Nokwanda stood in the garden, her fingers trailing across the petals of the white roses that lined the edge of the Mthembu estate's back veranda. The air was fresh after the rain, and the early morning sun kissed her skin with warmth. Yet her heart was unsettled — restless with everything that had happened the night before.
Zenande had kissed her.
Not just any kiss — not a confused kiss, not a mistake. It was raw, full of longing and pain, fire and fear. And it had ended too soon, with Zenande pulling away and locking herself in the silence of shame and denial. Nokwanda had spent the night in her small servant room, replaying the moment over and over, every brush of Zenande's lips seared into her memory.
But what shook her more than the kiss… was how much she wanted another one.
"Miss Nokwanda," came a voice behind her. It was Ma Gertrude, the oldest maid in the house and the most respected by Zenande's mother. She wore her usual beige uniform, her apron neatly tied, her eyes narrowed.
Nokwanda turned and gave a small smile. "Morning, Mama G."
"You were up before the rest of us," Ma Gertrude said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Thought maybe you were troubled."
Nokwanda didn't answer immediately. She just looked back at the roses, at how their petals opened despite the storm the night before.
"I just needed fresh air," she said finally. "Too many thoughts."
Ma Gertrude's gaze softened. "Let me guess. They're about Miss Zenande."
Nokwanda turned sharply. "What makes you think that?"
The old woman chuckled. "You young ones think no one sees. But we do. That girl, she doesn't let anyone near her. Since the accident, she's been cruel to every nurse, every helper. Even her own family barely reaches her. But you… she lets you in. Even if she snarls and growls, she lets you close."
Nokwanda didn't know what to say.
"She likes you," Ma Gertrude added, voice low and serious. "And I don't mean just as help."
"I don't think she knows what she wants," Nokwanda said, shaking her head. "She's angry all the time. She's hurting. And I…" She sighed. "I'm just the servant, remember?"
Ma Gertrude stepped forward. "You're more than that. We can all see it. But be careful, child. Loving a wounded lion is dangerous. She might bite the hand that feeds her, even if that hand is offering love."
Before Nokwanda could respond, the bell from inside rang — the one that summoned her to Zenande's room.
Her heart leapt.
She walked through the hallways of the mansion with her breath held, wondering which Zenande she would face today: the harsh one, full of venom and walls? Or the vulnerable one whose lips had trembled against hers just hours ago?
When she knocked and entered, Zenande was already sitting up in bed, her long black hair messy over her shoulders, her legs covered with a light blanket.
"You're late," she said sharply, even though Nokwanda wasn't.
"I came as soon as the bell rang," Nokwanda replied, keeping her voice even.
Zenande's eyes darted away. "Bring my tea. And not too sweet like yesterday. I'm not a child."
Nokwanda nodded and walked to the side table to prepare it. She poured carefully, added just a spoon of honey, then brought the cup to Zenande's side. As she handed it over, their fingers touched — and electricity passed between them again.
Zenande flinched and took the cup quickly.
"Are you going to pretend last night didn't happen?" Nokwanda asked softly, her eyes fixed on Zenande.
Zenande sipped the tea without answering.
"Because I'm not going to beg you to feel what you already feel."
Zenande looked up, her jaw tight. "You don't know what I feel."
"I think I do." Nokwanda's voice wavered. "I think you're scared. And I think you think I'm not worth the risk."
"You're the servant," Zenande said coldly. "You should remember your place."
The words hit Nokwanda like a slap. She backed away.
"I'll leave you to your tea, Miss Mthembu."
She turned to walk away, her heart pounding, when Zenande suddenly spoke again — softer, hesitant.
"Wait."
Nokwanda froze.
Zenande's voice cracked. "Don't go. Not yet."
Slowly, Nokwanda turned. Their eyes met. And in that moment, all the pain, all the longing, and all the fear lived between them.
Zenande reached out, hesitantly, fingers trembling. Nokwanda didn't move — didn't breathe — as Zenande brushed her fingertips against hers.
"You make me feel…" Zenande whispered. "And I hate it. But I crave it too."
Nokwanda moved closer, standing beside the bed. "Then stop fighting it. I'm not asking you to say anything you're not ready to say. I just need the truth. Just once."
Zenande looked up at her, eyes glassy. "The truth is… I don't know how to love. I only know how to push people away. I've done it my whole life."
"Then let me stay," Nokwanda whispered. "Let me teach you how to let someone in."
Zenande didn't respond. But she didn't let go either.
She held Nokwanda's hand — tight.
