The taxi seat was cold against my back, but the warmth of Rafael's hand holding mine made up for it. He had sat so close that I barely had room to breathe, as if staying near me was the only way to make sure nothing happened again.
With every bump in the road, my knee throbbed, and I couldn't hold back a soft gasp. Rafael reacted the same way each time: his fingers tightened around mine, his eyes fixed on me, like he wished he could take the pain for himself.
"Does it hurt a lot?" he asked, voice low but filled with urgency.
I shook my head. "It's manageable."
He frowned, unconvinced. "Don't say that just to calm me down, Helena. I need to know the truth."
My heart jumped. His care was rough, almost desperate.
When the taxi stopped in front of the clinic, Rafael was quick to get out. I tried to move on my own, but the moment I put weight on my leg, a sharp pain shot up my knee and a small cry escaped me. Before I could protest, his arms were already around me. The world tilted for a moment as he lifted me, effortlessly, as if carrying me was the most natural thing in the world.
"Rafael… you don't have to," I murmured, embarrassed.
"Yes, I do." His tone left no room for argument.
Still in his arms, I entered the bright reception area. My heart beat wildly — not just from the pain, but from the warmth of him so close.
"She fell, twisted her knee—" he began, but a nurse cut him off as she approached with a wheelchair.
"You can set her here. We'll take it from now," she said efficiently.
Rafael hesitated, as if he didn't want to let go, but finally helped me into the chair. A form was handed to him, and I watched as he went to the counter, still glancing back at me every few seconds, as though afraid I might disappear.
Soon after, the doctor called me in. The exams were quick — X-ray, guided movements, short questions. Less than an hour later, we had the results: no fracture, just a sprain.
"You'll need a few days of rest," the doctor explained, adjusting his glasses. "Don't strain the leg. We'll stabilize it with a knee brace, and you'll use crutches for now. I'll also prescribe painkillers — take them only if it hurts."
I exhaled in frustration. "But classes start tomorrow… I can't just stay home."
Rafael, standing beside me, crossed his arms and answered before the doctor even could:
"You're going to follow the instructions."
I turned to him, indignant.
The doctor just laughed, amused."I'll give you a few days off. Then come back for a re-evaluation. If everything is fine, you can return to your routine."
I sighed, accepting the paper he handed me. Rafael let out a long breath too — but his was different. His was relief.
The ride back felt too short. When the taxi stopped in front of the house, Rafael didn't hesitate. He lifted me again, carrying me to the chair on the porch, and gently rested my leg on the footstool.
The landlord appeared right away, worry softening into a warm smile.
"How are you feeling, Helena?"
Before I could respond, Rafael answered, still not looking back:
"Keep her down here, Dad. I'm going to the pharmacy."
"Rafael, that's not necessary—" I tried, but he was already halfway down the street.
I sighed. The landlord pulled up a chair, sitting beside me with calm familiarity.
"Would you like some water? Juice?" he asked, offering presence more than refreshments.
"I'm okay," I said, trying to smile. "Rafael is just overreacting."
He looked at me with that mix of tenderness and quiet wisdom.
"That 'overreacting,' as you call it… that's fear, Helena. When he worries like that, it's because someone has become important to him."
My heart stumbled in my chest. I rolled my eyes, muttering without meaning to:
"It's not what it looks like. He's so cold to me…"
The landlord chuckled, shaking his head.
"Even winter protects life under the snow. Rafael is the same: he looks cold, but only because the warmth inside him scares even him."
I had no answer. I just sat there until the sound of fast steps returned along the sidewalk.
Rafael appeared with a bag and the crutches. His eyes scanned me first — always, as if checking for damage.
"And the pain?" he asked, crouching in front of me.
"It feels the same," I murmured, trying to sound indifferent — but I shivered when he touched my leg gently.
His hands were rough from work, yet his touch was careful. I held my breath as he adjusted the knee brace.
"The doctor prescribed painkillers. They're in the bag," he said quietly.
"I need to know how much I owe you so I can—"
"We'll deal with that later," he muttered, then added, "Are you very tired? Should I help you upstairs?"
A soft laugh slipped out."I'd like that. I just want to stretch out on the sofa and watch something."
He stood and placed his arm around my back, guiding me to the stairs. With each step, the closeness was unavoidable — my body leaning against his, his scent around me, the strength in his arm holding mine as though I weighed nothing. I wanted to say I could do it alone, but the words wouldn't come. I didn't want him to let go.
Inside the apartment, he helped me sit on the sofa. Then he picked up my phone from the coffee table, typed something, and handed it back.
"Now you have my number. If you need anything, call me. Don't do anything stupid or risky. I'll be nearby."
I smiled, biting my lip to contain the feeling rising in my chest. He turned toward the door, but paused, speaking without looking back:
"Don't worry about cooking. I'll bring you something to eat."
And then he left — leaving behind a silence full of promises.