Sofía wasn't expecting the doorbell.
It was early, almost noon, and her hands were still stained with ink. She'd been writing since dawn, barely stopping to drink some water or look out the window. When the bell rang, she thought it would be a delivery person, or perhaps a mistake. But when she peeked through the peephole and saw that familiar figure, her heart clenched for a second.
Tomás.
He was back a day early.
She opened the door without a word, not even knowing how to react.
He smiled. Barely. A slight gesture, as if trying to contain something much bigger behind it.
"Hello," he said in a low voice, almost hoarse from the trip.
"Hello…" she whispered, and something in her chest crumbled with a tenderness so unexpected that it hurt.
She didn't run to hug him. She didn't shout with joy. But her eyes, her trembling lips, and the way she stepped aside to let him pass, said everything her body refused to express in a hurry.
Tomás entered, placed his bag beside the sofa as if it were part of the usual furniture, and as soon as she closed the door, both knew that the day would flow as it always did.
They prepared a simple lunch together. They reviewed their writings, read fragments aloud. She criticized one of his dialogues with that half-ironic tone that amused him so much; he pointed out that her new text had a woman who looked a lot like her, which she denied with a smile and flushed cheeks.
The day passed as if he had never left. As if his three-day absence had been just a brief pause, a parenthesis in a story they both already knew by heart. They laughed as before, debated about books, cooked with the warmth of habit. And that warmth comforted them more than any words.
As night fell, Tomás, true to his ritual, prepared a light soup. Sofía, with her teacup in her hands, watched him from the table as if she didn't want the day to end. As if time itself were superfluous.
When they finished dinner and the clock began to push the night toward its usual silence, she got up without saying anything and walked to her bedroom.
Tomás followed her, as so many times, with that habit that had already settled under his skin. She sat on the edge of the bed, and he covered her with the blankets with the same tenderness as always. He leaned in to kiss her forehead, softly, like a sacred gesture that never broke the distance.
But this time, before he could pull away, Sofía took his hand tightly.
She looked into his eyes, speechless. Only a whisper escaped her lips, trembling between the darkness and the need:
"Please…"
That was all.
A plea that said more than any confession.
Tomás nodded, without hesitation. There was no rush. He had arrived a day early, no one was expecting him at home. And even if it had been the opposite, he would have stayed anyway.
He turned off the light with an almost solemn slowness and, without taking off his clothes, lay down beside her. For an instant, the silence felt too vast, but then Sofía hugged him under the blankets, seeking warmth, refuge, something more than just companionship.
He wrapped an arm around her, and then she rested her forehead against his lips. She said nothing. She just stayed like that. And Tomás, his heart ablaze, kissed her again and again, softly, unhurriedly, as if his lips could promise her something without needing to swear an oath.
The world outside became distant. Prizes didn't matter, nor the future, nor accumulated sadness. Only that instant.
When sleep began to carry them away like a slow tide, they remained embraced, united in a night that asked for no definitions, no excuses, no plans. Only presences that healed in silence.
And so they remained, he holding her, she sheltered in the warmth of his mouth.
As if at last the world, for a few hours, had given them permission to stop.
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The sun hadn't fully streamed through the curtains yet, but the faint glow of dawn cast soft silhouettes across the room. The silence was thick, warm, almost reverent. Only Sofía's steady breathing could be heard, still deep in sleep, and the distant murmur of the city waking up.
Tomás woke first.
His body was a little stiff, but he didn't move immediately. He felt Sofía's arm around his neck, circling him as if at some point in the night she had feared he would leave. And that was enough for him to stay still a little longer, staring at the ceiling, his chest beating out of sync.
He barely turned his face and watched her.
Her hair was messy on the pillow, a small line of light outlining her profile. She looked younger when she slept, lighter. Tomás carefully stretched out a hand and brushed away a lock that fell over her eyes. Then he caressed her cheek with an almost sacred softness, as if touching a memory he feared breaking.
He didn't want to wake her.
He got up silently, slipped down the hallway to the kitchen, and prepared breakfast. Freshly brewed coffee, crispy toast, a little fruit, and something sweet, because he knew she liked to start the day that way. When the tray was ready, he returned to the room.
Sofía stirred at the scent of coffee.
She opened her eyes with effort, just enough to see him standing by the bed, the tray in his hands and an awkward smile on his face.
"These habits again…" she mumbled, still half asleep.
"Good morning," he said, placing the tray on her lap. "Breakfast for an unruly queen."
"You're spoiling me," she protested with a smile she couldn't hide.
"It's my way of thanking you," he said, sitting beside her.
They ate breakfast like that, between murmurs, laughter, and a couple of silences that were too comfortable. Sofía rested her head on his shoulder, while he offered her pieces of fruit or sips of coffee. The world was simple, serene, as if they were enclosed in a bubble no one else knew.
But then it was time to leave.
Tomás stood up, getting ready to go. Sofía put the tray aside and watched him silently as he adjusted his jacket.
Before he reached her bedroom door, she spoke:
"Come back soon."
He turned, smiling.
"Always."
He walked closer and, as so many times, left a kiss on her forehead, a kiss that this time seemed warmer, more prolonged, as if he knew that something in that gesture would linger on her skin for a long time.
When he pulled away, he looked into her eyes, with that honesty with which only he knew how to look at her.
"I love you, Sofía."
She swallowed. She felt it, she knew it. Every part of her screamed it. But still, there was something on her lips that resisted. Until, at last, the words broke through the tangle of fears.
"Me too."
Tomás smiled. He said nothing more. He just looked at her one last time before leaving the room.
When the door closed behind him, Sofía lay back down, stretching out on the spot where Tomás had slept. She could still feel the warmth in the sheets, the soft scent of his skin clinging to the pillow. She closed her eyes, wrapping herself in that last trace, in that comfort.
Because if everything went well…
If her manuscript was chosen, if everything followed the course she had dreamed of…
She would leave.
And that warmth, that warmth she now loved so much, she was going to miss with every fiber of her being.