A Quiet Kind of Love

A gentle college romance where trust and healing grow into lasting love.

word count : 1680

A Quiet Kind of Love

Angela Monroe had a way of moving through life as if the world were gentler with her than with most. Maybe it was her soft smile, or the way she listened like every word mattered. Maybe it was simply that she believed people were good until they gave her reason not to.

By day, she balanced college classes with a part-time job at Cheryl’s Studio Hair Salon, the big bright place everyone simply called the Studio. Six stylists buzzed around with curling irons and laughter, while two shampoo girls darted back and forth like hummingbirds. Angela worked the front desk when needed, swept floors, and helped her mother keep things running smoothly. The job fit neatly around her schedule at the community college, where she studied accounting and tutored students in math.

Twice a week, she met Woody Carter in the library.

Woody was everything Angela was not. Loud where she was quiet. Reckless where she was careful. He had a grin that made girls lose their balance and a reputation for parties that lasted until sunrise. Everyone knew his motto, love them and leave them. Angela pretended not to notice him beyond algebra problems and homework sheets, but her heart had other plans.

She kept her crush tucked away like a secret letter never meant to be mailed.

At church, Angela sang in the choir, her voice lifting into the rafters like prayer itself. On weekends, she painted and sketched, sometimes selling her work at street fairs. People liked her easily. She had a way of making the world feel softer just by being in it.

One Thursday afternoon, the bell over the salon door jingled and a man in a crisp jacket stepped inside, carrying a leather folder. He introduced himself as Mark Reynolds from WWDR Radio. He was there to talk advertising with Cheryl, but his attention soon drifted to Angela at the front desk.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked casually.

Angela blushed. “No, sir.”

“Well, I’ve got a young intern who just started with us. Jeff. He’s new in town. Think you’d be willing to show him around sometime?”

Angela hesitated only a moment before nodding. She had friends who met every Saturday near the Tuscarora River for volleyball and cookouts. It seemed harmless enough.

Jeff stopped by the Studio the day before the outing. He was good-looking, quick to smile, and easy to talk to. Angela actually liked him. They agreed to meet in the salon parking lot around one on Saturday. Angela offered to drive, but Jeff insisted. She told him about the kayaks, the swimming, the music, and the food prepared by her church, even explaining how much the burgers cost so he would know to bring money.

Saturday came with sunshine and laughter drifting across the water. Jeff turned out to be older than Angela had expected. Twenty-seven, nearly ten years her senior. He brought a cooler stocked with beer. More than she thought one person would need, especially after she had told him she did not drink. By early afternoon, she was fairly sure he had already had several.

Trying to redirect the day, Angela suggested they try one of the two-person kayaks. Out on the water, things felt lighter. They tipped once but stayed upright, laughing at their awkward paddling. For a little while, Angela relaxed, enjoying the rhythm of the paddles and the sparkle of the river.

As evening settled and a small fire crackled near the shore, Jeff leaned closer. His questions shifted from casual to personal. When he asked about her dating life and then crossed a line she was not comfortable with, Angela stood up.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I think I need to go home.”

They packed up, and Angela asked if she could drive since he had been drinking. To her relief, he handed her the keys without argument. But that relief faded when, a few minutes down the narrow road, he asked her to pull over, saying he felt sick.

She eased the car off near a wooded stretch. He got out. When she did not hear anything, she stepped around the back of the car to check on him.

He moved suddenly, blocking her path. Panic surged as he pressed too close. She pushed against him, telling him to stop. When his tone hardened and he threatened her, fear turned sharp and urgent.

Angela twisted free and ran toward the beach.

He caught her near the sand and dragged her down. She fought back, clawing and kicking, shoving a fistful of sand into his eyes. He struck her hard across the cheek, the impact bursting into white light behind her eyes. Pain exploded through her face, but she did not stop.

She drove her knee upward and broke free as he rolled off her, cursing. Angela ran again, lungs burning, until she reached a car pulling away from the beach. The people inside stopped without hesitation. They helped her get out of there.

