Older, Wiser, Mine.

Chapter three: Almost, But Not Yet

The breeze is soft as Jay and I walk through school town, shoulders brushing every now and then. The sun has dipped, but the streets are still alive—vendors yelling prices, students rushing back to hostels, laughter trailing behind couples holding hands.

He walks close beside me like always. Calm, reserved, unreadable. He never says too much, but when he does, it’s the kind of thing you think about later in bed, eyes wide open, playing it over and over again.

People stare. I see them. Girls, mostly—some whispering, some just pausing mid-step. Jay isn’t the kind of guy people expect to see walking casually beside someone like me. He’s rich, quiet, the kind you hear more about than actually see. He’s rarely around, yet somehow always on everyone’s lips.

We talk about random things—classes, hostel gist, our worst lecturers—and laugh until my cheeks hurt. At some point, he gets me food, rice and chicken from my favorite spot, and I start to feel that warmth in my chest again.

It’s not long before we’re outside my apartment.

“My roommate isn’t around,” I say, unlocking the door.

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Should I head out?”

I hesitate. I want him to stay. But the bed is tiny, and my place looks like it’s been through too many heartbreaks to feel like a prince-worthy castle.

Still, I say, “No. You can stay if you want.”

Inside, I rush to clear a few scattered clothes. My eyes flick to the rusted fan, the old wardrobe with its chipped corners, and the bed that’s barely enough for me. Shame itches at my throat. I feel like I’m offering him scraps.

But Jay? He just kicks off his shoes, flops onto the bed like it’s five-star, and grins at me.

He pulls out his phone. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

He scrolls through, then taps something. “This one’s called Missy. You’ll laugh till your ribs hurt.”

He’s not lying. Ten minutes in, I’m doubled over, laughing so hard I have to pause the movie just to breathe. Jay starts calling me “Missy” every time I laugh too loud, which only makes me laugh more.

“Stop it!” I throw a pillow at him.

“Missy,” he sings, and I nearly choke on my drink.

The night stretches quietly after the movie ends. The laughter fades into soft silence. Outside, crickets begin their slow, rhythmic symphony. The room feels different now—closer, warmer. My skin is tingling.

We lie side by side, neither of us saying a word. Then, he turns to me, eyes dark and still. “Can I kiss you?”

My breath catches. My body wants to say yes, my mind stutters. I nod anyway.

The kiss starts slow. His lips are firmer than they look but not rough. Just enough pressure to make my body lean into him. I pull back at first, unsure. But the pull is too strong, and soon we’re kissing again—deeper, breathier.

His hands explore—my arms, my waist, my back—until one hand finds my breast. He moves slowly, like he’s reading my reactions.

I let him. For a while.

But then his fingers slip lower, brushing against the waistband of my jeans. I stop him.

“I’ve never done this,” I whisper.

He pauses, lips on my neck. “Have you ever been given head?”

I freeze, not expecting the question. “No. And I wouldn’t want you to.”

He respects that—at least, he doesn’t push it again. But he’s hard. I can feel it through his jeans. We dry hump, jeans still on, but every time he tries to go a bit further, I stop him. Once, he tries to finger me under my panties, and I flinch. It hurts. He stops.

The tension hovers like smoke. His breathing is heavy, and so is mine. But we don’t speak of it.

We sleep eventually, curled into each other like we’ve done this forever. In the quiet of night, I feel safe. Seen.

⸻

Morning light pours in through my curtain. Jay’s still beside me, one arm slung over my waist, our bodies tangled.

“Good morning, Missy,” he murmurs with a sleepy grin.

I laugh, cheeks burning. “You’re not over that?”

“Never.”

We act like last night didn’t happen. No talk of kissing or touching. Just easy conversations and playful teasing. He wants to stay another night, but I tell him my roommate will be back, and we both know it’s not wise.

Still, we get closer after that. In school, he doesn’t hide me. He finds me during breaks, walks beside me from classes, always stopping to buy me food like I’m his softest habit. At night, we stroll the campus roads, sharing ideas about the future.

One evening, we sit in an eatery long after most people have left. Over a plate of fried rice and cold Pepsi, he says, “I’ve been thinking of relocating after graduation. Maybe Canada. Or should I just stay back and start something here?”

I lean forward, interested. “If relocating is a one-time opportunity, take it. But if you can leave anytime, maybe build something here first.”

He looks at me, something shifting in his expression. “You’re smart, you know that?”

I smile. “You keep forgetting.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m just still surprised.”

It’s late when we leave the eatery, too late to return to campus. Jay suggests a hotel nearby—the same one he stayed at last night for “comfort” and “focus.”

I hesitate. Again.

But I go.

He says it’s better than squeezing into my tiny apartment. And maybe he’s right.

At the hotel, he gets pounded yam and egusi for me, proudly placing it in front of me. “Try something new.”

I almost gag. “You know I hate this stuff.”

“Come on, Missy.”

I try one bite, and that’s it. I spit it out and we both burst into laughter. “Never again.”

We can’t get anything else that night, so I just eat the meat and sulk. He laughs at me the whole time.

Later, in the room, he’s on his laptop working, and I scroll through my phone, guilt tugging at my gut.

What am I doing? Melvin crosses my mind, and for a second, I feel disloyal. But then I remember—Melvin hasn’t earned that loyalty.

Jay lies beside me again, warm, familiar. His touch feels different now. Not as rushed as Melvin’s. Not desperate. Just there—present.

We kiss. Slowly at first. Then faster, deeper. My jeans are off now, and he’s rubbing against me through my panties.

But I’m not wet.

It feels off. Not wrong, but not right either. He tries to finger me again, gentle this time—but it still hurts. I push his hand away.

“I’m a virgin,” I finally say. “And I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he sighs. “I kinda figured.”

He shifts, facing me. “You’re like… my dream girl. But I won’t lie—I don’t know if I can offer something long-term. I don’t want to hurt you.”

I nod slowly, the words soaking in like cold water.

“I’m not asking for anything yet,” I whisper. “Just don’t use me.”

“I won’t,” he says, and I almost believe him.

We sleep, again, curled up like old lovers. And in the morning, we laugh again. Tease each other. Make silly videos. We pretend the night didn’t happen, again.

Almost lovers. But not yet.