Five minutes later, Lucía sits up. “Now,” she whispers.
You glance at Esteban.
Lucía follows your gaze. “He won’t move for at least ten minutes.”
The certainty in her tone makes your stomach twist.
You get out of bed without a word. The tiles feel cold beneath your feet. Lucía gathers her blanket around her shoulders, and the two of you step into the hallway like fugitives moving through your own home.
On the roof, the night air hits sharp and cool.
Puebla stretches around you in fragments of yellow light and shadowed terraces, satellite dishes and water tanks, distant dogs barking thinly through the wind. Somewhere far off, a motorcycle hums down a street before fading away. The sky is clear, scattered with hard, bright stars above the city’s dim glow.
Lucía places her pillow on an overturned paint bucket and sits.
You stay standing. “Talk.”
She nods, as if she expected no gentleness from you.
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