The Beast's Desire

Chapter 3: Drawn to Each Other

Two days later, fate intervened again.

Kael had agreed, against his usual better judgment, to accompany Amari to a civil society forum hosted at a local university. "It’s good optics," she had said. "And you might meet some people who can move the negotiations along."

He’d barely walked into the main hall when he spotted her.

Maya stood at the front of a small breakout session, gesturing passionately as she spoke to a group of young activists.

"…and until we create systems that are inclusive and just, we’ll keep treating symptoms instead of root causes."

Her voice was clear, commanding. Kael felt the same pull - maybe even stronger now, seeing her in her element. He lingered at the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.

Maya noticed him. Her breath caught. There he was, again. And he was watching her, that same steady, unreadable gaze.

When the session ended, Maya stepped away from the small crowd that had gathered to speak with her. She approached him cautiously, curious, cautious.

"I wasn’t expecting to see you again," she said, voice light, but firm.

Kael smiled, his tone low. "Neither was I."

There was a pause - long enough to feel weighty.

"You were watching me that day," she said. It wasn’t a question.

"I was," he admitted. "And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since."

Maya tilted her head. "Why?"

Kael hesitated, uncharacteristically unsure of his footing. "Because it felt like… something I’d been looking for without knowing it."

That made her smile - soft, genuine.

"You’re here on business?" she asked, already knowing.

"Yes. And you’re a force of nature," he said, only half-joking.

They stood there, surrounded by the buzz of the forum, but cocooned in their own stillness.

She glanced toward the coffee stand tucked in the corner of the student hall, where the scent of roasted beans mingled with the low hum of conversation and students moving about approaching whoever they are interested to start a conversation with. He gestured toward it, a hopeful glint in his eyes. "Care for a coffee?"

For a moment, she hesitated. The offer hung between them like a question she almost wanted to answer. But the mental checklist she carried - the quiet responsibilities waiting for her -nudged her back to reality.

"Another time," she said softly. "I should be heading out."

He nodded, masking his disappointment with a gracious smile. "Of course."

Still, neither of them made a move to leave the space they’d shared for the past hour. The conversation had unravelled easily - starting with community programs, winding into deeper terrain. He’d been surprisingly candid about the frustrations of his work, the feeling of chasing something that never quite held still, and how rare it was to be heard without pretence.

She, too, had let her guard down more than she expected. Spoke about the weight of advocacy, about the stubborn joy of seeing progress - no matter how slow - and the deep ache of carrying stories no one else seemed to want to hold.

As a group of students passed by, their laughter echoing through the hall, he leaned against the pillar beside her and asked, "Why keep doing it? When it’s so hard? When it costs so much?"

She looked at him, then past him, to a flyer taped to the wall about an upcoming protest she’d help organize. "Because someone has to. Because if I don’t, I feel like I’m watching the world unravel. And… because it reminds me there’s still something worth fighting for."

He studied her, a quiet awe in his eyes. "You’re something else."

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "I’m just me. Doing what I can."

Instinctively, he reached out, fingers brushing against hers. She didn’t pull away.

The surrounding voices blurred into background noise as time slowed. Then, reluctantly, she stepped back, gathering her bags.

"I really should go," she said, more to herself than to him.

He nodded again. "It was nice to see you again..."

She offered him a final smile, one that hinted at unfinished conversations. "Me too."

As she walked away, weaving through clusters of students, he didn’t move. Just watched her go, feeling that something unexpected had just shifted.

Whatever had begun between them in that echoing hall wasn’t over. Not yet.

***************

The weekend sun streamed through the kitchen window, spilling golden light across the tiled floor. Maya stood barefoot, cradling a steaming mug of tea, watching her daughter twirl in the living room. A burst of laughter filled the small apartment as six-year-old Amina danced around with a tangle of ribbons in her hand, lost in her world of colour and joy.

"Mama, look! I'm a butterfly!" Amina exclaimed, flapping the ribbons like wings.

Maya smiled, her heart full. "The most beautiful butterfly I've ever seen."

Weekends were sacred. A reprieve from the grinding demands of her work, the meetings, and the endless emails. Those two days belonged to Amina - their little cocoon of games, cartoons, long walks in the park, and chocolate chip pancakes. And Maya never missed a moment. She couldn’t afford to.

Not when every second was a reminder of what she had built, alone.

Amina had come into her life with the quiet force of a tidal wave. Maya had been twenty-four when she found out she was pregnant, navigating the sharp edges of advocacy work and still nursing wounds from a love she thought would last- Zion.

He was supportive at first. Overwhelmed, yes, but there. Until he wasn’t. Three months after Amina was born, he looked her in the eye and told her he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be a father. That he had tried to want it enough, but he didn’t. Maya still remembered the stillness in the room when he said it. How Amina had been asleep in her arms, tiny and unaware, as the world reshaped itself around them.

She didn’t beg him to stay. She didn’t try to reason with him. What would be the point?

Instead, she did the one thing she could: she had him sign away his parental rights. A clean break. No names on certificates, no weekends with a stranger, no birthday cards from a ghost. It had been one of the hardest decisions Maya had ever made, but also the clearest.

Amina would never have to wait for a man who couldn’t show up.

"Mama, can we plant flowers today?" Amina asked, breaking her train of thought. She had stopped dancing and was now tugging gently at Maya’s t-shirt.

Maya bent down, brushing a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. "Of course, my love. Let’s go check your seedlings, and we'll come back and make a masterpiece with paint."

By mid-morning, the garden table was covered in dirt, seeds, swirls of watercolour, glitter, and construction paper. Maya painted alongside Amina, laughing when her daughter insisted that their purple cat needed a crown using flowers. It was messy and chaotic, but it was theirs.

Later, after a long walk to the park and two scoops of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, Amina dozed off on the couch, curled up in a blanket with a picture book slipping from her hand. Maya sat beside her, watching her breathe. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and Maya marveled, as she always did, that this small, fierce, funny girl had chosen her to be her mother.

She thought back to the stranger at the university. The quiet intensity in his voice, the way his presence felt like a shift in the atmosphere. She didn’t know his name, or where he was from, or if they’d ever cross paths again. But a part of her wondered what it might be like, to let someone in again. Not for herself, but for Amina too.

Still, she wasn’t rushing. Love, if it came, would need to understand the fortress she had built. The rules of her world. The daughter at its center.

Maya leaned back on the couch, wrapping an arm around the sleeping girl. For now, this was everything she needed.

Tomorrow, the world will demand more of her. But today? Today belonged to the garden adventures, paint, pancakes, and a little girl who believed she could fly.