Chapter 10 – Noa
I wake to the sound of fabric rustling, the faint clink of a belt buckle being fastened.
My limbs are heavy, my body aching in ways I’m not used to.
I’d managed to peel myself away from the sheets to clean myself up in the night, but my skin still carries the faint traces of his scent—sweat, spice, and the aftershock of last night.
My fingers twitch against the sheets, grasping at nothing at all.
Matías is standing by the dresser, sliding his arms into the sleeves of a crisp black button-down.
The august contours of his shoulders shift as he moves, pulling the fabric over his back.
My marks are there, carved into his skin, crimson slashes where my nails raked over him in the heat of our tryst. They look obscene in the early morning light, reminders of how I clung to him, how I let him ruin me.
It’s only been a little over a week since we were married, and yet, it feels like both an eternity and a single, fleeting moment.
This house, this bed, this man—it’s already threatening to consume me, piece by piece.
After last night, it feels as though there’s even less of myself left to hold onto.
It isn’t as if I’ve never been touched by a man.
But this, with Matías, was a primal connection, the likes of which I’ve never known.
The hunger in him… It stokes some deep and long-dormant part of me. I don’t even wish to think about it.
Maybe I’ll fall back asleep.
Except I can’t.
He knows I’m awake. I can tell by the way his shoulders shift ever so slightly, his head cocking as he fastens the buttons at the cuffs, like he’s waiting.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak right away.
It surprises me when he finally does, his voice is rough, gravel-ridden brag: “I've woken you in the middle of the night to fuck the shit out of you. We can eat breakfast together. Join me.”
It’s not a request. I’m beginning to doubt he’s capable of making anything but demands. It is decidedly less charming when his mouth isn’t on my skin.
Still, I sit up, the sheet slipping from my shoulders.
I don’t respond. I don’t even glare at him, though I’m bothered enough to.
As I watch him fix the collar of his shirt, though, his fingers working methodically over the buttons, I’m caught up in the fluid, precise way he puts himself together.
It shouldn’t overwhelm me, such a simple thing. But it does. He does.
"Can I use your phone?" I blurt out, letting the sheets drop from my chest. "I want to call my mamá."
That makes him pause.
His hands still for just a moment before he picks up his watch from the dresser, fastening it around his wrist. He doesn’t look at me as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, tossing it onto the bed beside me.
"Make it quick," he orders brusquely.
Then he turns and walks out.
I shift to my knees on the bed, forcing my fingers to remain steady as I reach for the device. I don’t let myself hesitate as I dial the number from memory.
The line rings twice before I hear the smooth, measured voice of my mother, responding to the way I breathe heavily down the line: "Noa?"
I close my eyes briefly, forcing the lump in my throat back down. It shouldn’t surprise me this much, that she recognized the sound of my breathing down the line, but it does. It means too much. More than it ought to, and I already know it. Still, "Buenos días, Mamá," I greet tenderly.
There’s a pause, and then a sigh. "How are you?" she asks blandly.
It’s an easy question. A basic one. But when I answer, "I’m fine," it tastes like a lie.
Whether it’s one she believes or not, she doesn’t argue. I’d never expect her to.
I glance restlessly toward the door, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
"I wanted to check in. And... I miss Renata. Can you tell her that for me? I had a dream last night... Of meeting her at our place. It made me miss her very much. So, will you—” I swallow hard.
“Tell her I’d like to see her there. At noon. Will you do that for me?”
My mother doesn’t react right away. For a heart-stopping moment in time, she is utterly silent. If it weren’t for the sound of her breathing on the other side, I’d assume she’d hung up.
I certainly feel as pathetic as I sound, pleading, “Mamá, please. I—I did this for you. I married him. Please. I just need to talk to—”
"I’ll let her know," she says abruptly, cutting me off.
“Thank you,” I rasp. The relief is immediate and dizzying, a small reprieve that lasts only the span of another breath.
Already, I hear footsteps approaching the door.
I’m quick to switch topics, turning instead to asking her all the requisite details of her household.
It is a short, perfunctory exchange before my mother dismisses me.
Once the line goes dead, I wipe the sweat from my palm off with the corner of the sheet when I put the phone down.
Breakfast with Matías is not what I expect.
I enter the dining room hesitantly, bare feet silent against the cold tile, unsure of what kind of battlefield I’m walking into.
But there are no sharpened words waiting for me, no barbed greetings or cruel smiles.
Just the smell of fresh arepas, scrambled eggs, and brewed coffee wafting through the air.
Matías sits at the head of the long table, already halfway through a plate of food.
The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled to the forearms, revealing the dark lines of his tattoos, the faint bruises from yesterday’s skirmish, and the subtle twitch of tension in his fingers as he cuts into his food.
He glances up as I enter, gaze unreadable but softer than I expect.
He gestures toward the seat beside him with the tilt of his chin. "Sit. Eat."
I do as I’m told, mostly because I’m too surprised not to. A server appears almost instantly, setting a plate down in front of me. Eggs, arepas, slices of mango, and a small cup of café con leche. The scent calms something tight in my chest.
Matías doesn’t speak at first. He lets me eat in silence, his eyes flicking toward me occasionally, but not with the usual edge. It feels strange—not peace, exactly, but a truce of sorts. A breath between storms.
"What’s your least favorite color?" he asks suddenly, like it’s the most natural question in the world.
I blink at him, fork pausing midway to my mouth. "What?"
"Color," he says again, a small shrug following. "You have to have one."
"Chartreuse," I say before I can second-guess myself. "It looks like a mistake. Like someone couldn’t decide between green and yellow and made a mess."
A faint smirk touches his lips. "Noted."
He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. Then: "Preferred drink?"
"Espresso martini," I reply, settling back into my seat, more relaxed now. "But only if it’s made properly. Most people screw it up."
"I’ll have one prepared properly next time we have dinner."
It’s said so casually that I almost don’t register it for what it is—a gesture. An attempt. Maybe not affection, but attention. A bridge between obligation and something else.
He asks more questions, each one stranger and more benign than the last. My favorite fruit. My most detested sound. The place I most want to visit. My most vivid childhood memory. Each time, I answer with hesitation, then more freely. And each time, he listens.
Really listens. Eyes on mine, posture relaxed, like he’s trying to piece something together that even I don’t fully understand.
I tell him about my father teaching me to drive through the thick Amazonian brush, the way I nearly flipped the Jeep into a ditch and how he laughed like it was nothing at all.
Matías doesn’t laugh, but something shifts in his face—a flicker of recognition.
Maybe he sees a piece of me beyond the bed, beyond the politics, beyond the war we’re both pretending isn’t happening between us.
By the time I finish eating, I feel strangely full—not just from food, but from the weight of being seen, even briefly. He doesn’t say anything when I stand. Just watches me quietly, as if he’s still sorting through everything I said.
And I leave the room with a strange sensation in my chest.
Hope, maybe.
Or something dangerously close to it.