Chapter 7
Dinner proceeds peacefully. The warm aroma of the lasagna Martina has prepared—with that thick béchamel sauce Julia always asks her to make more of—still lingers over the table, mingling with the faint sound of rain tapping against the living room windows.
Night has fallen, but the atmosphere in the apartment feels strangely intimate, as if time had decided to stand still for a few hours, leaving only the sound of the rain and the faint clinking of cutlery.
Julia and Rebeca chat casually, exchanging anecdotes they remember from the past, as if the pain weren’t there. Martina listens halfheartedly, leaning slightly back in her chair, a glass between her fingers.
Her gaze returns again and again to Rebeca.
She watches how she tilts her head slightly when listening to Julia, how she moves her hands when speaking, how her smile appears with a gentleness that Martina recognizes all too well.
The truth is, there are gestures that time cannot erase: the way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking, the furrowed brow when something intrigues her, the way her index finger brushes the rim of the glass before taking a sip.
Small habits that remain intact even after years apart, and that now, seeing them again, awaken a deep warmth in Martina’s belly.
She surprises herself by remembering them.
At some point, Rebeca looks up and their eyes meet. It lasts no more than a second, maybe two. But in that brief moment, there’s something that makes her nervous; that discreet smile of Rebeca’s, barely there, that appears on her lips before vanishing as if it had never existed.
Martina looks away, down at her plate. She tells herself it means nothing. That it’s just an automatic reaction. But she isn’t entirely convinced.
Julia is explaining something about an article she’s been working on—a feature on the resurgence of small independent bookstores in the city—when Rebeca, with a calm movement, turns slightly toward Martina.
“By the way,” she says with a hint of curiosity, “Julia told me you’re working on a new story.”
Martina looks up. For a moment, she wonders if she should give a brief answer, maintaining the distance she’s tried to keep throughout the dinner.
However, Rebeca’s expression makes her change her mind, because she sees genuine interest in her eyes—the same interest she always showed when they talked about work, when they stayed up late in the living room sharing ideas.
“Yes,” she replies, muffling the sound with her wine glass.
Rebeca rests her elbow on the table in a relaxed gesture, then rests her chin in the palm of her hand.
“Tell me a little about what you’re trying to capture.”
Martina picks up her fork, takes a small bite of lasagna, and pauses for a moment before answering. Not because she needs to gather her thoughts, but because this kind of conversation has always been one of the places where she’s felt most at ease with Rebeca.
“It’s a project about cultural memory,” she begins to explain.
“I’m photographing spaces that still preserve a traditional activity, but that are slowly disappearing.
Artisan workshops, local fishing, small family-run businesses—places that are part of the city’s identity, even though many people no longer notice them. ”
Rebeca listens intently. Her dark eyes remain fixed on Martina, urging her to continue.
“What I’m trying to avoid is nostalgic photography,” she continues.
“I don’t want it to seem like a tribute to the past, but rather a conversation with the present.
To show people that these places are still alive, even though they’re changing.
I want to capture that: the resilience, the everyday life that refuses to disappear. ”
“You must be spending a lot of time on this,” Rebeca muses.
“Actually, I am,” Martina says. “I spend quite a bit of time talking to the people who work there. Listening to how they describe their routine, how they relate to the space. Then I try to capture that moment when the place stops being a setting and becomes something human.”
Julia watches them with interest as she takes a sip of wine.
“Martina has always had a lot of patience for that,” she comments with a smile. “She can spend hours waiting for the right light. Do you remember that time she stayed at the market all afternoon just to photograph a fishmonger who’d been there for decades?”
Martina shrugs slightly, but a faint smile plays on her lips.
“Light is part of the story,” she says casually, giving her wife a loving look. “Sometimes it completely changes the way a person relates to their surroundings. A ray of light coming through a window can make a wrinkle on the forehead seem deeper, or make an eye shine in a different way.”
Rebeca nods slowly.
“I’ve always liked the way you talk about your work,” she says, and the comment comes with a naturalness that surprises even her.
Martina holds her gaze. For a moment, they aren’t in the living room of her house, Julia isn’t sitting next to her, and six years haven’t passed since the last time they spoke like this.
For a moment, everything seems strangely familiar.
The warmth of the wine in her throat, the smell of the lasagna she’s cooked herself, the way Rebeca bites her lower lip while she thinks.
Everything conspires to let the memory slip in without permission.
*
Six years ago. Flashback.
Years ago, in another apartment and another city, Martina was sitting in front of her laptop, reviewing the photos from a recent photo essay. The afternoon light streamed in through the studio window, casting a golden glow over the screen.
Rebeca was beside her, leaning slightly forward to look at the images more closely.
“This one works really well,” she said, pointing to one of the photos.
Martina frowned in slight disagreement.
“I’m not convinced.”
“Why?”
Martina zoomed in on the image.
“Because the man’s expression doesn’t really tell me anything. Don’t you think?”
Rebeca was silent for a moment.
Then she pointed to another photograph.
“And this one?”
