Mauwa leaned against the locker for a moment longer, watching Jim's retreating back with a look of satisfied calculation. He pushed off the metal with a lazy grace and caught up to Mike, who was still wearing that unsettling, triumphant grin after his encounter with Jared.
"I'll be at the gate," Mauwa called out to Jim, who didn't turn back, his shoulders rigid with tension.
As the two university students stepped out into the afternoon sun, the atmosphere in the courtyard shifted. The rhythmic thud of rugby boots and the presence of them from the campus next door caused a near-stoppage of movement. High school girls paused mid-sentence, and even the boys found themselves staring at the sheer, effortless confidence the duo projected.
Mauwa adjusted his training bag, glancing sideways at his friend. "You're playing a dangerous game, Mike. Poor Jared looks like he's ready to jump out of his skin. You were a bit... vivid in there, even for you."
Mike chuckled, the sound low and unapologetic. "The boys of this school are just too easy to rattle, Mauwa. It's like they've never been looked at by someone who actually sees them."
"Careful," Mauwa said, his voice dropping as they navigated through a crowd of whispering seniors. "If I tell Jezebel that her devoted boyfriend spent his afternoon calling a high school boy 'beautiful' and threatening to haunt his front porch, I don't think she'll be quite as amused as you are."
Mike didn't even flinch at the mention of his girlfriend. He just flashed that same predatory smile, looking out over the sea of high schoolers as if he owned the place.
"Tell her," Mike replied easily. "Jezebel wouldn't mind. She's so madly in love with me she'd probably find it charming. She knows I have an eye for aesthetic perfection—wherever I find it."
Mauwa shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "You're a menace, Mike. But I suppose we both have our 'projects' for the weekend."
They reached the heavy iron gates of the high school. Mauwa leaned against the stone pillar, crossing his arms and waiting for the "Little Priest" to emerge from the building. Beside him, Mike checked his watch, looking like a man who was already counting down the hours until he could show up at Jared's front door.
To the students watching from the windows and the lawn, they were a picture of untouchable university stardom—two handsome athletes who had turned their world into a playground. But for Jim and Jared, watching from a distance, they were the encroaching storm.
The interior of the sedan was a pressure cooker of unspoken words. Mauwa drove with a casual, one-handed grip on the wheel, his head constantly turning toward Jim, who remained a statue of righteous silence.
"Still acting like a gargoyle, Jim?" Mauwa teased, his voice low. "You can't keep the 'firewall' up forever. Even the holiest men have to speak eventually."
Jim didn't budge. He stared at the horizon, his Bible clutched so tightly to his chest it was a wonder the leather hadn't cracked. "I am practicing temperance, Mauwa. I told you—I am done with your games."
Mauwa chuckled, leaning in closer as they cruised down the main road. "Temperance is just another word for being afraid of your own voice. Why are you so—"
SCREECH.
The car in front of them slammed on its brakes to avoid a stray dog. Mauwa, distracted by his attempt to break Jim's silence, reacted purely on instinct. He jammed his foot onto the brake pedal, the tires howling as the car jerked to a violent, shuddering halt.
In the chaos of the sudden stop, Mauwa's free hand flew out to brace himself—and Jim. But instead of hitting the dashboard or Jim's shoulder, his hand landed with a heavy, solid THWACK directly on Jim's lap—specifically, right across his fly.
The impact was forceful. Jim let out a sharp, guttural groan of pure, unadulterated pain, his eyes squeezed shut as his body curled forward.
"Jim! Dammit, I'm sorry—" Mauwa gasped, the adrenaline of the near-miss still coursing through him.
Jim's face was pale, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He reached down and frantically shoved Mauwa's hand away, wriggling in his seat as he tried to shift his weight and ease the throbbing, sickening ache.
Seeing Jim in genuine distress, Mauwa's teasing persona evaporated, replaced by a frantic, clumsy concern. "Hey, let me—let me help. I didn't mean to hit you that hard."
Without thinking—driven by a warped sense of care—Mauwa reached back out. Instead of a clinical check, his hand landed back on the same spot, his fingers moving in a slow, firm circular motion, instinctively trying to "massage" the pain away.
The atmosphere in the car changed in a heartbeat.
The pain was still there, but it was suddenly being eclipsed by a surge of white-hot, terrifying electricity. Jim felt his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird. The "consecrated water" of his eyes blew wide as he felt the heavy warmth of Mauwa's palm through the fabric of his school trousers. He could feel his body beginning to react, a traitorous heat rising that had nothing to do with the injury and everything to do with the man touching him.
"Stop," Jim whispered, but his voice lacked its usual authority.
Mauwa seemed caught in a trance, his gaze fixed on Jim's face, his hand continuing the slow, rhythmic fondling as he tried to soothe the very fire he was stoking.
"Is that better?" Mauwa breathed, his voice sounding dazed.
Realizing that his body was seconds away from a complete and total betrayal of his faith, Jim found a sudden, desperate strength. He lunged sideways, his palms slamming into Mauwa's chest with such force that Mauwa's head hit the driver's side window with a dull thud.
"GET OFF ME!" Jim shrieked, his voice cracking.
The violence of the shove snapped Mauwa back to reality. He pulled his hand away as if it had been burned, his eyes wide with shock. He looked down at his hand, then at Jim—who was shivering, tucked against the passenger door, looking like a man who had just looked into the mouth of hell.
