Chapter 08 – Our Hearts Began to Beat in the Same Rhythm

— What was that? — Cauã asked, already curled up on the sofa, hair still damp from the shower. He wore a loose, comfortable t-shirt brought from home, as if slowly beginning to mark his territory.

Michel ran his hands through his hair, visibly exhausted. Also freshly showered.— Omar… is an old friend, you could say. We grew up together, studied together, inherited the same world. — he sighed, a note of impatience in his voice. — But today, that doesn't matter.

— Then you should've let me leave. Stay with your friend. None of this makes sense. — Cauã looked away, his body tense, as if bracing himself for goodbye.

But Michel didn't think. He simply moved forward. Closed the space and took the plunge like someone leaping from a cliff without knowing if there'd be ground beneath.

The kiss happened like a rupture. An unexpected tear in the silence between them. No permission, no planning. Just the urgency of a feeling that refused to be restrained.

Cauã froze for a moment, the shock running through his body like electricity. His trembling hands rested on Michel's shoulders, and for a moment, he pushed him back, breathing heavily, trying to sort through the internal storm.

They were filled with unspoken emotions, exhausted from everything they had seen — and yet, there they were. Face to face, so close that a single breath could bridge the gap again.

— I told you I'd protect you. And my friends… they'll have to accept that. Accept you. — Michel spoke in a low, firm voice, as if sealing an old promise. The closeness felt like an embrace, and the warmth of his words seeped in like a quiet kind of healing.

Cauã wanted to pull away. Wanted to argue, to say it wasn't that simple. But he didn't.

Because part of him wanted, truly, to believe.

And so he didn't answer — he just allowed it. Not as an escape this time, but as a choice.

In the tender silence of the room, wrapped in the distant noise of the city and the uneven rhythm of their breath, Cauã finally surrendered. He could still smell the fresh soap on his own skin, and Michel's woody cologne — a comforting, magnetic mix that wrapped around him like warmth.

He let himself lean in. Their lips met again, this time with gentler intention, a slow surrender. Michel's mouth parted softly, and his warm tongue met his with a calm rhythm, reverent almost, as if speaking a secret language made of nothing but presence and restrained desire.

The lawyer's hands moved to his face, touching his skin delicately, thumb brushing along the curve of his cheek like someone caressing something fragile and deeply cherished. The gesture held the tenderness of understanding, of refuge.

Cauã only rested his hands on Michel's shoulders, anchoring himself there, allowing the touch to speak for him. That was what he could give — and maybe that was enough.

Because in that instant, he understood. It wasn't just affection, it wasn't just respect — something deeper pulsed beneath the surface, something he had tried to ignore for far too long. When had Michel stopped being just an ally in the dark… and become the very light in the chaos?

Maybe he'd never know. But now… he didn't need to hide from it anymore.

Michel guided him gently until they lay on the sofa, without breaking the kiss. There was a quiet hunger in the movement, something long restrained. Their bodies molded into each other like a search for shelter, and the kiss deepened — more intense, more urgent. Michel's hand slid down the curve of Cauã's neck, fingers brushing the sensitive skin, gliding to his chest and settling at his waist — suspended between desire and care.

Cauã gasped softly between the kisses, his cheeks flushed with heat. He broke away with care, eyes downcast, breath shaky.

— Wait… I think I've reached my limit. — His voice came out barely above a whisper, carrying more truth than he was ready to admit. Even as a grown man, nerves stirred in his stomach, bubbling like a first-time feeling.

Michel took a deep breath, steadying himself against the urgency still drumming in his chest. He could have gone further — everything he needed was right there, within reach. But that wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted wasn't just Cauã's body — it was his trust. And rushing meant risking what they were building.

— It's okay. — he replied with a gentle kiss, more of a seal than a claim. — We won't go any further. I'm here. That's enough for me right now.

