Don’t worry, it’s over now.
Santiago’s hands gripped Sofia’s ankle with a firmness she couldn’t remember ever feeling.
His fingers, rough from years of working the land, grazed the skin of her calf as he cleaned the wound with rainwater dripping from a metal bucket.
She trembled, soaked to the bone, but it wasn’t from the cold.
It was something else.
Something she couldn’t describe.
“It’s going to burn,” he warned, tearing his shirt to improvise a bandage.
The cotton melted under his brown hands.
Sofia stared at him, unable to tear her eyes away from the concentration on his face.
The way he squinted to see better in the dimness of the stable, the gentleness with which he wrapped her leg as if it were something fragile, important.
“How long has it been since you ate properly?” he asked suddenly, his voice deep.
“You’re very thin.”
No one had asked her anything like that in five years.
Five years of parties, expensive dresses, and perfect photos.
Five years of rehearsed smiles alongside Rodrigo Salazar, the man she married to save her grandfather’s ranch.
“It’s none of your business,” she murmured, more out of habit than conviction.
“Now it is,” he replied, without raising his voice.
“You can’t faint while I’m treating you.”
His hands moved a little higher, adjusting the bandage.
Santiago’s thumb pressed gently to check it wasn’t too tight.
That simple, almost insignificant gesture pierced his chest like lightning.
And before he could stop himself, the words spilled out:
“My husband never touched me like this.”
The silence grew thick.
Santiago remained motionless, his hands still on her leg.
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Their eyes met in the dimness of the barn as the storm lashed against the tin roof.
“Mrs. Salazar…” he began.
“Sofía,” she interrupted, her voice breaking.
“Just Sofía.”
She pulled her hands away as if they’d been burned.
Sofia’s eyes filled with tears, mingling with the raindrops still falling from her hair.
Five years of a “perfect marriage.”
Five years sleeping alone in a king-size bed.
Five years since that correct, brief, and tasteless kiss at their wedding.
That same night, Rodrigo had gone to sleep in his studio, “because of jet lag from the trip.”
He never returned to his room.
“You need to change,” Santiago said, standing up and turning his back to her.
“There are blankets in the main house.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“Well,” she said with a bitter laugh.
“At least it would be something different. Something real.”
“I haven’t felt anything real in five years.”
Santiago clenched his jaw.
For a second, he seemed about to say something, but he just sighed.
“Come on. Chabela will make hot tea.”
She held out her hand.
It was a mistake; they both knew it instantly.
But Sofía took it.
The warmth of that palm against hers was like waking from a long, deep five-year sleep.
And she still couldn’t imagine where that simple touch would lead her.
The main house smelled of woodsmoke and wine.
Chabela, with her flowered apron and sixty years of peasant wisdom, didn’t ask any questions.
When she saw them enter, completely soaked.
“To the bathroom. Right now,” she ordered, pointing to the stairs.
“I have some of my niece’s clothes. They’ll fit you.”
Sofía obeyed, too weak to argue.
Under the hot shower water, she finally cried.
They weren’t elegant, discreet tears, like those shed at charity events.
But loud, unruly sobs, born from a deep place she had buried the day she signed her “marriage contract.”