footsteps disappeared down the hallway, Zenande buried her face in her hands.
She hated feeling this way.
Outside, Nokwanda leaned over the flowerbed, letting the cold water rush through her fingers as she filled the watering can. The bougainvillea had started blooming again — brilliant pinks and purples that mocked her grey mood. The kiss had meant something to her. She wasn't delusional. She saw it in Zenande's eyes.
But love with a woman like Zenande was a war.
And Nokwanda wasn't sure she'd survive it.
She sighed, letting the water fall onto the thirsty soil. The sun was out now, and yet her heart felt cloudy. Maybe she shouldn't have kissed her. Maybe she should have just… walked away. But she couldn't ignore what she felt. Not anymore.
"Useless," she muttered to herself.
"What's useless?"
The voice behind her made her jump. It was Gogo Thembi, the long-time housekeeper and family friend who came once a week. Today, she wore a headscarf and a worn dress, a small bag hanging from her shoulder.
"Gogo," Nokwanda breathed, placing the can down. "You startled me."
Gogo smiled, eyes warm but knowing. "You're watering plants like you're digging a grave. What's bothering you?"
Nokwanda gave a nervous laugh. "It's nothing. Just a long night."
"You're working for Zenande. Every night will be long."
Nokwanda smiled faintly.
Gogo bent down beside her, plucking a weed from the soil. "That girl... she's like a storm pretending to be a statue. Still outside, thunder inside."
"She kissed me last night," Nokwanda said before she could stop herself.
Gogo froze. Slowly, she turned her eyes on Nokwanda.
"She kissed you?" she repeated, her tone unreadable.
Nokwanda nodded. "Well… I kissed her back. But then she pulled away. Told me to forget it. Acted like I was nothing this morning."
Gogo let out a long sigh and looked up at the sky. "That girl has been alone for too long. Even when surrounded by people, she builds walls."
"She's not cruel," Nokwanda said quietly. "She's just… scared."
"Of course she is," Gogo murmured. "Her body betrayed her. Her husband left. The world whispered lies about her behind champagne glasses. She doesn't believe in love anymore."
"I want to help her."
"You already are." Gogo touched her shoulder gently. "But just know — you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. Not unless they choose to fight too."
Nokwanda nodded, swallowing the ache in her chest.
She wasn't sure how to fight this feeling. But she wasn't ready to give up either.
Back in the mansion, Zenande wheeled herself to the piano room. She hadn't touched the keys in months. Dust had started to gather along the edges. She brushed it away slowly, then pressed one note.
The sound was hollow, lonely.
Like her.
She thought of the kiss. Of Nokwanda's fingers. Of the softness in her voice.
It had felt like fire.
And fire burns.
She placed both hands on the keys and played a slow, broken melody — the sound of someone trying to remember how to feel.
She hated that she was falling.
Hated it.
Because once, she believed in forever.
And forever left her behind.
She didn't know how to let someone new in.
Later that evening, Nokwanda entered her room quietly, only to find a single note on her pillow. Neat handwriting. No signature.
"Don't leave me alone tomorrow. I need you around."
Nokwanda stared at the note for a long time, her fingers trembling.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't cry either.
Because in Zenande's broken way…
That was love, trying to find a voice.
The rain had not yet stopped. It drummed softly against the wide glass windows like fingers tapping secrets on a locked door. Nokwanda sat near the bookshelf in Zenande's room, her legs tucked beneath her, reading a collection of poetry she found hidden between classic novels. Zenande, meanwhile, sat quietly in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest, watching Nokwanda from behind unreadable eyes.
There was something in the way Nokwanda's lips moved silently when reading, something calming, even hypnotic. Zenande hated how soft her heart became when she watched her. She hated how warm her chest felt. She hated how much she didn't hate it.
"I can feel your eyes burning through me," Nokwanda said, glancing up with a smile.
Zenande shifted her gaze immediately. "I wasn't watching you."
Nokwanda chuckled. "Yes, you were."
Zenande's eyes narrowed, annoyed. "Are you always this annoying?"
"Only with people I like."
A silence settled between them, thick and humming with things unsaid. Nokwanda placed the book down and stood up slowly, stretching. She walked toward Zenande's chair, pausing a few steps away, the air between them taut like stretched wire.
"You keep looking at me like I'm a problem you're trying to solve," Nokwanda said quietly.
Zenande scoffed. "You think too much of yourself."
"Maybe," Nokwanda whispered, now stepping closer, "or maybe you're just too afraid to admit what you feel."
Zenande clenched her jaw. Her fingers gripped the armrest of her chair so tightly her knuckles turned pale.
"Do you even know what you're saying?" she said, voice trembling under the weight of restrained emotion. "Do you know how foolish this sounds?"
"Then tell me I'm wrong," Nokwanda whispered, kneeling in front of her. "Look in my eyes and tell me this thing — whatever it is between us — doesn't exist."
Zenande looked down at her, and for a moment, time stood still. Nokwanda's eyes were open, sincere, waiting.
"You don't get it," Zenande whispered, her voice hoarse. "You don't know what it's like to believe you've lost everything — to be touched, then thrown away. I don't trust easily."
Nokwanda reached out, gently placing her hand over Zenande's. "I'm not asking for your trust… not yet. I'm just asking for your truth."
The tension snapped. Zenande leaned forward without thinking, her lips brushing Nokwanda's — a kiss far too soft, far too quick, but burning all the same.
Then Zenande pulled back, her eyes wide. "No," she said sharply. "That was a mistake."
"It didn't feel like one," Nokwanda said, her voice low and steady.
