THE LAST PROMISE
PART 8
Weeks had passed since Andre had hugged Mary in her living room, and in that time, something between them had shifted.
Mary no longer jumped when her phone buzzed with his name. She no longer made excuses when he suggested they meet. Instead, she found herself looking forward to his messages, to the sound of his laughter, to the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her.
Andre had become her best friend
Every Saturday morning, without fail, Andre would show up at Mary’s doorstep with a bag of fresh fruits from the market—ripe mangoes, sweet pineapples, sometimes even the expensive strawberries she loved but never bought for herself.
"You need to eat better," he would say, grinning as he barged into her kitchen like he owned it.
Mary would roll her eyes but secretly love the way he fussed over her.
In return, she cooked for him.
At first, it was simple things—jollof rice, fried plantains, egusi soup. But as the weeks passed, she found herself putting more effort into it, making his favorite dishes, watching closely for his reaction when he took the first bite.
"Mary,"* he groaned one evening after tasting her ofada stew. "If you keep cooking like this, I’m never leaving."
She laughed, swatting his arm, but her cheeks warmed at the thought.
Andre in her home. Every day.
The idea didn’t scare her as much as it should have.
It happened slowly, then all at once.
One evening, as they sat on her balcony watching the sunset, Mary caught herself staring at Andre’s profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his lips quirked when he was thinking.
Her stomach fluttered.
She looked away quickly, her heart pounding.
What was that?
Then, another time, when Andre reached across the table to wipe a speck of sauce from her chin, his thumb lingering just a second too long. Mary’s breath hitched, and she saw the way his eyes darkened before he pulled back.
Neither of them mentioned it.
But Mary lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering when friendship had started feeling like something more.
"Come over to my place tomorrow," Andre said casually one afternoon as they walked through the park. "I’ll cook for you this time."
Mary raised an eyebrow. "You? Cook?"
He smirked. "Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve been learning."
She agreed, curiosity getting the better of her.
The next evening, she stood outside Andre’s apartment, smoothing down her dress—a simple blue one she’d told herself wasn’t special, even though she’d spent too long picking it out.
Andre opened the door before she could knock.
"You’re early," he said, smiling.
Mary’s pulse jumped.
He looked good. Really good. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. The scent of something delicious—spices, garlic, roasting meat—wafted from inside.
"I didn’t want to keep you waiting," she said, stepping past him.
His apartment was warm, lived in. Neat but not obsessively so. Books lined the shelves, a guitar leaned against the couch, and photos of places he’d traveled covered the walls.
It was so him.
Mary found herself smiling.
Andre hadn’t lied—he could cook.
The fried rice was perfectly seasoned, the chicken juicy, the salad fresh. Mary ate until she was full, laughing as Andre proudly recounted his many failed attempts before getting it right.
"There was smoke," he said, shaking his head. "So much smoke."
Mary giggled, sipping the wine he’d poured her. "I wish I’d seen that."
"No, you don’t," he groaned, but he was smiling.
After dinner, they moved to the couch. Andre put on a movie—some romantic comedy Mary had mentioned wanting to see weeks ago.
She was touched he remembered.
Halfway through, she realized how close they were sitting. Her leg brushed against his, and she didn’t pull away.
Andre’s arm was draped over the back of the couch, his fingers inches from her shoulder.
Mary’s heart raced.
She wasn’t sure who moved first.
One moment, they were laughing at a scene in the movie.
The next, Andre turned his head, his gaze dropping to her lips.
Mary’s breath caught.
Then he leaned in.
His lips were warm, softer than she’d imagined, tasting faintly of wine. For one dizzying second, Mary melted into it.
Then reality crashed over her.
She jerked back, scrambling to her feet.
"Mary—" Andre reached for her, his expression equal parts desire and panic.
"I have to go," she choked out, grabbing her purse.
"Wait, please—"
But she was already out the door, her heart pounding, her lips still burning.
Mary didn’t remember the drive home.
She locked the door behind her, sinking to the floor, her entire body trembling.
What had she done?
What had he done?
Her phone buzzed in her purse—once, twice, then continuously. Andre. Calling. Texting.
"Mary, please talk to me."
"I’m sorry. That was too much."
"Just tell me you’re okay."
She ignored them all, turning her phone face down.
She was angry.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
But the truth was scarier.
The truth was, for that one second before she panicked—she had *wanted* that kiss.
And that terrified her more than anything.
TO BE CONTINUED...