Cauã adjusted himself on the couch, heart still racing. His eyes met Michel's for a moment, silently thanking him for that safe space, for affection that didn't rush. There was still so much to uncover between them — and in that moment, it felt like things were beginning the right way.

— I think… we should talk about all this. Organize our thoughts? — Cauã suggested cautiously, still feeling the warmth of Michel's touch on his lips, like a soft ember burning in silence. He wanted to stay focused, but desire still pulsed beneath the surface.

— Of course. — Michel answered with a calm smile, even as he fought the urge to close the distance again. But he knew Cauã needed space — and trust also grew in the moments when one chose to hold back.

While he ordered some food to calm their rising hunger, Cauã had already picked up pen and paper, trying to organize the whirlwind of thoughts that tangled with the remains of everything they'd experienced hours before.

— Well… Sarah disappeared the same day as the Santa Casa fire. That can't be a coincidence. — He scribbled on the page, fingers trembling as they tried not to betray the storm still pounding in his chest. — Maybe it was an attempt to burn evidence. And the attack on you, Michel… it happened while you were trying to enter the hospital. Someone knew. Someone was waiting for you.

Michel listened closely, leaning against the sofa, his face now more serious. Even wrapped in that tender moment, he recognized the weight of what they were uncovering. The coincidences were piling up — too many, too precise, and far too dangerous.

— That means they weren't just watching Sarah. — Cauã said, already seated, his voice low, as if chewing the truth before swallowing. — They were watching me. And they knew where I'd be. They knew what I was looking for.

Cauã nodded slowly, biting his lower lip before adding, almost in a whisper:— And that brings us closer to what happened at your birth… and why they're still trying to control you.

They both fell silent for a few moments.

— Let's suppose we're dealing with two opposing groups, alright? — Cauã began, his expression sharpening as the analytical spark returned to his gaze. — On one side, we've got the group that recruited Sarah and her boyfriend. Suddenly, she tries to kill you, saying you need to die. On the other, there's your uncle… and Lourdes. And both seem more focused on your continuation, on the fact that you might pass something on — a seed. — As he spoke, the doctor sketched arrows, circles, scribbled names and connected ideas with uneven lines across the paper. His thinking was clear, even as his fingers trembled slightly.

Michel observed in silence, still weighed down by the previous revelation. He took a deep breath before asking:— Do you think the police can do anything about this group? — The question came hesitantly. Ironic, perhaps, for an experienced lawyer… but this case wasn't built on legal facts. It was woven from shadows, twisted faith, and the dead who still whispered.

— I don't know... — Cauã admitted without the slightest embarrassment. — I don't know the extent of their spiritual influence, or how deeply they've infiltrated things. But one thing is clear: they see you as a threat. And a potential one, at that. — He ran a hand through his tied-back hair, exhaling deeply, eyes fixed on the scribbles. — We need to understand why you're dangerous to them. What's so special about your lineage… and why your existence disturbs them so much.

Michel grew pensive, his gaze momentarily lost.— When I was a kid, my uncle was always… affectionate. Almost overprotective. He gave me everything — school, travel, books, freedom. — He smiled faintly, without humor. — There was only one plan: that I'd follow the family tradition. Become a doctor, like him, like my father. But I chose law instead, and that created… distance. Nothing dramatic, but I could feel the quiet disappointment hovering.

Cauã watched attentively. Michel had never spoken this much about the past. And now, as he did, it felt like he was digging into himself.

— And your father? — Cauã asked with a delicacy that hovered just above silence.

Michel hesitated. No one had asked him that so directly before. And maybe, for the first time, he felt ready to answer.— I never met him. — His voice was quiet. — My uncle's brother. He died before I was born… a car accident. Months before I came into the world.

Cauã nodded again, silently, his eyes steady.

— I always believed it really was an accident, — Michel continued. — But now… now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's just paranoia. Or maybe… maybe this story is full of pieces only now starting to fit.

