I heard the loud clang of the iron gate again… the sound echoed through the workshop and, right after, the rumble of the car filled the stuffy air. I opened my eyes with a jolt, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking. Sunlight was already coming through the window, far too bright for a night that felt like it hadn't ended yet.
I grabbed my phone from the bed.
A missed call from Rosa.
I typed quickly, before guilt had time to grow:
"I'm okay. I'm at the workshop with Vicente."
I sent it.
Then I slowly turned my head.
Vicente was lying beside me, in the same position as when he arrived hours earlier. His body was still, his breathing heavy, as if rest itself were still a difficult negotiation.
I heard men's voices coming from the workshop. This time, I didn't hide. If someone came in, I would ask. I would want to know what had happened to him. And maybe, if no one came into the house, I should go into the workshop to find out myself.
I sat up on the bed, ready to stand, when I felt a tight grip on my hand.
Vicente.
He was holding my hand firmly enough to keep me there. I looked at him. His eyes were open, fixed on me, far too alert for someone who should have been asleep.
— How are you feeling? — I asked. — Does it still hurt a lot?
One corner of his mouth lifted in a weak smile.
— It could've been worse.
— Do you want anything? Water? I can make you something to eat…
— I need to go to the bathroom — he said. — The smell of these clothes is making me sick.
I jumped up instantly. In a second, I was already standing beside the bed.
— Okay… slowly.
I helped him sit up. Vicente draped one arm over my shoulder and took a deep breath.
— On three — he said.
We counted together. On three, he stood up, leaning his weight on me. His body was warm, but he felt steadier than he had the night before.
— Just help me with the shirt, because of my arm — he said. — The rest I can manage.
I nodded.
He sat down on the toilet lid. I stood in front of him and, carefully, helped guide his arms out of the sleeves. I pulled the collar slowly, avoiding his injured forehead. When the fabric finally came off, his face reappeared… and he was staring at me.
I froze for a second.
— Why did you get hurt like this? — I asked, my voice lower. — What are you doing to come home like this?
My eyes drifted down his chest without meaning to. There were bruises scattered there, old ones and new. I touched one of them gently.
His skin flinched.
— I'm sorry I worried you — he said quietly. — I didn't think it would end like this.
I looked back at him.
— Where else does it hurt? Besides your forehead and your arm.
— My body's sore… but nothing I can't handle.
I sighed. A knot rose in my throat, but I held it back. This wasn't the time to cry.
I lowered my hands to the waistband of his pants and unbuttoned them, firm and decided.
Vicente grabbed my wrists immediately, startled.
— Hey… what are you doing?
I didn't look at him.
— Help me take them off — I replied. — You're going to shower. You smell like blood, sweat, and fuel.
He hesitated. Then he let go of my hands.
— Melissa…
— Vicente — I interrupted. — Just do what I'm asking.
He gave in.
I pulled his pants down slowly, first one side, then the other, until they rested at his feet. I helped him step out of them completely and left them in a corner.
I turned on the shower… the water made a loud noise in the small bathroom. I tested it with my hand, adjusted the temperature until it was warm. I went back to him and held out my arm.
— Come on.
I helped Vicente stand again. He stepped into the shower with slow movements, his body tense, as if every motion had to be calculated. The water hit his back first, then ran down his chest, washing away the dried blood, the smell of fuel, the whole night clinging to him.
He stood there, still, his face flushed, eyes lowered. He didn't look at me.
— You can go… — he said quietly, almost like a request. — From here on, I've got it.
I studied him for a second, looking for something that would tell me he really was okay. I nodded.
— I'll leave the door just ajar — I said. — If you need anything… call me.
I grabbed a clean towel and hung it over the shower door, within his reach. Then I took two steps back and left the bathroom, pulling the door slowly, quietly.
I left it barely closed.
I stayed outside, sitting on the cold floor with my back against the wall. The sound of the water filled everything. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, opened them again, counting time without knowing exactly why.
It wasn't just worry.
It was the strange feeling of taking care of someone who had always been my solid ground.
A few minutes passed before I heard the shower turn off.
My body reacted before my mind. I started to stand, then stopped halfway. If he needed me, he would call. I sat back down on the floor, leaning against the wall, alert to any different sound.
The bathroom door opened.
I stood up quickly.
Vicente came out, moving slowly. The towel was wrapped around his waist, his chest still wet, water dripping from his hair onto the floor. His face looked less tense, his breathing steadier.
I stepped forward to help him, but he raised a hand, stopping me.
— I'm fine — he said. — The shower helped. I'm even feeling a bit stronger.
I watched him carefully, suspicious.
— Don't push it.
— I'm not — he replied, with a hint of a smile. — Wait here, I'll get dressed.
He took two steps, then stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder.
— Unless you want to help me take the towel off.
I let out an automatic huff and stepped back.
— Yeah, you're definitely better — I replied.
He laughed softly.
— I'll wait out here — I said, turning my face away.
He headed for the wardrobe.
I went to wait in the narrow hallway that led to the workshop.
From there, I could hear everything. The metallic clang of tools, an engine being tested, loose voices that didn't seem worried about being quiet. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
Until one sentence slipped out.
— If Lobão hadn't taken Vicente out, first place would've been his.
My stomach dropped before I could even process what that meant.
I didn't have time to hear anything else.
Vicente appeared at the end of the hallway, already dressed, his hair still damp. He caught me right in the middle of my shock.
— Eavesdropping on other people's conversations now? — he asked, with that half-smile he always used when he wanted to dodge something.
I grumbled immediately.
— You should be lying down — I said. — In bed or on the couch… not walking around like nothing happened.
I nudged him lightly by the arm toward the house.
— Go. I'll bring you something to eat.
He tried to protest, but ended up going. And for a second, I felt relief seeing that his steps were firmer, his body less heavy.
I stayed there, watching until he settled on the couch.
The relief didn't last long.
Because the sentence I'd heard in the workshop wouldn't leave my head. And even without understanding everything, I knew one thing with uncomfortable clarity:
whatever Vicente was involved in… it wasn't something small.