Diego leans close, smoke curling lazily from the cigar he has just plucked from someone else's fingers. "Yooh, Alma is around," he says, a grin tugging at his mouth as he takes a slow drag.
My chest tightens on instinct. "Wait… Is she with Camilla?" I ask. I try to sound relaxed, but the edge sneaks into my voice anyway.
Diego pulls the cigar away and pats his pockets for a lighter, unbothered by my tension. "Nah," he says with a shrug. "She's with some guy I don't know. Name's Gabriel." He lifts a brow, silently asking if the name means anything to me.
Gabriel.
The word settles on my tongue like ash.
I gesture to the people crowding my right, urging them aside. The bodies shift, laughter spilling and music pulsing, and then I see her. Alma. She is already looking at me. For a heartbeat, the party dissolves. No music. No shouting. Just the two of us, locked in a stare across the chaos.
She looks different tonight. Dangerous, almost. The dress hugs her like it was made with intention, her hair untamed and alive, her lips painted a bold red that makes my breath catch. She looks stunning. More than that, she looks untouchable. Then I notice him. Gabriel. Standing far too close, leaning in as if he belongs there. My stomach knots.
Did that night mean nothing to her? Did I imagine the way she looked at me, the way her voice softened? Or maybe I am the problem. Maybe I am always the one who leaves bruises without meaning to. No one ever asks why I keep my hands light and my heart even lighter. They do not know what it took to learn that habit. They do not know about the girl before Alma, the one I failed to protect, the one I lost when everything went wrong. That memory still smolders, a scar I never show.
I shake off the girls hanging onto me, their laughter loud and careless, their hands roaming like I am something to claim. "Go," I say, my voice cutting through the noise. They hesitate, then scatter, confused and annoyed. I need room. I need to see her without distractions.
I stay where I am, half hidden by the crowd, watching Alma from a distance. Every so often her gaze slips away from Gabriel and finds me. Each time it happens, my chest tightens a little more, like something inside me is being twisted slowly, deliberately. The party keeps roaring around us, but all I can hear is the quiet pull between her eyes and mine, daring one of us to break first.
Time stretches until it feels sticky and unreal. The shots I swallowed earlier sit heavy in my veins, dulling my limbs, slowing my thoughts. Smoke clings to the air, thick and suffocating, and every breath makes my head spin a little more. I am tired. I am high. I know better than to get behind a wheel like this.
Diego is nowhere near concerned. He is tangled up with his girl, laughing loudly, as if the world has never been complicated a day in his life. I watch him for a second, envy flickering and dying just as fast. I could leave. I should leave. But I cannot. Not yet. Not without knowing Alma is safe.
I push into the crowd, carving a path with my shoulders, murmuring half apologies that no one hears over the music. The bass thunders through the floor, bodies press and sway, hands lift drinks into the air. I keep moving until I see her.
Alma.
She is folded into the couch like gravity finally won. Her head is tipped back, lips parted slightly, eyes shut tight. Camilla is collapsed on the floor nearby, her neon green outfit glowing faintly under the dim lights like something radioactive. Daniel sits slouched in a chair, his chin dropped to his chest, a forgotten drink tilting dangerously in his hand. They are all gone, swallowed whole by the night.
Something tightens in my chest.
I pull my phone from my pocket and call Juan. "Come pick us up," I say, keeping my voice steady.
It feels like no time at all before headlights slice through the dark outside. Juan's van idles at the curb, big enough to carry everyone and their messes. We herd people out in pieces. Diego and his girl stumble in together. Daniel is guided along, half conscious. Camilla barely wakes.
Gabriel steps up beside me, composed in a way that irritates me. "My place isn't far," he says evenly. "I'll just take an Uber."
I nod without really looking at him. "Fine."
Alma does not wake when I lift her. Her body goes slack against my chest, trusting in a way that makes my jaw tighten. "I'll take her to my place," I tell Juan. "She needs to rest."
Juan gives me a look, then nods. He does not ask questions. He never does.
The drive is quiet. The city slides past the windows in blurred lights and shadows. When we arrive, I carry Alma inside one of my quieter apartments, the one untouched by noise and memories. Her weight is light in my arms, her breathing slow and warm against my neck, grounding me more than anything else tonight.