"Jim... I... I wasn't thinking," Mauwa stammered, his face flushing with a rare, genuine shame. "I just wanted to make it stop hurting."
"You are a monster," Jim breathed, his voice trembling with a mix of pain and horror. "You are a vile, disgusting monster."
Mauwa didn't retort. For the first time since he had arrived, he looked truly shaken by his own lack of boundaries. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, his chest heaving as he stared straight ahead, the silence now heavier than anything they had experienced before.
The silent drive to the rectory was a descent into an abyss of shame and fear. Jim sat rigid against the door, his heart still slamming violently against his ribs. The dull ache from the physical injury was nothing compared to the fiery humiliation Mauwa had inflicted—and the terrifying rush of heat his body had betrayed.
Mauwa drove with a grim, focused intensity, his jaw clenched. He didn't attempt another word, nor did he dare glance at Jim. The usual playful glint in his eyes was replaced by a haunted, self-loathing horror. He had seen the raw, naked fear in Jim's eyes, and for once, the "game" had been too real, too violating, even for him.
When the sedan pulled into the driveway, Jim didn't wait for the engine to stop. He scrambled out, slamming the door shut without looking back, and raced into the house.
The tension between Jim and Mauwa was a thick, unspoken shroud hanging over the evening meal. Mauwa was uncharacteristically quiet, answering questions from Father Oliver with clipped, polite monosyllables. Jim remained pale and withdrawn, barely touching his food.
After dinner, the family gathered in the living room for their nightly devotion—a tradition Jim usually led with steady composure.
Father Oliver opened the session with a reading on self-control and fleeing the snares of temptation, his voice booming through the room. Jim felt every word aimed directly at him.
When it was time for prayer, Father Oliver held out his hand to Mauwa. "Mauwa, since you are our guest, perhaps you would lead us in our final prayer for safe rest. Pray for focus, protection from distractions, and a clear mind for the studies tomorrow."
Mauwa hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes flicking to Jim, then he accepted the request. He closed his eyes, his large hands clasped together.
"Heavenly Father," Mauwa began, his voice surprisingly soft and sincere. "We thank you for the day. We ask that you protect this house and everyone in it. Forgive us our trespasses, especially those of us who have acted carelessly, or who have caused pain when we intended to... to help. Grant us the wisdom to understand the boundaries we must respect, and the strength to mend what we have broken. Give us restful sleep, and may our hearts be guided by light. Amen."
Jim felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. Mauwa's prayer wasn't a devotion; it was a confession and a direct apology, cloaked in religious language for the family to consume.
The moment devotion ended, Jim practically bolted to the relative safety of the bedroom, closely followed by a silent Mauwa. They both began preparing for bed, maintaining a rigid five-foot distance between them.
A few minutes later, there was a tentative knock on the door, Cherry, a girl of about thirteen, poked her head in.
"Jim? Mauwa? Can I talk to you guys about something important?" Cherry whispered, stepping into the room. She was holding a well-worn copy of her favorite fantasy novel.
"Cherry, we're about to sleep," Jim said, running a tired hand over his face. "Can it wait until morning?"
"No, it can't, Jim! This is serious," Cherry insisted, walking closer until she was standing between the two beds. She looked up at her two older cousins—one the pristine future priest, the other the daunting rugby player—seeking guidance.
"It's about this boy at school, Mark. He won't leave me alone," Cherry began, her voice quivering with frustration. "I told him three times, I'm not interested in his stupid notes or walking home with him. He keeps bothering me after my drawing class, and yesterday, he actually grabbed my backpack to stop me. I told him to stop, but he just laughs and says I'm being dramatic."
Jim immediately bristled with the protective fury of an older brother. "He grabbed you? That's unacceptable! I'll speak to Father tomorrow. We'll call the school principal."
Cherry twisted the book in her hands. "But I don't want to make a big deal! I just want him to stop." She looked pleadingly at Mauwa, who was leaning against his headboard, his dark eyes narrowed with sudden, focused attention.
"Mauwa, what should I do?" Cherry asked, bypassing Jim entirely. "He acts like he owns the sidewalk outside my school, and he won't listen when I say no."
Mauwa's posture changed instantly. He saw the genuine distress in the girl, and his mind, so adept at spotting predatory behavior, recognized the pattern immediately. He also recognized the core issue: a lack of respect for boundaries—the very thing he himself had violated hours earlier.
"You've handled it perfectly so far, Cherry," Mauwa said, his voice calm and firm. "You've said no. Your mistake is thinking he'll listen to your words."
He leaned forward, his gaze direct and compelling. "Tomorrow, you do this: you find the biggest, meanest, most intimidating person in your immediate vicinity. You stand next to them. If he tries to talk to you, you put up your hand and say, very clearly, 'You need to talk to my cousin, Mauwa Gene.' Tell him you are protected."
He looked at Jim, his eyes silently challenging him.
"And if that doesn't work," Mauwa continued, addressing Jim with the same intensity he had used for his research topic, "then we drive to that boy's school during lunch hour, Jim. We both walk up to him, and we both make it crystal clear what happens to people who don't respect a girl's word when she says no."
Jim looked from his distressed sister to Mauwa's steely resolve. In this moment, Mauwa and Jim were finally aligned, focused on a common, righteous cause: the defense of a clear, non-negotiable boundary.