Chapter 7
THE SPACE BETWEEN STARS
NORA
Stay. That singular word and his face when he asked me to stay, replays in my head.
Over and over again.
The memory of telling Camilla I was staying in Spain still feels surreal. Her face had cycled through shock, concern, and finally that fierce protectiveness that made her who she was.
"If he does anything stupid, I'll be on the first flight back here to kick his arse," she'd said, pulling me into one of her bone-crushing hugs.
That's the thing about Camilla—she was the type of friend who would take care of your name whenever you weren't in the room, who would fight battles for you even when you didn't know they needed fighting.
Now, sitting in the passenger seat of Nate's car, I watch him navigate the winding streets of Málaga as if he's lived here all his life.
His left hand rests casually on the steering wheel while his right points out landmarks. There's something different about him here, something lighter. The tension that used to live in his shoulders has eased, and when he smiles, it reaches his eyes in a way that makes my heart happy.
"That's where Javier taught me to play chess," he says, nodding toward a park dotted with stone tables.
His voice carries warmth when he mentions Javier's name, the kind of reverence reserved for people who've saved your life without asking for credit.
"You play chess now?" I ask, genuinely surprised.
He glances at me, that half-smile playing at his lips.
"Javier says chess teaches you to think three moves ahead instead of just reacting to whatever's happening right now."
His fingers drum against the steering wheel—a nervous habit that hasn't changed.
"Turns out that's useful for more than just games."
The city streets grow busier as we move through Málaga's heart—narrow cobblestone arteries pulsing with life. Tourists weave between locals carrying fresh bread and flowers, their voices creating a symphony of languages that bleeds together like watercolors in rain.
Motorcycles zip past with the confidence of familiarity, while elderly men in pressed shirts sit outside cafés, nursing tiny cups of coffee and solving the world's problems one conversation at a time.
As we leave the city center behind, the roads begin to climb and curve through rolling hills dotted with olive groves that stretch toward the horizon like green velvet. Vineyards appear in neat rows, their leaves rustling in the warm breeze that carries the scent of wild herbs and distant ocean.
The landscape unfolds like pages in a well-loved book, each turn revealing another vista of Spain that looks exactly like the postcards but somehow more real, more alive.
We turn onto a narrow street lined with orange trees, their fruit heavy and bright against the afternoon sun. The car slows as we approach a villa that looks like it's been plucked from the pages of a Gabriel García Márquez novel.
Weathered stone walls climb three stories, covered in climbing jasmine that spills over wrought-iron balconies. It's the kind of house that carries stories in its bones, that has watched generations grow up within its walls.
"Nick bought this place about six years ago," Nate explains as he pulls into the gravel driveway. His hands still on the wheel for a moment, and I catch him studying the house like he's still amazed to be here.
"It was the closest one to Javier's. Nick said he wanted to make sure..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair—that gesture I remember from a thousand moments of uncertainty.
"Well, he wanted to make sure I had someone looking out for me but still giving me space to figure my shit out."
There's a vulnerability in his admission that makes me want to reach for his hand, but I settle for adjusting the hem of my shorts instead, smoothing the fabric between my fingers.
"Javier must be pretty special."
"They saved my life."
The words come out simple and direct, without the dramatic weight they could carry.
"When I got here I was barely a person. Just anger and pain walking around in a body that forgot how to feel anything else." His jaw clenches, and he looks away from me toward the house.
"I guess, Javier saw something worth saving when I couldn't see it myself."
We get out of the car and Nate moves to the trunk, pulling out our bags with easy familiarity.
His t-shirt rides up slightly as he reaches, and I force myself to look away from the glimpse of skin, the way his muscles move beneath the fabric.
My hands find their way to smoothing my hair, then adjusting my top, restless energy that has nowhere else to go.
The front door stands unlocked, and when I raise an eyebrow, Nate grins.
"There's no need to lock up around here. Everyone is either friends or family. It's one of the safest places in the world."
