Page 46 of Tension
The space is familiar and still adorned with the holiday decorations. The last time I stood here was the night of her birthday party, when the air was electric with possibilities. When I almost kissed her. When we stood so close, I could feel her breath on my cheek.
She heads to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on any lights. Only the under-cabinet glow spills across the marble countertops. I follow slowly, memories pressing at my ribs. The laughter of her guests, the sound of expensive wine being poured, and the desire of wanting her and knowing I shouldn’t.
She pulls two glasses down, fills one with water and hands it to me. Her fingers brush mine as I take it. Cold glass. Warm skin. A pulse of anticipation. The silence is heavy now. I open my mouth to say something, anything, then my phone buzzes. I glance down and see my mother’s name flash on the screen.
I hold it up, muttering, “It’s my mom. I need to take this.” Vaeda nods silently and turns her back, busying herself at the sink. I set the glass of water down and step into the adjacent room, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mami.”
“Where are you?” Her voice is tight, frayed with panic. “I called the doorman. He said you didn’t come home.”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “I’m just... I’m at my instructor’s place with a few people. We were practicing late.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, quieter, “On Christmas Eve? You’re not lying to me, Mateo?”
“No, I swear. I’m okay.”
She exhales, and I can picture her pacing the kitchen at home, one hand pressed to her chest. “Your father will come around.He always does. You just need to stay focused. Don’t give him a reason to drag you back.”
“I won’t.”
“Merry Christmas. I will speak to you tomorrow. I love you, mi cielo.”
“Merry Christmas. Love you too.”
I hang up and turn to find Vaeda standing in the doorway, her figure a shadow haloed by soft light from the kitchen behind her.
VAEDA
I heard every word.
From the moment his voice dropped to that aching hush, to the soft, worried cadence of his mother’s plea. I heard it all, and now I stand frozen in the doorway to my living room, having gravitated here as soon as he picked up the call, staring at him and hoping for answers I’ve been too afraid to ask. His sobriety is fragile and I’m not helping.
I’m the tremor beneath his feet, the pothole on a road that should be smooth. I see it now, more clearly than ever. The way his voice cracked when he reassured her, the subtle tremble in his breath when he swore he was okay. He’s not. Not really. He’s just clinging to something that feels steady, and that something—God help us both—is me.
The guilt comes swiftly and strongly. My stomach clenches, a wave of nausea curling under my ribs. I’ve never made anyone feel like that before, as though I’m their lifeline. Gerardo never looked at me that way. Never needed me with that kind of desperate hope. And the worst part? I wouldn’t have noticed, because I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Mateo.
I don’t move when he makes his way over to me, don’t lift my head, but I feel him come closer. The air shifts with him, his presence coiling around my spine like a cord being drawn tight.
“Vaeda,” he says, his voice low and tentative.
I look up, and he’s already there. Close. So very close. His brows are pinched, his eyes wide and brimming with raw and tender emotion. He looks at me like I’m gravity, and then he touches me.
His hands lift slowly, fingers brushing the line of my jaw. He holds my face so gently, as if I’m sacred. As if I’m not the one who might ruin him. His touch is hesitant at first, but I can feel the restraint in him, the effort it takes to move slowly when his entire body pulses with urgency.
“I shouldn’t want this,” I whisper, but the moment the words leave my lips, I know they’re a lie. I’ve never wanted anything more.
His thumb brushes across my cheek, and the warmth of his breath dances across my mouth. He leans in and kisses me. It isn’t rushed, or messy, or desperate. It’s reverent. Devotional. A prayer disguised as a touch. My knees go weak, my heart stuttering against my ribs. I tremble as his lips linger on mine, and when he pulls back, I see the reflection of my own longing mirrored in his eyes.
He looks at me like I’m his salvation, and I can’t stand it.
Mateo guides me gently, leading me farther into the room. The apartment feels too quiet, too intimate, like it’s holding its breath right along with me. He sinks onto the couch, his hand still clasping mine, and with the softest tug, he draws me down onto his lap.
I hesitate for a split second. Not out of doubt, but out of fear. Fear that I won’t be able to stop. That this will become a wildfire I can’t control, but I follow the pull anyway, letting him guideme down, my thighs sliding along either side of his. His hands immediately come to my hips, firm and possessive.
My breath catches as I straddle him, the feel of him pulsing between my legs making it hard to breathe. I brace my hands on his shoulders, but it’s not to steady myself. It’s to stop myself from falling too far because I already know I won’t come back from this.
His fingers move along my sides, slow but deliberate, as he makes his way up toward my chest. His touch is soft, but it simmers just beneath the surface, brimming with a barely restrained hunger.
He presses his forehead to mine, his lashes brushing my skin as his hands curl into the fabric of my cardigan. “You feel like a dream,” he whispers.