He breathed deeply, eyes wandering across the ceiling as if searching, between invisible cracks, for the thread that stitched past to present.

— But you know what really broke whatever was left between me and my uncle? — Michel turned to look at Cauã with a mix of frustration and sorrow. — It was when he tried to marry me off.

Cauã frowned, surprised.

— I came out at eighteen. Thought that would be enough. That I'd overcome some internal wall, you know? That the rest would come in time. My uncle didn't seem to mind… at least he never showed it. — Michel gave a self-deprecating smile. — Until the pandemic hit. And after it, he decided it was time to 'present me to society.' Started introducing me to women like they were storefront displays. Offering me like some refined product, a bloodline investment. I protested, dodged, but nothing worked. He just became more insistent. Until one day, he said something that never made sense... until now.

Michel lowered his gaze, his throat dry.— "You don't understand. All of this is bigger than you. Than us. The Lacerda family cannot end here."

The silence that followed felt almost sacred.

Cauã simply watched him, and in his eyes, Michel saw a mirror. A reflection of shock, of pain, and of the realization that he might not be a player in this game — but a well-positioned pawn.

— There's another nurse, — Cauã finally broke the silence, his voice low but certain. — I'm not sure if she's on social media, but she's older… I got her number earlier from some old colleagues from Santa Casa. Ludmila Costa Regô.

Michel nodded, still distant, his mind echoing with the ghosts of the last conversation. Still, he accepted. Any clue was better than the void.

They called. A young, polite male voice answered — the woman's grandson. He explained she was ill, weakened in the last few days, but they could visit her once she felt a bit stronger.

— I'm a doctor, — Cauã said gently. — Maybe I could evaluate her, help in some way. If that would make it safer for her.

The boy hesitated, asked for some details. Wanted to make sure he wasn't leaving his grandmother in just anyone's hands. But after hearing Cauã's calm and kind voice, he agreed.

— I've got a shift later, but we can see her in the late afternoon. Does that work? — Cauã asked, turning to Michel, who still seemed to be drifting among memories.

Michel only nodded. And that was enough.

Cauã sighed. He could see the weight hanging over Michel's shoulders like a mantle too heavy to carry. He thought for a moment. Then offered a real opening — one he'd only give if he truly trusted.

— Michel… why don't you stay at my place until this is over?

Michel looked up, a bit surprised.

— Your uncle knows where your apartment is. You might get unwanted visitors. My place... no one but the neighbors knows where I live. And besides— he squeezed the other's hand gently — it might do you good to breathe different air for a few days.

For a moment, Michel felt the world slow down. There were no masks in that invitation. It was genuine. A refuge in the middle of chaos.

— I'd love that, — he replied with quiet certainty, finally meeting Cauã's eyes. — If there's one thing I want… it's to be with you.

Cauã blushed at the sudden declaration. The words had slipped from Michel's lips with unexpected sweetness — more romantic than he was used to hearing, maybe more than he expected to feel right then. But there were urgent matters at hand, practical things to solve before surrendering fully to whatever was growing between them.

With hesitant fingers, he removed the spare key from his keychain and placed it in Michel's palm — a silent gesture that said more than any verbal reply.

— Take care of the house. And of Minguado. — he murmured, looking away, as if the warmth in his cheeks might give away more than he was willing to reveal.

Michel smiled and accepted it. He'd pack a small bag, stop by the office, and return to that refuge that now held more than the scent of herbs and wood — it held the memory of Cauã's touch, and a silent invitation to stay.

Meanwhile, at the hospital, Cauã tried to stay focused. He carried out his rounds with his usual professionalism, but his mind kept drifting. When he finally retreated to the break room, he exhaled, thinking he might have a moment to organize his thoughts.

— Doctor, there's someone here asking for you at reception, — the receptionist said, appearing at the door with her usual polite tone.

Cauã stood up with a slight nod. He had little time — fifteen minutes before the next patient — but enough to deal with whatever it was. He adjusted his glasses, posture straight despite the fatigue, and left the comfort of the room to face the unexpected.