By Monday, the bruise bloomed deep purple along her cheekbone.

When she met Woody Carter in the library that afternoon, he noticed immediately.

“What happened to your face?” he asked, frowning.

Angela touched her cheek and forced a small smile. “Ski accident down at Tuscarora.”

Woody did not believe her.

And what surprised him most was how much he cared.

Woody could not concentrate on algebra. Every time Angela tucked her hair behind her ear, the bruise caught his eye.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said finally, lowering his voice. “But if someone hurt you, that’s not okay.”

Angela stared down at her notebook. Her fingers tightened around her pencil, trembling just enough for him to notice.

“It was my fault,” she whispered. Tears slipped down her cheeks as if saying the words made them real.

Woody leaned forward. “No. I will never believe that. That kind of bruise doesn’t come from a little accident. That is abuse, Angela.”

The word seemed to unlock something. The story spilled out in fragments. The cookout. Jeff. Trusting the wrong person. The fear that had followed her home and lingered in quiet moments.

Woody listened without interrupting. Something heavy and unfamiliar settled in his chest. He was not a hero. He was not even the kind of guy who made promises. But he knew Angela deserved better than silence and self-blame.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quietly. “Do you hear me?”

Angela looked up, eyes shining. “Thank you for saying that. I keep thinking there must have been something I did to make him believe…” Her voice broke, and the tears came harder.

Woody pulled her into his arms without thinking. He did not try to fix anything. He just held her while she cried, letting her take the time she needed. When her breathing finally slowed, he eased back enough to meet her gaze.

“Angela, this was not your fault,” he said gently. “You’re kind and open, and that’s not a weakness. You are allowed to say no. Always.” He hesitated, then added softly, “I really wish I had a handkerchief right now.”

A small laugh escaped her.

“You always say the right thing at the wrong moment.”

“Story of my life,” he said, smiling.

She wiped her eyes and managed a breathy smile. “Thank you for making me feel better. And you don’t need to pay me today. I used half of your tutoring time crying all over you.”

“I consider that extra credit,” he said.

After that day, something between them shifted.

They still met for tutoring, but the edges softened. Woody started showing up early, claiming he needed caffeine to survive math. Coffee turned into conversations. Conversations turned into easy silences neither of them rushed to fill.

He noticed the changes in her first. The way she lingered instead of packing up quickly. The way she smiled before she spoke. He listened more. He drank less. He walked her to her car without making it a big deal. When she sang in the church choir one Sunday, he sat in the back pew, uncomfortable but proud.

Woody surprised himself too. He liked the way she laughed when she forgot to be careful. He liked how she saw him, not as a reputation but as someone still figuring things out.

One afternoon, as they crossed campus together, he stopped short.

“Angela… I know I’ve got a reputation. And I deserve it. But I want to be a better person.” He hesitated. “If I promise to be a perfect gentleman, would you consider going out with me?”

She studied him. “Woody, you don’t have to do that. I consider you a friend, and we both know I’m not your type.”

“Angela, you’re wrong,” he said. “But I’d like the chance to prove I’m not going to be a jerk. I don’t want to rush you. And I don’t want to mess this up.” He took her hand. “You’re special to me.”

She hesitated. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“I don’t either,” he said. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel more than that. I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Her breath caught. “I always thought I wasn’t your type.”

He smiled, softer than she had ever seen. “Turns out, I didn’t know my type very well.”

“I’ve had a crush on you for a long time,” she admitted.

His smile widened. “Then is that a yes?”

“Yes,” she said.

Their first date was simple. Burgers by the river. Music drifting from a small radio. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people being careful with something that mattered.

When he finally leaned in and kissed her, Woody felt a quiet certainty settle into place. This was different. This was real.

Sometimes love does not arrive with fireworks or grand gestures. Sometimes it grows quietly, in a library, over algebra books, with two people willing to take their time.

And for Angela Monroe and Woody Carter, that was exactly right.

The art included with this story is Assisted Ai digital Art by Tee M.