THE LAST PROMISE
PART 8
Weeks had passed since Andre had hugged Mary in her living room, and in that time, something between them had shifted.
Mary no longer jumped when her phone buzzed with his name. She no longer made excuses when he suggested they meet. Instead, she found herself looking forward to his messages, to the sound of his laughter, to the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her.
Andre had become her best friend
Every Saturday morning, without fail, Andre would show up at Mary’s doorstep with a bag of fresh fruits from the market—ripe mangoes, sweet pineapples, sometimes even the expensive strawberries she loved but never bought for herself.
"You need to eat better," he would say, grinning as he barged into her kitchen like he owned it.
Mary would roll her eyes but secretly love the way he fussed over her.
In return, she cooked for him.
At first, it was simple things—jollof rice, fried plantains, egusi soup. But as the weeks passed, she found herself putting more effort into it, making his favorite dishes, watching closely for his reaction when he took the first bite.
"Mary,"* he groaned one evening after tasting her ofada stew. "If you keep cooking like this, I’m never leaving."
She laughed, swatting his arm, but her cheeks warmed at the thought.
Andre in her home. Every day.
The idea didn’t scare her as much as it should have.
It happened slowly, then all at once.
One evening, as they sat on her balcony watching the sunset, Mary caught herself staring at Andre’s profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his lips quirked when he was thinking.
Her stomach fluttered.
She looked away quickly, her heart pounding.
What was that?
Then, another time, when Andre reached across the table to wipe a speck of sauce from her chin, his thumb lingering just a second too long. Mary’s breath hitched, and she saw the way his eyes darkened before he pulled back.
Neither of them mentioned it.
But Mary lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering when friendship had started feeling like something more.
"Come over to my place tomorrow," Andre said casually one afternoon as they walked through the park. "I’ll cook for you this time."
Mary raised an eyebrow. "You? Cook?"
He smirked. "Don’t sound so surprised. I’ve been learning."
She agreed, curiosity getting the better of her.
The next evening, she stood outside Andre’s apartment, smoothing down her dress—a simple blue one she’d told herself wasn’t special, even though she’d spent too long picking it out.
Andre opened the door before she could knock.
"You’re early," he said, smiling.
Mary’s pulse jumped.
He looked good. Really good. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. The scent of something delicious—spices, garlic, roasting meat—wafted from inside.
"I didn’t want to keep you waiting," she said, stepping past him.
His apartment was warm, lived in. Neat but not obsessively so. Books lined the shelves, a guitar leaned against the couch, and photos of places he’d traveled covered the walls.
It was so him.
Mary found herself smiling.
Andre hadn’t lied—he could cook.
The fried rice was perfectly seasoned, the chicken juicy, the salad fresh. Mary ate until she was full, laughing as Andre proudly recounted his many failed attempts before getting it right.
"There was smoke," he said, shaking his head. "So much smoke."
Mary giggled, sipping the wine he’d poured her. "I wish I’d seen that."
"No, you don’t," he groaned, but he was smiling.
After dinner, they moved to the couch. Andre put on a movie—some romantic comedy Mary had mentioned wanting to see weeks ago.
She was touched he remembered.
Halfway through, she realized how close they were sitting. Her leg brushed against his, and she didn’t pull away.
Andre’s arm was draped over the back of the couch, his fingers inches from her shoulder.
Mary’s heart raced.
She wasn’t sure who moved first.
One moment, they were laughing at a scene in the movie.
The next, Andre turned his head, his gaze dropping to her lips.
Mary’s breath caught.
Then he leaned in.
His lips were warm, softer than she’d imagined, tasting faintly of wine. For one dizzying second, Mary melted into it.
Then reality crashed over her.
She jerked back, scrambling to her feet.
"Mary—" Andre reached for her, his expression equal parts desire and panic.
"I have to go," she choked out, grabbing her purse.
"Wait, please—"
But she was already out the door, her heart pounding, her lips still burning.
Mary didn’t remember the drive home.
She locked the door behind her, sinking to the floor, her entire body trembling.
What had she done?
What had he done?
Her phone buzzed in her purse—once, twice, then continuously. Andre. Calling. Texting.
"Mary, please talk to me."
"I’m sorry. That was too much."
"Just tell me you’re okay."
She ignored them all, turning her phone face down.
She was angry.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
But the truth was scarier.
The truth was, for that one second before she panicked—she had *wanted* that kiss.
And that terrified her more than anything.
TO BE CONTINUED...