On his phone, a notification blinked: Michel had sent a photo of Minguado sprawled on the couch like he owned the entire place. The cat stared at the camera with disdain, paws stretched out, occupying more space than necessary.

Cauã smiled to himself. And strangely enough, he didn't feel intruded upon. For the first time, someone — other than himself — inhabited that space without causing discomfort.

Quite the opposite.

Maybe he was finally learning what it meant to share. And maybe, deep down, wishing Michel would stay longer than he dared admit.

— Hello.

The voice cut through the hospital reception like a scalpel. Low, measured — but impossible to ignore. All eyes turned to the impeccably dressed man who had just walked in. Tailored suit, upright posture, the kind of presence that doesn't hide — and knows it.

Cauã raised his eyes slowly, like someone who senses a bad omen before even recognizing its source. His heart quickened in his chest. Omar. At that hour of the night. It made no sense.

With his hand hidden in his lab coat pocket, he began to fidget with a small amulet of beads and feathers — an old habit to soothe his nerves, mask his anxiety, reorganize his thoughts. The beads rolled silently between his fingers like a personal mantra.

— Can I help you? — he asked, his tone neutral to the point of sharpness, his expression unreadable.

— Don't you think the hospital lobby isn't the best place for this conversation? — Omar smiled. A smile empty of true intention, but trained to appear charming. There was something about him that unsettled Cauã on a visceral level. Maybe it was the rehearsed tone. Maybe it was the certainty that men like him always knew how to win by wearing people down.

Cauã didn't answer. He simply turned and began walking down the corridor with firm steps. Omar followed like someone who knew he was about to play with marked cards.

Inside the break room, Cauã indicated the door with a small nod. Omar entered as if he belonged there. Sat with the elegance of someone raised among privilege. Meanwhile, Cauã remained standing, fingers still restless in his pocket, the pale blue uniform glowing under the sterile light above. Embroidered on his chest in navy blue: Dr. Cauã Maranhão, and just beneath it, a small feather stitched by hand — a symbol of lightness, but also of ancestry.

— How did you find me? — he asked plainly.

— It's not hard to locate a public servant, — Omar replied, still smiling, his voice smooth like poison diluted in honey. — Besides, I have my contacts. I always have.

It felt like the very air had been sucked out of the room by Omar's overwhelming presence. How could two people be so opposite? Michel, with his warm, welcoming aura that wrapped those around him like an invisible embrace. And Omar... sharp, cold, a presence that commanded attention even in silence.

But perhaps, to those who didn't want his company, Michel's presence could be just as intimidating?

— What do you want? — Cauã finally asked, his voice steady despite the knot tightening in his throat, staring at the man who seemed to dominate the room effortlessly.

Omar smiled again, that crooked, mocking smile laced with superiority.

— It's simple. I know Michel has always had... curiosities about the "other side" of life. The hidden layer, you know? Can I put it that way? You understand what I'm saying? — His voice was soft, but steeped in irony, as if mocking Cauã's very existence. He spoke as if belittling him, drawing invisible lines of power and judgment that were impossible to ignore. — Well, Michel enjoys stepping out of his cocoon now and then. Spending time with someone outside his protected little world. I've done it too, you know...

Cauã tightened his grip on the amulet in his pocket, feeling the beads grind against his skin as he tried to wrest back control over his irritation. He hated veiled insinuations, that quiet arrogance that said more than words ever could.

— You're rambling. Be direct. — His voice came out harsher than intended, but it was necessary. Omar needed to know he wasn't someone to be trifled with.

— I want you to stay away from Michel. Despite everything, Omar's tone remained almost casual. — I don't believe this relationship is good for him, especially with such obvious intentions. He's not your personal ATM, boy. — He spoke in a patronizing tone, treating Cauã like a kid — despite the fact he was nearly forty. — You have no idea how many flies I've had to swat away — all those people orbiting Michel, chasing money, status, scraps of power to elevate their miserable lives. And I know exactly where you come from and what you're after with someone carrying the Lacerda name and reputation.