In my room, I lay her down gently on the bed. The sheets wrinkle beneath her, swallowing her up. Her makeup is smeared from the night, red streaked across her lips, flecks of glitter clinging stubbornly to her skin. I fetch a cloth, dampen it, and begin to wipe her face with careful strokes. I take my time, as if rushing might break something fragile.
Without the paint and shimmer, she looks softer. Realer. Beautiful in a way that hits deeper than the party ever could.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let my fingers brush her cheek, tracing the familiar curve of her jaw. She does not wake. She sleeps peacefully, as though nothing can reach her here, as though whatever storm lives inside her has finally gone still. I stay there, watching, listening to her breathe, letting the quiet settle around us.
I wish I could tell her. I wish I could say the words that sit in my chest like fire, waiting for a way out. I love you. But Alma has walls built too high, doors locked too tight. She is stubborn in her silence, careful with her heart, unwilling to let anyone all the way in. Especially me.
A tired sigh leaves me. It feels like it comes from somewhere deep, a place that has been worn thin. I pull the blanket up over her shoulders, tucking it around her as gently as I can. I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin is warm beneath my lips, impossibly soft, and for just a second I let myself pretend that this is where she belongs. Here. With me.
I straighten before the thought can grow roots.
Forcing myself to step away, I cross the room and sink onto the couch. The apartment is silent now, no music, no voices, just the low hum of the city outside. The quiet feels heavy, stretching out endlessly around me. I close my eyes, but her face stays there anyway, bright and clear behind my eyelids, refusing to fade.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. The weight in my body pulls me down, and sleep takes me, carrying her image with it into the dark.
Morning comes quietly, like it is afraid of waking us.
Light slips through the curtains in thin lines, stretching across the floor and creeping up the bed. The city hums beyond the walls, distant and indifferent. I wake on the couch with a stiff neck and a mouth that tastes like last night. For a moment, I forget where I am.
Then I hear her move.
I sit up.
Alma is awake, propped on one elbow, hair tangled, face bare and guarded. She scans the room slowly, like she is piecing together fragments of a night she does not fully trust. When her eyes land on me, they narrow just slightly.
"How did I get here?" she asks.
"You passed out," I say. "The party was chaos. I brought you somewhere quiet."
She nods once, absorbing that. "Your place."
"Yes."
Her jaw tightens. "You didn't have to…"
"I know." The words come out sharper than I mean them to. I force myself to breathe. "But I did."
She looks at me then. Really looks. Her eyes search my face like she is trying to find the version of me she thinks she knows, and coming up short. "Why?" she asks.
Because I couldn't leave you there.
Because the idea of someone else touching you while you were like that makes my hands shake.
Because I am selfish and careful and afraid all at once.
I say none of it.
"Because you weren't safe," I settle on.
A humorless smile curves her mouth. "You don't get to decide that."
"No," I admit. "But last night, you couldn't decide anything."
Heat flashes in her eyes. I almost welcome it. Anger is easier than whatever else threatens to surface between us.
"Did anything happen?" she asks, her gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder.
The question lodges deep.
"No," I answer immediately. "Nothing happened."
She nods once. No relief. No gratitude. Just acknowledgment.
She sits up straighter, pulling the sheet closer around herself. Her gaze sharpens. "Then tell me something."
I wait.
"Why were you with other girls last night?" she asks. "Was I just a one night stand to you?"
The question lands heavy. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just precise. The kind that cuts deeper because it is honest.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
In my head, everything spills at once. I do not know how to explain that I keep distance because closeness ruins people. That I learned too young what happens when you hold someone too tightly. That I did not touch those girls the way she thinks. That I did not even feel them.
I do not want to hurt you, Alma.
But what comes out is smaller. Rougher.
"I was way too far gone last night," I say.
Her laugh is sharp. Defensive. "Oh yeah?" she says. "And when a man touches me, you get mad, huh?"
I step closer before I think better of it. "There's too much for me to say than done," I reply. "And I do not want you to get hurt, princessa."