He pushes the door open and gestures for me to enter first, his free hand settling briefly against the small of my back—a touch so light and brief it could be accidental, but the way my skin tingles suggests otherwise.
Inside, the villa embraces us with cool stone floors and thick walls that have weathered centuries of Spanish summers. The ceilings are high and crossed with dark wooden beams that speak of craftsmanship from another era.
Whitewashed walls are broken up by archways that lead from room to room, creating a sense of flow and openness. Modern furniture sits comfortably alongside antique pieces—a sleek leather sofa facing an ornate wooden coffee table, contemporary art hanging next to traditional Spanish tiles.
It's clear the house has been loved through multiple renovations, each owner adding their own touch while respecting the bones of what came before.
Before I can respond, the front door opens and a man emerges who can only be Javier. He's probably in his fifties, with silver threading through dark hair and lines around his eyes that speak of laughter more than worry.
There's something immediately warm about him, the kind of presence that makes you feel safer just by proximity.
"Talking about me again, guerrero?" Javier calls out, his thick accent filling the air.
He approaches with easy confidence, and I can see why Nate gravitates toward him—there's a steadiness there that feels unshakeable. Nate's laugh is genuine as he moves around to greet Javier properly.
"Only good things, I promise." He gestures toward me with obvious pride.
"Javier, this is Nora. Nora, meet the man who put up with my sorry ass for eight months."
Javier's greeting is immediate and warm—kisses on both cheeks and a hug that envelops me completely.
"Bienvenida a Espana, Nora. This one," he gestures toward Nate with obvious affection and whispers to me, "he talks about you constantly."
I feel heat rise in my cheeks as Nate clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. His phone buzzes against his palm, saving him from my questioning look.
Nate talks about me?
Constantly?
"Sorry, I need to take this," he says, glancing at the screen. He steps away, his voice dropping to that careful tone he uses for important calls.
Javier watches him go with the expression of someone who's witnessed transformation firsthand.
"He was an empty shell when he first came here," he tells me, his voice gentle but matter-of-fact. "Hollow eyes, hollow chest, like someone had scooped out everything that made him human and left only the hurt behind."
I find myself straightening my shoulders, that automatic response to hearing about someone I care about in pain.
"He looks good now."
"Time and the Spanish sunshine does that to a person. But he's worked for his happiness. Learning that healing isn't about making the pain disappear—it's about making yourself bigger than the pain." Javier's eyes are kind but serious.
"The demons, they don't leave, nina. They learn to live quietly in the corners while you build a life worth living around them.
Things don't get easier—you just get better at carrying them.
Nate has gotten better at letting go of what he cannot control, especially when he feels like he needs to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. That's a lot for anyone."
Nate returns, sliding his phone back into his pocket with a slight frown.
"Luiza can't make it tonight. Something came up."
My heart performs a complicated dance—relief and disappointment tangling together in ways I don't want to examine. Luiza. I still don't know who or what she is to Nate and truthfully, I don't know why I haven't just asked him.
It's strange, isn't it, how we can dissect strangers' lives with surgical precision but struggle to ask the simplest questions about the people who matter most?
The name that seems woven into every corner of Nate's new life, present even in her absence.
The days blur together like watercolors bleeding into each other, each one revealing new facets of this version of Nate I'm still learning to recognize. He's softer here, the sharp edges worn smooth by Spanish sun and Javier's patient presence.
Most mornings we head down to the markets where vendors call out prices for tomatoes that taste like summer and olives cured in families for generations.
The simplicity of it strikes me—how happiness can be found in the weight of fresh bread in your hands, in the way Senora Maria saves the best apricots for Nate because he always asks about her grandchildren.
I watch him navigate these interactions with genuine warmth, see how the locals have absorbed him into their daily rhythm like he's always belonged here. There's something profound in witnessing someone discover that joy doesn't have to be complicated.
That contentment can live in the space between choosing the perfect apricot and sharing a laugh with the fishmonger who insists on practicing his English.
We stop at a stall where an elderly man with paint-stained fingers displays an eclectic mix of handmade goods and vintage treasures.