Ayana sat quietly in her apartment, fingers grazing the edge of her mug, its warmth fading just as the evening light slipped behind the buildings outside. Her window caught the last gold of the sun, casting a halo around her, but she didn't notice. She was staring at the floor, mind replaying Sky's voice on loop—those trembling words in the dark: "I love you."
She'd said it back. Not just said it—meant it. Felt it like a pulse in her bones.
And now everything inside her was trembling.
She wasn't afraid. But love, real love, had a way of unraveling all the quiet compartments she'd built in herself. It didn't care for boundaries or timing. It showed up, soft and insistent, and demanded you step into the light.
And Ayana... she hadn't realized how long she'd been hiding there in her silence.
A knock on the door startled her. She rose instinctively, smoothing her sweater, brushing her hair back like she wasn't still unraveling. When she opened the door, Sky stood there—hair slightly wet, backpack on, her cardigan sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
Sky's face held a softness Ayana hadn't seen before. Vulnerability didn't sit on her like weakness; it looked like truth.
"I know I should've texted," Sky said quickly. "I just… I needed to see you. I didn't want last night to disappear like a dream."
Ayana stepped aside silently and let her in. "It didn't disappear," she said. "I didn't sleep. I just kept… feeling."
Sky's smile tugged at the corners, half shy, half grateful. "Me too."
They stood close in the small space, the distance between them now something sacred rather than awkward. Ayana motioned toward the couch. "Come. I'll make tea."
As Sky sat, her gaze scanned the room, taking in the plants Ayana kept alive with religious care, the books piled like companions on every surface, the low hum of peace that always lived in her professor's space.
"I didn't think I'd make it through last night," Sky admitted, when Ayana returned. "I thought after saying what I did, everything would collapse."
"But it didn't," Ayana said, handing her a mug.
Sky shook her head. "No. You didn't run."
"I meant what I said, Sky. Every word."
Silence held them for a moment—warm, not heavy. Then Sky whispered, "I'm scared, Ayana."
"I know."
"I've been seen before and still left behind. Or told I was too much. Or not enough."
Ayana reached across the table, her hand resting on Sky's. "You are not too much. And you are already enough."
Sky blinked fast, the words hitting somewhere deep. "I want to believe that. I want to believe you won't get tired of dealing with my mess. My past. My... everything."
"I'm not afraid of your past," Ayana said softly. "Or your fears. Or the quiet parts of you you think no one could love. I see you, Sky. And I'm staying."
The words dropped into Sky like a stone in still water. She didn't respond immediately—just held Ayana's gaze, like trying to see whether the promise could be trusted.
"I was always the one trying to prove I was worthy," she said eventually. "That I wasn't broken. That someone could love someone like me."
"You don't have to prove anything," Ayana said, leaning forward. "Not here. Not with me."
Sky's breath caught. Then, without asking, she slid down to the floor beside Ayana, her head resting lightly against her knee. Ayana let her stay there, fingers threading gently through Sky's soft curls.
"I feel safe with you," Sky murmured.
"Then let's protect that. Both of us."
Sky closed her eyes, letting herself melt into that promise.
The next day on campus felt surreal.
Sky walked across the courtyard like someone who'd been rewritten. Her eyes were softer, her shoulders less rigid. But inside, nerves tangled. Because this place—the university—was the space where masks mattered. Where everyone was watching.
And now, something sacred had bloomed in the open air between them. Something that needed shielding.
Ayana passed her in the hallway between classes. Their eyes met. Neither stopped. But that single glance carried a hundred truths.
Later, in Ayana's office, Sky slipped in and closed the door behind her.
"We can't pretend forever," she said.
Ayana looked up from her desk. "I'm not pretending. I'm just… protecting."
Sky sat down. "People are starting to notice. A few students asked if we're 'close.'"
Ayana exhaled. "Are you okay with them knowing?"
Sky shrugged. "Part of me wants to scream it. The other part wants to hide again. I'm still trying to figure out how to exist in a world that only accepts me in pieces."
Ayana stood and walked around the desk. "We don't owe the world all of us at once. We get to decide what we share. And with whom."
Sky smiled faintly. "You're good at making things less terrifying."
"You're good at being brave even when terrified."
They didn't touch. Not here. But the space between them thrummed.
That weekend, Sky invited Ayana to her tiny apartment. It was a space barely big enough for two people, but filled with pieces of Sky's soul—posters of indie bands, scattered notebooks, half-finished poems on the wall, and books stacked like towers.
"It's messy," Sky said apologetically.
"It's beautiful," Ayana replied.
They sat on the floor, backs against the bed, knees brushing. Sky put on music—something soft and strange and aching.
"I used to imagine what love would feel like," Sky said. "And I thought it would be explosive. Loud. But this... this is quiet. And steady. Like a heartbeat."
Ayana leaned her head on Sky's shoulder. "Sometimes the quietest love is the strongest."
Sky turned to face her then. "Can I kiss you?"
Ayana smiled. "Yes."
The kiss was slow. Deliberate. No urgency—just presence. Sky's hands trembled slightly, but Ayana steadied her with her touch. They kissed like two people learning a language, translating tenderness one breath at a time.
Sky pulled back first. "I don't want to mess this up."
"You won't," Ayana said, cradling her face. "Just be here. That's enough."
They lay on the bed after that—not tangled in passion, but in peace. Fingers interlocked. Breaths matching.
And when Sky fell asleep, Ayana stayed awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Wondering how someone could carry so much pain and still be soft enough to love.
But peace doesn't last in a world that demands explanation.
The next week, rumors spread. Whispers. Snickers in the hallway. A few students snorted in class. A lecturer gave Ayana a knowing glance during a staff meeting.
Sky sat in the back of a lecture, arms crossed, her hoodie pulled low, trying not to disappear.
Ayana called her in after.
"They know," Sky said before Ayana could speak. "Or they think they do. And it's getting loud."
Ayana shut the door and sat down. "You don't have to handle this alone."
"They're going to ruin you," Sky said bitterly. "You've worked so hard and now they'll say you're sleeping with a student, or being inappropriate—"
"I'm not ashamed of what we are," Ayana said firmly. "I won't let them twist it into something ugly."
Sky's eyes flashed. "But they will. That's what they do. And you'll be the one punished."
Ayana reached for her hand. "Let's not let fear be louder than what we're building."
Sky's voice cracked. "I don't want to cost you your life, Ayana."
"And I don't want to live it without you."
That night, Ayana submitted her resignation letter.
Not because she was ashamed. But because love deserved more than secrecy. Because she'd rather build something new with Sky—out of the shadows—than hide behind rules that protected no one.
When she told Sky, the younger woman stared at her in shock.
"You're walking away from all of it… for me?"
"I'm walking toward something, Sky. Toward you. Toward a life that's honest."
Sky cried then—hard and full. Not out of sadness, but because for the first time, someone chose her. Not in theory. In action.
They held each other for a long time.
"I'll get another job," Ayana whispered. "You'll finish school. We'll figure it out."
Sky nodded into her chest. "Okay. Together."