28. Stefan
STEFAN
The pasta water was taking forever to boil. Stefan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the pot as if he could intimidate it. Generator dead. Gas stove still working. Small mercies.
She’d asked for space. He was respecting that. He was being a goddamn gentleman about it, which was not a word anyone had ever used to describe him before, and frankly, the effort was killing him. Idiota.
He drained the pasta, dumped it into the sauce, and plated it by candlelight. A bottle of wine from the back of a cabinet, probably terrible. He grabbed it anyway.
She’d said she needed time. She hadn’t said she didn’t want him. He kept coming back to that distinction. The sun was almost gone. He picked up the plates.
Vamos. The walk to her villa took thirty seconds, though it felt longer.
He knocked before he could talk himself out of it. Footsteps crossed the tile, unhurried, and the door swung open.
Bare feet. Hair loose and messy. His shirt still hanging off her shoulder, the hem skimming her thighs. She hadn’t changed since this morning, and the sight of her in his clothes did something inconvenient to his ability to form sentences.
“Room service.” He held up the plates. “Standards have really gone downhill since the storm.”
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, which only pulled the fabric tighter across his shirt. Not helpful.
“Take it or leave it. But I made the sauce from scratch, and if you let it go cold, I’ll take it personally.”
She didn’t reach for the plate. Didn’t step aside to let him in, either. One hand gripped the frame.
“I’m not pushing my way in, Erika. The plate can stay and I can go.” He held her gaze. “But I’d rather not.”
She held his gaze long enough that he made himself stay still while she decided. Then she stepped back from the door.
He followed her inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. She'd lit a few candles, gold light flickering across her face, catching in her hair.
She took one of the plates from him and sank onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her. He sat on the opposite end, leaving careful distance.
He poured two glasses of the wine and handed her one.
“Found this in the back of a cabinet. It’s been there since at least 2019, so it’s either aged beautifully or we’re about to poison ourselves.
” He raised his glass. “My Tita always says bad wine is still better than no wine. Of course, she also used to say that about men, so her judgment was questionable.”
That got a real laugh out of her, and the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders released. She took a sip, made a face.
He turned to the pasta, watching her sideways. She was eating, at least. Her shoulders were tight, her free hand fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
He watched her pick at her food, shoulders still tight. "You want to hear something embarrassing?" He didn’t wait for an answer. “I was fifteen, thought I was God’s gift to women, and she decided I needed to learn salsa before I embarrassed the family at my cousin’s wedding.”
Erika raised an eyebrow, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. “You? Bad at something?”
“Terrible. Truly horrific. I stepped on her feet so many times she started wearing steel-toed boots to our lessons.” He leaned back.
“Three weeks of this, every night after dinner, and finally she sits me down and says—” he dropped into his grandmother’s accent—“‘Mijo, you dance like a donkey trying to fuck a washing machine.’”
Erika choked on her wine. “She did not say that.”
“Hand to God.” He crossed his heart. “She also said the only way I’d ever get a woman to dance with me was if I paid her, which, in retrospect, was excellent preparation for my modeling career.”
She was laughing now, really laughing. The tension in her shoulders had loosened.
“So did you ever learn?”
“Eventually.” He shrugged. “Took another six months and a lot of bribery. But by the wedding, I could hold my own.” He paused, his voice dropping.
“She lives in Cudillero still. Calls me every Sunday and asks when I'm coming home to practice.
I haven't gotten better. I've just gotten faster at apologizing. But every time I hear salsa music, I think about those steel-toed boots and her calling me a donkey.”
Erika’s smile shifted, softened. “She sounds amazing.”
“She was.” He took a sip of the terrible wine. “Meanest woman I ever knew. Also, the kindest. She’s the reason I learned to cook, learned to dance, learned that being good at something isn’t the same as being worth something.”
He shrugged. “Anyway. The point is, even the worst dancers can learn. There’s hope for everyone.”
“Is that the moral of the story?”
“The moral is that my grandmother was a saint for not murdering me, and also that this wine is growing on me.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was drifting again, gaze sliding toward the dark window, her fingers tightening on the stem of her glass.
His wine glass went down. Then hers, beside it on the coffee table. He stood and held out his hand.
She stared at it. “If this is some kind of actor exercise, I’m not in the mood.”
“My Tita didn’t spend six months in steel-toed boots so I could waste a perfectly good evening watching you disappear inside your own head.” He wiggled his fingers. “Up.”
She took his hand.
He pulled her to her feet, guiding her to the small, clear space between the couch and the kitchenette. His hand found the small of her back, the other keeping hold of hers, and he moved, basic steps his Tita had drilled into him until he could do it in his sleep.
“There’s no music, Stefan.”
“There’s always music. You just have to be less stubborn than the silence.” He pulled her a little closer and started humming, an old song his grandmother used to play, something with too much accordion that Tita would have sung along to.
“That’s what you’re going with? That’s the song?”
“It’s a classic. You have no taste.”
“I have excellent taste. That’s how I know this is terrible. You sound like a dying cat.”
“My Tita would be proud. That’s exactly what she said.”
A small laugh escaped her. She let him lead, her head dropping to rest against his shoulder, and for a moment they swayed in the candlelight.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.
“Dancing? You’re doing fine. Only stepped on me twice.”
“Not the dancing.” She pulled back just enough to look at him. “Any of it.”
He slowed their movement but didn’t let go, his hand warm against her back. “Talk to me.”
“I’ve spent my entire life being the responsible one.
The backup plan. The twin who stays home and keeps things running while Anneliese chases the spotlight.
” Her fingers curled into his shirt. “I don’t know how to just .
. . want something. For me. Without calculating all the ways it could go wrong or hurt someone else. ”
He stayed quiet. His thumb moved on her back, small circles, but he didn’t speak.
“And now I’m here, and you’re here, and I—” She stopped, pressing her lips together like she was trying to hold the words in. “I’ve never done anything just because I wanted to. Not once. And I don’t even know what that would feel like.”
“You know what my Tita would say?”
“Something about donkeys?”
A soft laugh escaped him. “She’d say that wanting things isn’t selfish. It’s human.” He tilted her chin up. “And anyone who made you feel like you don’t deserve to want things for yourself was wrong.”
Her eyes were bright with tears. Then she pulled away. His hand fell from her chin.
“You’re standing here being perfect, and I can’t even—” She gestured at herself, unraveling. “Anneliese always decided. What we did, where we went, who we—and I just followed.” Her voice cracked. “And now I’m here, and you’re asking me to choose, and I don’t—I don’t know how.”
Hostia. He crossed the distance she’d created.
“You don’t have to apologize for not being ready.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you don’t have to know why.”
Then he smiled, because if he didn’t, he might beg her to let him stay. “Goodnight, Princesa.”
He picked up his plate, the wine bottle, and walked to the door.
At the threshold, he looked back. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but nothing came. He made himself leave before he couldn’t anymore. Estás jodido. Hopelessly fucked.