I sliced the steaks carefully, trying to keep them all the same size. My mind was far away, drifting back to Rita. For years, she had been the most constant presence in that house that was far too big. While my mother dealt with the world outside, the kitchen was where I stayed. Bored, curious, sometimes just wanting to hear someone talk without weighing every word.
Rita said whatever she thought, laughed loudly. She told stories that never really had a beginning or an end. Sometimes she let me stir the pot, taste the seasoning. When my mother wasn't around, the kitchen became our territory. And it was because of her that now I could make something that resembled a real dinner. Nothing fancy, but decent.
— Are you sure? — Vicente's voice pulled me back.
He was leaning beside me, resting against the counter, watching my movements with quiet attention.
I looked at him, trying to understand what he meant.
— If you think it's better to go home, you can see I'm fine — he added, in a tone that tried to sound casual, but fooled no one.
I stopped the knife midair and turned to him.
— I was already thinking about staying even before Rosa called — I said simply. — Tomorrow morning I'll go home, grab some clothes, and come right back.
I went back to slicing.
— Tonight I'll shower and sleep in some of your clothes.
His jaw tightened slightly… the hand holding the glass gripped it a bit harder. Vicente took a deep breath but didn't say a word.
I stayed by the stove, feeling the smell of food slowly fill the kitchen. Vicente remained there with me, not in the way, just occupying the space as if it had always been like this.
— So… — he began, almost casually. — Did you get better at math, or do you still hate it like before?
I smiled faintly, stirring the pan.
— I got better. Not because I started liking it, but because I had to learn how to survive.— I knew it — he murmured, as if that confirmed some thought.
Then he asked about my drawing course, whether I had finished it. If I still drew secretly in notebooks, like I used to when I was younger. I told him I had finished, that I stopped for a while, then came back. That drawing was still the only place where my mind went quiet.
I asked about him too… light things. How the shop was doing, whether he decided to open one so he could take things apart and put them back together, like he used to. If he still stayed up too late. I carefully avoided, almost painfully, all the questions that burned on the tip of my tongue.
The conversation went on like that… skimming the surface. Neither of us diving in.
When I finished, I set the table. Vicente sat down even before I was done, breathing in deeply with an expression far too satisfied for someone who claimed he wasn't hungry.
— I never imagined you knew how to cook — he said sincerely.
I let out a short laugh.
— I told you in the letters — I replied without thinking. — The ones you never answered.
The air grew heavy immediately. Regret hit at once. I didn't need to have said that… I knew it now. I knew he had answered all of them, that he had written more letters to me than I had ever sent him. And still, it slipped out.
I almost apologized, but instead I turned, grabbed a steak, and placed it on his plate. I served rice, sautéed potatoes with salt and herbs.
— Try it before deciding whether I can cook or not — I said, forcing a lighter tone, chuckling softly just to break the silence.
He did. He picked up a potato, chewed slowly, looked up at me, and made a simple gesture of approval, almost solemn.
I breathed in relief.
I picked up my cutlery, but before sitting down, I cut his steak into smaller pieces and slid the plate back toward him.
Dinner went better than I expected. Vicente had seconds, and that said more than any compliment. He ate quietly, focused, as if each bite confirmed that the night was going well.
When we finished, I got up to clear the table. He moved as if to help, but I shook my head before he could reach the sink.
— I'll take care of it. Go rest that arm — I said, stacking the plates. — Pick out some clothes for me with your good hand. As soon as I'm done here, I'll take a shower.
He didn't argue. Just nodded.
The kitchen was ready faster than I expected. In a few minutes, the table was clean, the sink dry, the dishes put away, leftovers stored in containers in the fridge. I stopped between the table and the sink and let out a short, proud sigh. It was strangely satisfying. Much more than spending the whole day bored, sitting somewhere too pretty, waiting for someone else to do everything for me.
I went to the bathroom. The clothes were already hanging on the hook on the wall.
