14

Kamala's POV

I didn't tell her I was coming back early.

She thought I'd be home Saturday. It was Thursday night. I caught an earlier flight, couldn't stop thinking about the sound she made when she moaned my name through a screen. Couldn't stop replaying the way her lips trembled, how her voice cracked, how much I wanted her in real time—not through a pixelated screen with weak hotel WiFi.

So I drove straight from the airport. Didn't even stop to unpack.

She opened the door in a hoodie and tiny shorts. Eyes wide.

"Kamala?"

I smiled. "Surprise."

She blinked. "You're back."

"You sound disappointed."

She rolled her eyes, stepping back so I could walk in. "You look tired."

"I am."

"Need anything?"

"Just you."

Her face softened for half a second, then she shook her head and grabbed a bottle of water off the counter.

"I missed you."

She handed me the water and finally—finally—cracked a smile. "Yeah... I missed you too."

We sat on the couch, our thighs touching. She smelled like vanilla and warm linen. My hand drifted to her leg, and she didn't move it away.

"How was the conference?" She asked.

I leaned back. "Dry speeches. Stiff suits. A lot of fake smiles."

She raised an eyebrow. "You behave?"

I looked at her then—really looked at her. She was teasing, but there was something underneath it.

Insecurity.

Uncertainty.

So, I said it, low and serious:

"I didn't look at anyone else."

Her eyes flicked to mine.

"I couldn't," I added. "Even if I wanted to."

She took a long breath. "Good."

I kissed her.

Not slow, not gentle this time.

Hungry.

Like I hadn't touched her in years. Like being away cracked something in me that only she could fix.

She kissed back just as hard, fingers tangling in my shirt, pulling me closer like she needed proof I was really here.

And when we finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, she said it softly:

"You should stay the night."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

She smirked, but then she got quiet. Her fingers slid down my arm until she reached my wrist. She held it down, lightly. "You know... when you're not here, I get in my head. I start wondering if you'll wake up one day and regret this. Regret me."

My heart dropped.

I sat back slightly, brushing hair out of her face."Mariah... don't do that."

"I'm not trying to be dramatic. It's just—everything we're doing, it's messy. You could lose your job. Your name. And for what? A senior political science major who can't even cook rice without burning it?"

I let out a soft laugh, but it didn't last.

"I don't care about any of that," I said seriously. "Do you know how long it's been since I felt anything for someone? Since someone made me want to show up, not just for them, but for myself too?"

She stared at me. Her eyes were glassy.

"I feel like a teenager when I'm with you," I confessed. "And not in a reckless way—in a way that makes me feel alive. Like I'm not just walking through days that all look the same."

She blinked hard. "Damn."

"What?"

She sniffled. "You're gonna make me cry and then try to hook up with me in the same breath?"

"I'm very versatile," I smirked.

She laughed—and that sound made everything else worth it.

We didn't rush after that.

We curled up on the couch and watched a rerun of some trashy reality show while she laid her legs across mine and made commentary on everyone's outfits. She fed me popcorn, stole my hoodie again, and made me promise not to leave her for boring conferences anymore.

By the time we went to her room, I was tired. But happy.

I watched her fall asleep before I did.

I think a part of me knew the peace wouldn't last. That something was coming.

But for now, I held her tighter and let myself believe it could. ________

Short chapter... I know, I know.