Chapter Five: Here I Am, Wounded (#1)

The doorbell rang with the metallic sting of a punch piercing ice, breaking the stillness of the apartment. Sofía reluctantly got up, leaving her half-empty wine glass on the kitchen counter, right next to Tomás's manuscript, which lay open, as if it had been breathing on its own.

She walked slowly towards the door. She didn't hesitate to open it.

"You're on time," she said with a kind tone, though her voice carried a soft, melancholic weariness. Her eyes fell on the bags he carried. "Did you really have to do that?"

"Thanks for inviting me... I guess. What a warm welcome," Tomás retorted, closing the door behind him.

Sofía helped him with his coat, with an automatic, almost intimate gesture, and murmured without much conviction:

"You don't have to feed me every time you come. I'm not a child."

Tomás moved closer to her face than necessary. The winter breath still chilled his skin.

"Well, you shouldn't start drinking so early then," he whispered with a smile that was both challenging and protective.

Sofía blushed, stepping back slightly.

"Are you in a joking phase now?" she retorted, returning to her glass as if she needed it to steel herself.

"And you in a rebellious teenager phase?" he countered, as he placed the bags on the counter and began to take out the ingredients. "Do you forget you're my professor?"

"You don't let me forget it," she replied, with a half-smile. "Though if you took care of yourself, it would be easier for me to keep my distance."

"You're not a great example either," Tomás replied, pulling out a package of meat and showing it to her. "Beef stew. With this cold, your body will thank you."

"I hope so. I'm hungry today."

"It won't be quick," he warned as he lit the burner.

"As long as there's wine, I can wait patiently," Sofía said, raising her glass.

Tomás sighed and began to cut the meat.

"What do you think? Do you like the book more now?"

Sofía closed the manuscript and caressed it with her fingertips.

"I like it. Seriously. But it leaves a bitter taste, like an old, thick... sad wine. I don't think it's the right tone for a youth contest."

"I couldn't write anything different. Not now."

"Sad for some reason? Did some classmate break your heart?" she asked with an inquisitive smile, though she already sensed the answer.

"No," he replied without looking up. "Yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death. Maybe that's why the... dark tone."

Sofía nodded. That information clarified many things for her. She said nothing more out of respect, but her face softened.

"Do you know that reading someone's book is like rummaging through their soul?"

Tomás looked up.

"Is that why you won't let me read yours?"

Sofía put the glass on the table, pretending she cared little.

"Defensive, so soon?"

Tomás peeled onions with a neutral expression.

"I know where you're going with this. And you're right. I expose myself with you. But you... you're always running away."

"Why would you want to read something from someone who can no longer write without regretting every line?"

"Because I want to know you. That should be enough."

Sofía looked down, and for a second it seemed that sadness was winning. Tomás took advantage of the silence to continue with the preparation.

The meat began to sizzle in the pan. Sofía turned to him.

"Writers hide their desires in what they write. In your case, your shortcomings are raw."

"Shortcomings? Enlighten me," he replied, stirring the vegetables with the knife.

"Your story is a plea for love. A long letter addressed to no one. No one answers. Not even the characters are saved. Do you want me to say I didn't notice?"

"Do you really think I'm cruel enough to punish my characters for my sadness?"

"Not cruel. Just... wounded. And inevitably, everything you touch is tinged with that."

"Great diagnosis, Doctor," Tomás replied, putting the meat back in the pot. "I guess that makes me a broken god."

"Exactly. A broken god can only create broken creatures. And there's some beauty in that... even if it's a sad beauty."

"Perhaps that's why you let me come."

"Perhaps," Sofía replied, swirling the wine in her glass. "But you shouldn't test me."

"Is it unfair to say you let me in, but not stay?"

"Do you want to leave?"

"No. I'm already used to your insults. You're like someone who loves wine but hates the hangover."

Sofía fell silent. For a long instant. There was a crack in her facade, a shadow under her eyes. Tomás watched her.

"Did I offend you?"

"No. Well... yes. But it doesn't matter. I guess I make you come for selfish reasons. To cook, to talk to me, to distract me from myself. Does that make me a bad adult?"

Tomás smiled, with a touch of tenderness.