It took Cauã a few seconds to process the veiled accusation. Omar's irony and the condescending tone made everything feel murky. The subtle layers of his words were deliberate, cloaking the offense just enough to keep it from being overt. His hand clenched the amulet so tightly that the beads nearly creaked from the pressure, his knuckles turning white.

The tension in the air was almost tangible, as if the room itself absorbed every bitter word Omar uttered and threw it back as suffocating echoes. A mixture of disbelief and invisible wounds welled up in Cauã's chest. The contempt in Omar's voice didn't spare a single corner of him, and the way he was being treated — like some social-climbing parasite — felt like an unexpected blow.

Still, Cauã kept his gaze steady. He wasn't someone who folded easily, even if those words struck a tender, raw nerve — one worn thin by battles only he could feel. A heavy silence hung between them before he took a deep breath, trying to pull his thoughts into place.

Omar, sensing the impact of his speech, smirked with calculated disdain, as if he'd already won a war without ever drawing a sword. But Cauã wasn't going to surrender the ground so easily — not to him, and not to any ghost from the past that came to test his strength.

— I think you're twisting things. — His voice was calm but firm. — But let me be clear, since your little investigation seems to have been pretty shallow. I'm not interested in his money. Did you know I'm a doctor? — Cauã held the line, refusing to show how deeply the insult had cut. — And frankly, Michel is thirty-five. He's perfectly capable of making his own choices. He doesn't need anyone guiding him like some lost little boy.

Omar sighed, the kind of sigh reserved for when one grows tired of dealing with the "lesser."

— Fine. How much do you want? — he finally said, his tone now sharp and cold. The polished civility began to crack. — I can offer a fair amount, and we'll pretend this conversation never happened. You delete his number, come up with some excuse… and disappear.

— One million. — Cauã replied dryly, without blinking.

Omar let out a disbelieving laugh — a sound that rang more of mockery than surprise.

— Are you insane?

— If you don't have that kind of money, then we have nothing left to discuss. — Cauã opened the door to the private room with calm, though the tension in his body was evident.

— Be reasonable. What about... a hundred thousand? — Omar stood slowly, still trying to maintain control with carefully measured words.

— No, thank you. — Cauã sighed, drained. His brain felt like it was vibrating, echoing every silent blow of that conversation. — Leave before I ask security to escort you out.

The conversation ended there, like a door slamming shut even when gently pulled.As soon as Omar left, silence fell over the room like a heavy curtain.Cauã let himself sink into the chair, his shoulders slumping, his breathing unsteady. The tension throbbed at his temples and reverberated in his still-curled fingers, as if the amulet he had held moments ago had scorched the palm of his hand.

He was drained. Exhausted. As if he had just walked through an invisible storm.

Omar's presence had been like an overpowering cologne — elegant at first, but quickly suffocating, acidic, toxic. His words, his insinuations, the vulgar attempt to buy distance and silence — all of it clung to the skin like a scent that refused to fade.

Cauã found himself wondering, in the midst of fragmented thoughts, how had Michel endured someone like that for so long? What kind of life was it, surrounded by people who traded affection for convenience?

And now, it made sense.

Michel's quiet hesitations, the contradictions in his eyes.Cauã finally understood that the ghosts haunting the lawyer were not only supernatural — they were social, familial. Forged in gold and resentment.

The anger blended with a sorrow that was hard to name. Not for himself, but for Michel. For the loneliness disguised as prestige, for the walls he must have built around himself just to keep existing.

Cauã felt, with a heavy heart, that what Michel needed most wasn't protection.

It was space — to be loved simply, without prerequisites.

And that… that was what he could offer.Even if he didn't quite know how yet.