Her eyes harden. "Oh yeah? Guess what," she says quietly. "You just did."
Silence fills the room. Thick. Final.
I turn away before I make it worse. I grab a sweatsuit from the drawer and place it on the bed beside her. "Wear this," I say. "I'll be in the kitchen. I'll make something for the hangover."
I am halfway to the door when she speaks again.
"Gabriel."
My hand curls into a fist at my side.
"He's just my workmate," she continues. "We met yesterday at the party. I figured you should know."
I stay facing the door, jaw tight, eyes shifting just enough to catch her in my periphery. The knot in my chest loosens slightly. I breathe once. Then I leave the room.
In the kitchen, I keep my hands busy. Bread. Butter. Avocado mashed with salt and lime. Simple things. I set sandwiches on the table, pour juice into a jar, place two glasses beside it. Order helps. Control helps.
When Alma joins me, her face is clean, hair tied back loosely. She pauses for a moment, her eyes drifting over me. I know what she is seeing. I am still shirtless.
"If it bothers you," I say lightly, "I'll put a shirt on later."
"No," she replies. "It's okay. Have it your way. It's your place after all."
She eats like she means it, like the food might disappear if she does not hurry. I watch without comment until a laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
"Whoa," I say. "Some appetite you have."
She looks at me, unimpressed, and pours herself juice. When she finishes, she sighs deeply and leans back. "Beautiful day, no?"
I glance at my plate. I am barely halfway through. She notices, color touching her cheeks, and immediately gathers her dishes.
"I'll clean these," she says, already moving toward the sink.
While rinsing the plates, she glances over her shoulder. "Why do you have an apartment when you live in a mansion?" she asks. "I bet your room back home is twice this size."
I nearly choke on my juice.
"Sometimes," I say carefully, "you need to be away from your family. This is just one of my apartments."
She turns fully then, eyes wide. "One?"
"I wish I had money the way you do," she adds, half joking, half serious.
I do not answer right away. Some truths are easier left untouched.
The quiet settles again, softer this time. Temporary.
The quiet lingers between us, stretched thin but unbroken.
Alma dries her hands slowly, as if time is something she can fold and put away. She does not look at me when she speaks. "You live like someone who's always ready to leave," she says.
I lean back against the counter. "And you notice too much."
A corner of her mouth lifts. Not a smile. More like recognition. "Comes with being careful."
She moves past me toward the bedroom. Not rushed. Not hesitant. When she returns, she's dressed again, the dress replaced with denim and a simple top, the sweatsuit folded neatly in her arms. She places it on the chair like it matters.
"Thank you," she says. The words are polite. Controlled. Worse than anger.
"For what?" I ask.
"For not crossing lines," she replies. "And for bringing me somewhere safe."
Safe. The word settles heavy in my chest. I nod once. "Anytime."
She studies me for a second longer, as if deciding whether to say something else. Then she shakes her head, reaches for her bag, and heads for the door.
"This doesn't change anything," she says quietly.
"I know."
She pauses with her hand on the handle. "Don't do that again."
"Do what?"
"Save me," she answers. "It makes me feel like I owe you."
I straighten. "You don't owe me anything."
"That's exactly the problem," she says, and opens the door.
Before she steps out, she looks back once. Just once. "You're not as indifferent as you pretend to be, Gael."
Then she's gone.
The door closes with a soft click that echoes louder than it should.
I stay where I am for a long moment, staring at the space she left behind. The apartment feels different now. Smaller. Like it remembers her.
I clean the kitchen even though it's already clean. I stack the plates. Rinse glasses that don't need it. Control is easier when it's physical.
My phone buzzes.
Diego: Where the hell did you disappear to?
I don't answer.
Instead, my eyes catch on something near the couch. A thin black hair tie, forgotten and innocent. I pick it up and close my fist around it before I can think better of it.
Want is a dangerous thing. It doesn't ask permission. It doesn't care about consequences.
And Alma is not mine to want.
I accept it in silence, watching the city move on beyond the glass, as if nothing inside me has shifted at all.
In this family, love is a weakness.
And I have learned the cost of wanting something I cannot afford to lose.