And that, for now, was enough.
Zenande sat still, her fingers curled tightly into the silk sheets of her bed. The taste of Nokwanda still lingered on her lips — not just physically, but in the way it had shaken the very walls of her soul. She had kissed women before, once or twice in drunken rebellion against a world that had dictated her role since birth. But Nokwanda? That kiss wasn't rebellion. It was confession.
She closed her eyes tightly, the weight of the night pressing into her chest like a truth she could no longer bury. Her body had betrayed her secrets. Her heart had screamed in silence. And Nokwanda had heard it all — had felt it.
A knock broke her daze.
"Come in," she said, voice low, unsure.
The door opened gently and Nokwanda stepped in, her eyes careful, searching Zenande's face for either welcome or regret.
Zenande didn't speak.
Nokwanda walked slowly, every step intentional, every breath visible in the tension between them. She stopped a few feet from the bed, as if crossing it meant stepping into a reality neither could undo.
"I just wanted to check on you," Nokwanda said softly. "After… everything."
Zenande looked away. "You mean after I lost control of myself?"
Nokwanda's eyes softened. "Is that what you think happened?"
Zenande's lip trembled. "I've never done this. I've never… felt like this. You make me —" She broke off, frustrated, vulnerable in a way that felt dangerous.
"You don't have to explain," Nokwanda said, approaching slowly, kneeling beside the bed like one might near a wounded lion. "I don't want to push you. I just need you to know... that wasn't nothing to me. I didn't kiss you because I pitied you. Or because you're broken. I kissed you because… I see you."
Zenande turned sharply. "And what do you see, Nokwanda? A woman who can't walk? Who yells at everyone? Who hasn't trusted another soul in years?"
"I see a woman who's been hurt deeply, but still feels," Nokwanda replied. "I see fire, and pain, and beauty. And a heart that's been caged for too long."
Zenande blinked away tears. "You shouldn't fall in love with me."
"Too late," Nokwanda whispered.
There it was. The words neither of them had dared to speak until now. They hung in the room like a storm, waiting to break.
Zenande shook her head, but her hands reached for Nokwanda anyway, trembling. Their fingers met, and everything unsaid flowed between them like an electric river. Nokwanda pressed Zenande's hand to her cheek, eyes never leaving hers.
"I'm scared," Zenande finally admitted.
"So am I," Nokwanda replied. "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe without you."
Zenande exhaled, long and deep, as if letting go of years of pain in one breath.
For a moment, they sat there in silence, hands linked, souls finally seeing each other fully. The walls of wealth, pain, and expectation had crumbled between them. What remained was raw, honest, terrifying love.
"I'm not ready for the world to know," Zenande murmured.
"Then we'll keep it between us," Nokwanda said. "For now."
Zenande leaned forward slowly, her forehead resting against Nokwanda's. "Don't let me push you away."
"I won't," Nokwanda whispered. "Even when you try."
The air between them felt sacred now — not just a space, but a sanctuary where healing had begun. As Zenande sat still, forehead pressed gently against Nokwanda's, she could hear both of their hearts beating, like drums echoing the same rhythm — longing, cautious hope, and an unspeakable bond that neither of them fully understood yet.
"I've spent years building walls," Zenande whispered.
"And I've spent years learning how to gently break them," Nokwanda replied, her hand softly tracing Zenande's arm, not in a rush, but with care — as if her very touch could rewrite the stories etched in Zenande's scars.
Zenande opened her eyes and studied Nokwanda's face. "Do you know what it cost me to let you in?"
"Yes," Nokwanda said. "And I'll never take it for granted."
Their lips met again, slower this time — not filled with confusion or urgency, but with reverence. Zenande didn't pull back. Instead, she allowed herself to feel everything: the gentleness, the warmth, the emotion she had buried under bitterness and pride. Nokwanda's lips felt like peace — something Zenande hadn't known in years.
Zenande's hands moved with intent, reaching behind Nokwanda's neck and drawing her closer. Their bodies aligned, their breaths syncing like a vow unspoken.
The kiss deepened, and with it, all the noise of the world faded. There was no wheelchair, no past trauma, no broken marriage — only the sensation of being wanted, of being seen, of being held like she was more than her wounds.
They broke apart for a breath, and Zenande looked down. "Nokwanda… if we go there… I won't know how to be just your employer again."
"Good," Nokwanda whispered, voice husky. "Because I don't want to be just your employee anymore."