I turned on the shower and let the warm water fall over me. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, feeling my body relax. It was almost unbelievable how much my life had changed since the day I decided to leave my mother's house. Everything felt more real. I turned off the water, dried myself, and picked up Vicente's clothes. A pair of shorts and a white T-shirt.
I put on the shorts first. The fabric slid easily over my legs, but the length fell well below my knees. I looked in the mirror and made a face.
— No way — I murmured.
I took off the shorts and put on just the T-shirt. It hung loose, oversized, almost reaching my knees. I looked at myself again… grabbed my pants from the floor, pulled out the belt, and fastened it around my waist over the shirt, tightening it just enough to shape my silhouette.
That was better.
I opened the bathroom door and stepped out. My hair was still dripping, the light shirt clinging faintly to my damp skin.
Vicente had his back turned, leaning over the table, working on something I couldn't identify. I paused for a second in the hallway, not sure why. Maybe because that shirt — his shirt — still felt strange on my body. Or maybe because I knew that at some point, he would turn around.
It was exactly when I passed by him.
Vicente turned at the same instant.
The shock showed first in his eyes. It wasn't exaggerated or theatrical — it was raw. Like his brain needed an extra second to catch up with what it was seeing. The shirt hung loose on me, the belt defining my waist, my wet hair trailing down my back, lightly dripping onto the cotton.
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Took a step toward me.
He was so close I felt the warmth of his body before I even realized how much I was holding my breath. His hand rose slowly, as if to touch my arm.
— Melissa…
He stopped halfway.
His gaze dropped. His hand fell.
— You take the bed — he said, his voice lower than before. — I'll take the couch.
I frowned immediately.
— No way.
— I'm serious.
— So am I. — I crossed my arms. — You're hurt. You need to be comfortable.
He tilted his head, assessing me, and a half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
— You won't last thirty minutes on that couch.
— I will — I shot back, already moving toward it. — I'm not that spoiled girl you used to know.
I grabbed the pillow before he could respond and threw myself onto the couch, arranging my body in an almost defiant way.
— See? Easy.
He didn't insist. Just looked at me for a few seconds, like he knew exactly how this would end. Then he headed for the bed, just a few meters away, separated only by the TV shelf.
He turned off the light.
Silence settled in.
Five minutes later, I was already shifting.
The wooden couch felt like it had been designed to jab every bone in my body. I turned on my side, muttered under my breath, stretched a leg, pulled the pillow. Nothing worked.
A few more minutes.
I felt the edge of the couch press into my ribs and let out an irritated sigh.
— Everything okay over there? — his voice came from the dark, lazily teasing.
— Great — I replied, turning again. — Just not sleepy.
Silence.
Two minutes later, I turned again.
— Want to switch places? — he asked, now with barely hidden amusement. — There's still time.
— No — I grumbled. — I'm about to fall asleep.
Two more minutes that felt like hours.
I gave in.
I got up quietly, grabbed the pillow, and went to the bed. He made space without saying anything, just shifting his body slightly.
I lay down beside him, facing away at first.
— We shared a bed a thousand times when we were kids — I murmured, adjusting the pillow. — It's not going to be a problem now.
He stayed silent for a moment.
Then he took a deep breath, sounding tense.
The mattress gave under my weight, and my body finally relaxed, as if it had spent the whole day waiting for that.
Everything there smelled like him.
It wasn't perfume. It was something simpler and deeper… fabric washed many times, skin, soap, the trace of someone who truly lived there. I breathed in slowly, without thinking.
Vicente breathed beside me, the sound low and steady. He didn't touch me, but his presence was solid, warm, real. I knew exactly where he was, even with my eyes closed.
I turned slightly, pulling the pillow closer.
The whole day finally seemed to release its hold on me.
And before any thought could get in the way again, exhaustion won.
I fell asleep there, surrounded by silence, by the bed, and by his scent.