The rain had started before dawn — soft at first, then furious like the secrets they'd both tried so hard to bury. Nokwanda stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window in Zenande's room, her arms folded tightly against her chest, eyes locked on the downpour. She didn't flinch when thunder roared. It was the silence inside this mansion that made her heart uneasy.
Behind her, the room was dimly lit, cast in silver tones from the moody skies outside. Zenande lay in bed, motionless, yet completely awake. Her body was still sore, but the ache that scared her most came from deep inside — a confusion that threatened the walls she'd built for years.
"I like the rain," Nokwanda said softly without turning. "It reminds me that even the sky has moments where it can't hold it in."
Zenande's breath caught. She looked away quickly. "That's the most dramatic thing I've heard today," she muttered.
Nokwanda smirked, her back still to her. "I wasn't trying to be poetic. I was just thinking… you don't talk much."
"I don't need to talk. You talk enough for both of us."
That made Nokwanda turn around. She walked to the bedside, calm but fearless, and met Zenande's hard gaze.
"I'm not here to fight with you. I know you're used to pushing people away, but… you don't scare me."
Zenande's jaw clenched. "You should be scared."
"Why? Because you're rich? Angry? In pain?"
Zenande turned her head. "Because everyone who ever tried to love me got destroyed."
Nokwanda sat at the edge of the bed, not touching her. "Maybe they weren't meant to love you. Maybe they wanted to own you. There's a difference."
The room went still. Zenande looked at her for a long moment, and then — just like always — she laughed bitterly. "You think you're deep, don't you?"
"No," Nokwanda said gently. "I just think you're lonely."
A silence fell between them — sharp and vulnerable. The kind of silence where hearts speak without permission.
Zenande looked away again. "What do you want from me?"
"I don't want anything," Nokwanda replied honestly. "Except maybe… for you to stop pretending you don't feel anything."
Zenande's eyes darted back to hers, and in them, something cracked. "You think I don't feel? You think I sleep well at night? You think I don't relive the accident in my head every day? That I don't wake up wondering why he left me? Why my own mother looks at me with pity?"
Her voice shook with rage and hurt.
"I feel too much," she whispered. "And that's the problem."
Nokwanda swallowed the lump in her throat. She slowly reached out and placed her hand on Zenande's. "You don't have to feel it alone."
Zenande stared at their hands, frozen. Her fingers twitched, almost pulling away — but didn't.
"You scare me," she said quietly.
"Why?"
"Because for the first time in a long time, I'm starting to want something real. And I don't think I know how to have it."
Nokwanda smiled sadly. "You don't have to know how. Just don't run from it."
The storm outside hadn't calmed, and neither had the one inside Zenande's chest. Nokwanda's hand was still lightly resting on hers. A simple touch — yet it unlocked something buried under years of guilt, grief, and abandonment. Zenande didn't move. She couldn't. The moment was too fragile.
"I'm not asking for forever," Nokwanda said, her voice soft but steady. "Just honesty. A moment of truth between us."
Zenande's throat was dry. "Truth?" she asked, forcing a scoff. "You really want the truth, Nokwanda?"
"Yes."
Zenande sat up slowly, her hand still trapped under Nokwanda's fingers. "The truth is that I hate myself for wanting you."
Nokwanda blinked but didn't flinch. She leaned in slightly. "Why?"
"Because I wasn't supposed to feel again," Zenande whispered. "Not after Lunga. Not after my father died. Not after I lost everything. And especially not for someone like you."
Nokwanda raised an eyebrow. "Someone like me?"
"You're light. Warm. You still believe in… people. You still trust. You're everything I'm not."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
Zenande turned to face her completely now, her dark eyes intense. "It is. Because it makes me want you more. Because it makes me imagine what it could be like — if I wasn't broken."
Nokwanda shifted closer, now sitting beside her. "Zenande," she said carefully, "You are not broken. You're wounded. There's a difference. And wounds… they heal."
Zenande looked down, blinking hard. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because if you do… I'll believe you. And that's dangerous."
Nokwanda gently tilted Zenande's chin up so their eyes met. "Sometimes dangerous things are the ones worth it."
The air between them shifted.
And then Zenande kissed her.
It was slow. Soft. Shaky. Like she was kissing fear itself — and maybe she was. Their lips moved cautiously at first, then with rising certainty. It wasn't hunger. It was longing. And it broke something in both of them.