Zenande turned her chair away, hiding her face. "You should go. Now."
Nokwanda stood slowly, her heart pounding but her voice calm. "You can push me away, Zenande. I'll still come back tomorrow."
Zenande didn't respond. Her silence screamed louder than any words.
And Nokwanda, though heart aching, walked out — not defeated, but patient.
The house was quiet again. Hours had passed since Nokwanda left, but Zenande hadn't moved from the chair. Rain had long stopped, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and clarity. Stillness wrapped around her like a heavy blanket — until she wheeled herself out of the room.
She needed air. Not the kind that came from the sky, but the kind that lived in Nokwanda.
Zenande found her in the guest room, sitting on the edge of the bed, face bowed, as if in prayer or exhaustion. Nokwanda didn't look surprised when Zenande appeared at the door.
"I shouldn't have kissed you," Zenande said softly.
Nokwanda stood slowly. "But you did."
Zenande's fingers trembled on the wheelchair handle. "Because I've been trying so hard to fight something that's been growing in me since the day you walked into this house with your cheap handbag and oversized shirt."
Nokwanda let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh.
Zenande wheeled closer. "You were late, rude… and so real, so annoyingly alive. I hated how you looked at me like I was more than a broken girl in a chair. And I hated myself for wanting to be more in your eyes."
Nokwanda stepped forward, heart pounding. "Then stop hating it."
"I've tried," Zenande whispered. "God, I've tried. Every single day, I've tried to push it down — push you away. But I can't. I don't want to fight it anymore."
Nokwanda sank to her knees in front of her again, her hands sliding into Zenande's.
"Then don't," she said, voice trembling. "Let me be here. Let me love you."
Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, heat rising.
Zenande whispered, "Make me forget I was ever empty."
Nokwanda stood slowly and helped Zenande transfer gently from her chair onto the bed. They moved carefully, like dancers finding rhythm for the first time, unsure yet guided by something pure.
The first touch was tentative — fingertips brushing cheeks, then lips, then shoulders. Zenande's body was stiff at first, unfamiliar with being held with reverence. But Nokwanda didn't rush. Her kisses were slow, soft flames melting away years of frozen emotion.
Zenande cupped Nokwanda's face, voice shaking. "I never thought I'd feel wanted again… not like this."
"You've always been worthy of this," Nokwanda said, her hands exploring Zenande's body with reverence, never pity. "Let me show you."
Clothes fell to the floor like burdens released. Skin met skin, warm and electric. Every touch was permission. Every kiss a confession. Their bodies curled into each other, not just for pleasure but for safety, for healing, for truth.
Zenande cried — not from sadness but from the overwhelming feeling of finally being held, truly seen, and utterly wanted.
Afterward, Nokwanda lay with her, gently drawing circles on Zenande's stomach. "You feel different now."
"I am," Zenande whispered, her head resting against Nokwanda's chest. "It feels like I'm finally breathing after years of drowning."
They stayed like that, tangled in sheets and silence, hearts beating in sync.
Zenande looked up, vulnerable yet sure. "This… us… it scares me."
"It scares me too," Nokwanda said, "but I'm not going anywhere."
Zenande closed her eyes. For the first time in years, she felt safe.
Not because she was alone — but because she was no longer fighting love.
The morning sun slipped through the half-open blinds, painting golden stripes across the tangled bed sheets and soft skin. Zenande stirred, eyes blinking open, adjusting to a new world — one where Nokwanda's body was curled against hers, breathing softly, one arm draped protectively over her waist.
It was quiet. Peaceful. Terrifying.
Zenande traced the line of Nokwanda's jaw with her eyes. The way her lashes kissed her cheeks, how her lips were slightly parted… she looked like safety. Like sunrise after years of thunder.
Her heart screamed: This is real.
For a long time, Zenande didn't move. She let herself feel it — warmth, comfort, and that dangerous thing she had denied for far too long: love.
But her mind betrayed her peace. Questions crept in like shadows.
What now? What if this was a mistake? What if I ruin her life?
Nokwanda stirred, eyes opening slowly. She smiled, still sleepy, still soft.
"Hey," she whispered.
Zenande nodded, voice caught in her throat. "Hey."
Nokwanda stretched gently, then curled back into her side. "I thought I dreamt all of it."
"You didn't," Zenande said, barely above a whisper. "We… it happened."
"I know." Nokwanda's smile was laced with calm. "Are you okay?"
"I don't know." Zenande stared at the ceiling. "I feel… everything."
"That's not a bad thing."
"It is when you've trained yourself to feel nothing."
Silence.
Then Nokwanda turned Zenande's face toward her. "Look at me."
Zenande's eyes locked with hers.
"I'm not here to fix you, Zenande," Nokwanda said gently. "I'm here to walk with you. Even if the road is messy. Even if you push me sometimes. I'm not afraid of the dark — not yours, not mine."
Zenande's eyes filled with tears. "You don't know what you're promising."
"I do," Nokwanda whispered. "And I'll keep promising it."
Zenande leaned in, and their lips met again — slower this time, no urgency, just gratitude. A silent thank you. A soft yes to something unspoken.
They stayed in bed until midmorning, wrapped in sheets and truths. Eventually, hunger called them to the kitchen, where Zenande let Nokwanda push her wheelchair while humming an old Brenda Fassie song. The domesticity felt surreal — Zenande never thought she'd laugh while pouring coffee with someone who saw all her scars and still stayed.
But she was laughing now.
Not because her pain was gone — but because love was here.
Love had arrived in the form of Nokwanda — late, loud, and utterly impossible to ignore.
And Zenande… was finally ready to answer.