Vicente pulled the car over in front of a diner off the main road.
He turned off the engine, rested his hand on the steering wheel for a second, and took a deep breath.
— I'm going to grab some water for us — he said, already opening the door. — Do you want anything else?
I shook my head slowly.
— No.
He nodded and got out.
I watched as he walked toward the diner door. The firm posture, the quick stride, as if nothing had happened.
I tried to hold it in.
I couldn't.
The crying came without asking permission. It wasn't pretty or controlled. It was built-up shock, relief that we'd managed to lose that car, fear of what could have happened. Worry about him.
The tears ran hot. I wiped my face quickly, used my dress to dry it, breathing deeply, trying to regain control before he came back.
When Vicente returned, I wasn't crying anymore.
But my eyes burned. Too red to hide.
He opened the door, handed me the bottle of water, and looked at me. Just a second… enough.
He noticed, but didn't say anything.
He started the engine and we drove the rest of the way in silence.
No questions… no explanations. Just the sound of the car moving and our breathing, still out of rhythm.
When we arrived, Vicente opened the workshop gate with the remote, drove in, and turned the engine off.
He glanced at me sideways.
— Hold on.
He got out before I could ask anything.
He walked around the car and came to my door. Opened it slowly.
— Come — he said softly.
He held my arms carefully, helped me out of the car, and only then whispered near my ear:
— The floor's full of grease… and you're barefoot.
Before I understood what he was about to do, Vicente placed my feet on top of his.
His sneakers firm on the ground. My small, unsure feet resting there.
He wrapped his arms around my waist. Before I realized it, my arms had already lifted and closed around his neck.
We stayed like that for a second.
I could feel his heart racing, pounding hard against my body. Mine was no different.
He started walking.
Slowly.
Each step calculated, careful. Carrying me as if I were too fragile to touch the ground. We crossed the workshop like that, the sounds muffled, the smell of oil, the world reduced to that tiny space between us.
Then the narrow hallway.
No rush at all.
When we entered the house, he set me down carefully on the small rug in front of the TV.
I stepped back a little, my whole body trembling now that everything had stopped. I took a deep breath, off rhythm.
Vicente looked at me for a moment, as if he wanted to say something and couldn't find the right way.
He turned away.
Went to the bedroom and came back with my flip-flops in his hand. Set them on the floor beside me.
— There — he said. — Now you can yell all you want.
A near-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
I slipped the flip-flops on slowly, already determined to make him talk.
I couldn't stay in the dark anymore after everything that had happened.