But just as quickly, Zenande pulled back.
"No," she gasped. "No, I can't."
Nokwanda didn't move away. "You already did."
"I shouldn't have," Zenande said, her hand brushing her lips. "I'm not ready."
"Then say that," Nokwanda replied. "Say you're scared. Say you need time. But don't pretend that kiss didn't mean something."
Zenande turned away. "It meant too much."
Nokwanda stood. Her voice was gentle, but firm. "Then let it mean something."
She walked toward the door but paused before leaving. "I'm not walking away, Zenande. I'm just giving you space to meet me halfway."
As the door clicked shut behind her, Zenande exhaled shakily.
Outside, the storm had begun to fade. But inside her, something brand new had started to rise.
Zenande barely slept that night.
She lay awake in the dim quiet of her room, replaying the kiss again and again — the way Nokwanda's lips felt against hers, the tremble of her own heart, the overwhelming warmth that had wrapped around her like a blanket she didn't know she needed.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Nokwanda's face. Not just in that moment, but in the many moments before. Nokwanda feeding her soup without judgment. Nokwanda reading to her in the afternoons. Nokwanda calling her "soft inside" with no malice, only truth.
Zenande had spent years building a fortress of rage and bitterness around herself. But somehow, Nokwanda had slipped through the cracks — not with force, but with patience. With kindness. With something she hadn't felt in years: safety.
By sunrise, Zenande knew what she had to do.
She wheeled herself to Nokwanda's room, pausing outside the door. Her hand hovered over the handle. Her mind screamed at her to turn back, but her heart whispered, Go in. She deserves to know.
The door creaked open slowly.
Nokwanda stirred, blinking sleep from her eyes. "Zenande?"
Zenande rolled in slowly, shutting the door behind her. "Can we talk?"
Nokwanda sat up, concern flickering across her face. "Of course. Are you okay?"
"No," Zenande said truthfully. "But I think… I might be ready to be."
Nokwanda remained quiet, letting Zenande speak.
"I fought it, you know," Zenande confessed, her voice tight. "Every part of me told me to push you away. To keep you out. Because if I let you in, you'd see the real me. The bitter, scared, angry version of me."
"I've already seen her," Nokwanda said gently. "And I stayed."
Zenande swallowed. "I didn't want to fall for you."
"But you did," Nokwanda whispered.
Zenande nodded.
"I tried so hard to hate you," she laughed bitterly. "You were supposed to be temporary. Just another employee in a long list of faces. But you walked in here… and changed everything."
She wheeled closer, stopping just beside the bed. "I want to stop fighting."
Nokwanda reached out slowly, giving Zenande the choice.
Zenande placed her hand into hers.
And for the first time in a long time, she let herself breathe.
Nokwanda smiled gently. "Come here."
Zenande hesitated, then shifted into Nokwanda's arms with effort and trust. It was the most vulnerable she'd allowed herself to be in years — resting her cheek on the woman's shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath.
They held each other for a long moment, silent except for the beating of their hearts.
Then Nokwanda whispered, "Tell me how you feel."
Zenande closed her eyes. "I feel terrified. I feel exposed. But I also feel… alive."
Nokwanda kissed her forehead. "You're allowed to feel all of that."
Zenande lifted her head slowly. "Kiss me again."
This time, it was not cautious.
Their lips met with quiet urgency, a desperate need to make up for all the lost time and words left unsaid. Zenande wrapped her arms around Nokwanda's neck as the kiss deepened, soft and warm, a promise being born in silence.
Clothes slipped off like shedding old skins.
Zenande gasped as Nokwanda's touch traveled down her back, trembling not from fear — but release.
For once, she wasn't thinking. She wasn't calculating how to protect herself. She was simply feeling.
And Nokwanda kissed every scar, every part of her that had been hidden in shame and pain, until Zenande was moaning her name with abandon — not out of lust alone, but something far more dangerous.
Trust.
They made love not like people trying to impress, but like women trying to heal.
Afterward, wrapped in warm blankets and warmer silence, Zenande stared at the ceiling. Her body was exhausted, her heart raw.
"I think I'm falling in love with you," she whispered.
Nokwanda didn't smile or gasp. She simply nodded and whispered, "Then fall. I'll catch you."
Zenande buried her face into Nokwanda's chest.
And for the first time in her life, she let someone catch her.