"A terrible one. But you're my favorite terrible adult."

Sofía laughed, a genuine laugh, the kind that makes your face hurt because it's been so long since one appeared.

"Cheers to that."

"Almost done," Tomás said, adding the crushed tomatoes and peas to the pot. He seasoned and covered it. "Shall we review the manuscript?"

"That's what I was thinking," she said, taking another clean glass and beginning to pour wine as if the night was just beginning.

Outside, night fell stealthily. And inside the apartment, the intimacy between them felt increasingly warm, more dangerous.

A place where they hurt each other, fed each other, and unknowingly supported each other.

The food was ready in just over half an hour. The aroma of beef stew permeated every corner of the apartment, and for a moment, it made that abandoned place, with its skeletal furniture and bare walls, truly seem like a home.

Sofía poured two more glasses while Tomás portioned the food onto plates and placed them on the table, a simple square table that looked more like a workspace than a place for sharing. Still, they ate in silence for a few minutes, without saying anything, as if the very act of eating together said enough. Sofía, still with the glass in her hand, sighed after the first bite.

"You know this... is better than the service at several restaurants, right?" she said half-seriously, half-jokingly.

"I know, but thanks for repeating it," he said, dipping a piece of bread into the thick sauce.

"Maybe you should give up on the book thing. Being a chef isn't bad at all."

Tomás looked at her with a crooked smile.

"And you should stop teaching me to write and let me read you, at least to have a fair opinion."

"Touché," she replied, raising her glass in a toast. "You're getting more insolent."

"Only when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk..." she mumbled, though the difficulty in aiming with her fork betrayed her, "just... warm."

After eating, Sofía lay back on the sofa, with the manuscript resting on her lap like a sleeping cat. Tomás cleared the plates, washed the dishes with the familiarity of someone who already knew every corner of that kitchen, and then returned to the living room, where she was idly flipping through the last page of the manuscript for the umpteenth time.

"Shall I tell you now or would you prefer I mark it in red?" she asked, pointing out a poorly structured line.

"If you say it, I'll write it down," he replied, picking up the pencil he had left beside the sofa.

They corrected together, amidst occasional laughter, serious notes, and small ironies. Sofía leaned further and further to one side, as if sleep was slowly pushing her towards abandonment.

"You're a lost cause," Tomás murmured, watching her struggle to keep her eyes open.

"And you're not?" she mumbled, swaying as she stood up. "I think... I'll go to bed."

But as she took the first step, her body faltered, her legs played a trick on her, and she was about to fall if Tomás hadn't reacted instantly, catching her with both arms.

"You can't go on like this, Sofía," he said, his voice low, tired, as he held her in his arms.

"Don't start lecturing me again..." she protested, without real strength. "I'm tired of kids who think they're functional adults."

"And I'm tired of watching you destroy yourself like this," he whispered, as he carefully guided her down the hallway to her room.

The room was the same as always: messy, with clothes on the desk, books piled in a corner, sheets half-falling off the bed. Tomás gently sat her on the edge of the mattress and began to tidy the essentials: he picked up the clothes, left them on a chair, put the pillows in place, pulled up the bedspread.

Sofía watched him in silence, her dark eyes narrowed by sleep, but attentive.

"Tomás..." she murmured, barely audible.

He leaned in to cover her with the sheets, and as he was about to turn to leave, she raised an arm with effort, pointing her finger towards his forehead.

"Aren't you going to kiss me this time?"

Tomás stopped. For a second his face froze, caught in that moment like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. He felt the air grow denser, his throat close, but he didn't retreat.

He stepped back, leaned in slowly, careful not to read more than necessary into her words. He placed a soft kiss on her forehead, a warm touch that smelled of soap, wine, and contained tenderness.

"Rest, Sofía. There's food left for a couple of days. Please, eat. You're too thin."

Sofía smiled with her eyes almost closed. A weak, mischievous smile, broken by sleep.

"Yes, Dad. Thank you."

Tomás paused for another second, looking at her in the dim light, thinking he had never seen her so fragile as that night. Then, he silently left, closing the door carefully.

And the echo of the kiss, unknown to him, lingered in the room much longer than his footsteps in the hallway.