Martina looked at it. The scene showed the same man working in silence, his hands stained with ink and his gaze focused on what he was doing. There was something about that image. Something Martina hadn’t seen at first.
“Well, it’s actually much better,” she admitted. “I like more natural photos, when it doesn’t look like everything is posed.”
“And I love you.”
At that moment, Rebeca held her gaze—a proud look she could never hide.
Martina couldn’t say who moved first, or at what moment the space between them vanished. She only remembered the feeling of closeness. And the way the rest of the world ceased to exist while she was by her side.
Rebeca kissed her. Her lips parted instantly, and Rebeca’s tongue slipped inside with a determination that made Martina let out a hoarse moan against her mouth. The laptop was forgotten; the photographs, the reviews—everything evaporated when her girl pushed her back against the chair’s backrest.
Martina pulled her in by the waist, digging her fingers into the fabric of her T-shirt.
Rebeca straddled her without breaking the kiss, and the weight of her hips against her lap ignited a fire that Martina could no longer—and no longer wanted to—put out.
Her hands slid up Rebeca’s back, pulling her clothes upward until her skin was exposed, marked by the slight shiver those fingers sent through her.
“Damn it, Rebeca…” Martina murmured against her lips.
Rebeca smiled mischievously.
“What?” she whispered, biting her lower lip. “Didn’t you say the light was part of the story?”
Martina let out a choked laugh that turned into a gasp when Rebeca yanked her shirt off.
Their mouths met again, more desperately, as Rebeca’s hands slid down her chest, brushing her already hard nipples with her fingertips.
Martina arched her back, seeking more contact, and Rebeca understood instantly: she lowered her head and captured one of them with her mouth, sucking hard while her tongue traced slow, cruel circles.
Martina’s moan echoed through the studio. Her hands sank into Rebeca’s hair, pulling at it roughly, and then Rebeca looked up, her lips shiny and reddened.
“God… I want to hear you so badly,” she said.
Without waiting for a reply, Rebeca slid down, kneeling between Martina’s legs.
She unbuttoned her pants with quick, impatient movements and pulled the garment down along with her underwear in a single motion.
The cool air brushed against Martina’s damp skin, but only for a second, because Rebeca’s mouth was already there: hot, eager, and above all, perfect.
The first caress was slow, deliberate, traveling its entire length until it stopped at her already swollen, wet clitoris.
Martina threw her head back, hitting the back of the chair, and let out a long, deep moan.
Rebeca showed no mercy. She licked her hungrily, parting her to slide her fingers inside.
Little by little she began to move, with a relentless rhythm, driving her wild.
“God… Rebeca…” Martina gasped, her hips moving of their own accord against that relentless mouth.
Rebeca looked up without stopping her movements. Her eyes shone with something wild and possessive, just as Martina always liked.
“Did you say you’d missed me?” she asked, satisfied, her voice vibrating against her sensitive flesh.
Martina could barely speak. Pleasure washed over her in waves of increasing intensity.
“I always miss you…” Martina confessed between moans.
Rebeca smiled against her and picked up the pace.
Her fingers thrust in and out forcefully, while she continued to caress her with her tongue.
Martina felt the orgasm approaching, brutal and inevitable.
Her thighs tensed around Rebeca’s head, and her hands clung to her hair, and when the climax hit her, it was as if the whole world were shattering into pieces.
She screamed her name, her body convulsing, and her inner walls squeezed Rebeca’s fingers as the pleasure washed over her in long waves throughout her entire body.
Rebeca didn’t stop until the last tremor left her. Only then did she climb up, kissing her with her mouth still wet from her. Martina tasted her own flavor on her girl’s lips, and that turned her on again. She pushed her down onto the studio floor, positioning herself on top of her urgently.
“Work is over,” Martina growled, turning it almost into an order.
She stripped Rebeca of her clothes with hands clumsy from haste, and when she had her naked beneath her, she paused for a moment to look at her.
Rebeca’s chest was heaving, her nipples hard, her skin flushed.
Martina lowered her head and kissed her between her breasts, moving slowly, leaving a trail of bites and licks until she reached her soaking-wet sex.
And shortly after, Rebeca spread her legs without shame, offering herself.
“Martina… please…”
The plea was enough. Martina devoured her with the same hunger Rebeca had shown earlier. She held her by the hips to keep her still as she brought her to the brink again and again, denying her orgasm at the last second just to hear her beg.
“I hate you…” Rebeca gasped between laughter and moans.
“I’d say it’s quite the opposite,” Martina replied against her clitoris, and thrust into her hard.
Rebeca exploded with a muffled scream, her body shaking violently, her hands dug into the floor. Martina kept moving inside her until the orgasm lasted so long that Rebeca had to gently push her away to make her stop, exhausted, staring at the studio ceiling.
They stayed like that, on the floor, as if it were their kingdom. Martina moved up to her mouth and kissed her, this time tenderly.
“I love you,” she whispered against her lips.
Rebeca smiled, exhausted and radiant.
“I love you too. Even though you drive me crazy sometimes.”