Zenande's chest rose and fell rapidly. Her heart thundered in her ribs. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
Then everything fell away — the silence, the fear, the labels. They moved together in quiet, tender exploration. Each kiss, each touch, was a surrender. A gentle unraveling of who they had been alone… becoming something new, together.
Zenande gasped when Nokwanda's fingers traced the soft skin at her waist, her breath hitching in her throat. "I didn't know I could feel this again," she whispered into Nokwanda's ear.
"You were always meant to," Nokwanda murmured.
They undressed not out of lust but trust — a sacred act, an offering. When their bodies met beneath the sheets, it wasn't frantic. It was deliberate, slow. A dance of healing. Zenande cried at one point, but not from pain — from release. She let go, sobbing softly against Nokwanda's chest, finally allowing herself to be held in a way she hadn't in years.
"I'm here," Nokwanda whispered again and again, kissing her forehead, her shoulders, her trembling fingers. "I'm here."
When it was over, Zenande lay still in Nokwanda's arms, her body warm and relaxed. The moonlight painted them in silver, their limbs tangled, their souls no longer afraid of each other.
"Tell me," Nokwanda said gently, her hand playing with a strand of Zenande's hair. "Tell me what you're feeling."
Zenande was quiet for a moment before speaking.
"I've spent years convincing myself I didn't deserve love. That my body wasn't worthy of being touched. That I was too broken, too bitter, too much for anyone to hold."
She looked up at Nokwanda, her eyes gleaming with vulnerability.
"But tonight, you proved me wrong."
Nokwanda kissed her softly. "You were never too much. They were just not enough."
Zenande laughed lightly, a sound Nokwanda had never heard before. It was warm. Freeing. A beginning.
"Thank you," Zenande whispered.
"No," Nokwanda smiled, "thank you, for letting me in."
They didn't speak much after that. They didn't need to. Their bodies, their silence, and the soft rhythm of shared breaths said everything.
The next morning was different. Not loud or dramatic — but different in the softest, most tender way. The kind of different that shifted the axis of a life quietly.
Zenande woke before Nokwanda, her head resting on the other woman's bare shoulder, their legs still tangled under the warm duvet. For a moment, she simply watched her — the slow rise and fall of Nokwanda's chest, the peaceful look etched across her face.
For years, Zenande's mornings had been filled with dread — of pretending, of surviving, of performing strength for a world that never really saw her. But this morning, in the stillness of Nokwanda's arms, she felt something dangerously close to safety.
Nokwanda stirred slightly, then opened her eyes, smiling sleepily. "You're staring."
Zenande smiled shyly. "Maybe. Just a little."
"Was it real?" Nokwanda asked, her voice rough with sleep.
Zenande nodded. "Yes. And if I'm honest… I didn't want it to end."
There was a pause before Nokwanda asked, "Do you regret it?"
Zenande reached up and ran her fingers gently along Nokwanda's jaw. "No. I regret waiting this long."
The honesty between them had become weightless now, floating easily in the room. No longer trapped behind broken memories or hidden behind fear.
They lay there for a while longer, wrapped in the comfort of a love neither of them had planned, but both deeply needed.
Later, they shared breakfast on the balcony — Zenande wearing a soft robe, Nokwanda in one of Zenande's oversized T-shirts. The city below bustled with noise, but up here, time felt like it was standing still.
"What now?" Nokwanda asked, pouring tea into two mugs.
Zenande took a breath. "Now… we live. We heal. Together."
"Are we telling anyone?" Nokwanda asked carefully.
"Not yet," Zenande replied. "This… this is ours. I want to protect it."
Nokwanda nodded. "Then we protect it. Together."
The day unfolded gently. Zenande, once cold and distant, laughed more freely. Nokwanda, usually quiet and reserved, became bolder, more expressive. They moved around each other with ease — a rhythm found in deep compatibility, like they had been waiting their whole lives to finally fit somewhere.
By the time evening came, Zenande wheeled herself back into her study, where her old journals lay open — the ones filled with pain, rage, and self-loathing. She stared at them for a long time.
Then she picked up a pen, turned to a fresh page, and began to write:
"For the first time in years, I feel like I'm breathing. And I owe that to someone who walked in when I was at my worst — and didn't walk away. Nokwanda didn't try to fix me. She simply saw me. And that changed everything."
She closed the book and looked up as Nokwanda entered the room.
"Ready for dinner?" Nokwanda asked.
Zenande smiled and held out her hand. "Only if you're eating with me."
They walked — and wheeled — out of the room together, fingers interlaced, hearts no longer guarded.
Love had begun.