Page 5 of Marcelo

Without hesitation, Marcelo steps forward. "Here, let me."

He takes the cat into his arms with a tenderness I wouldn't have expected, especially after our conversation. His large, capable hands cradle the feline with surprising gentleness, and he murmurs soothingly to her, his voice a low, rhythmic lullaby.

The cat, sensing safety, slowly starts to relax, tucking her head under Marcelo’s chin.

I'm transfixed, caught in the juxtaposition of this man: the stickler for rules and order, the disciplined ex-military, now handling a fragile creature with the softness of a father comforting his child.

He looks up, catching my gaze, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, as if he's letting me in on a secret.

"I might have said I don't want pets, but it doesn’t mean I can't care for them," he whispers as the cat purrs gently in his embrace.

I smile, a warmth spreading through me. "You continue to surprise me, Marcelo."

He smirks, a playful glint in his eyes. "Just wait. We’re only getting started."

The clamor of the shelter intensifies as evening blankets Haven Falls. The storm outside rumbles, growing more forceful by the minute. Every so often, a gust of wind whips through the slightly ajar doors, carrying the scent of rain with it.

A handful of volunteers wheel in several large coolers from the entrance, courtesy of a local caterer offering support. The word "Sandwiches!" spreads quickly, and relief ripples through the space. After hours of work, everyone's ready for a reprieve.

I glance at Marcelo, who's finishing up logging some supplies. "Hungry?" I ask, my stomach growling in agreement.

He looks up, his deep brown eyes locking onto mine. "Starving," he admits with a rare grin. "Care to join?"

We queue up, collecting our sandwiches wrapped in brown paper and packets of chips and bottled water. The main hall of the shelter is buzzing with people chatting, eating, and catching a moment's rest. But I'm not in the mood for crowd noise; I need a quieter space.

Spotting a vacant corner near a window with a view of the storm-darkened skies, I nod in that direction. "How about there?"

He agrees, and we settle onto some stacked supply boxes turned into makeshift seats. With the wind howling outside and the rain starting to tap against the window panes, there's an intimacy to our isolated corner.

I chew thoughtfully, glancing over at Marcelo. The way he meticulously arranges his meal speaks volumes of his structured nature. I've only just met him, but the contrast between us is stark, even in the way we eat.

“I’m surprised the mayor let his daughter out in the storm,” he says, popping a chip into his mouth.

"You know," I begin, wiping some mayo off my chin, "being the mayor's kid isn't all it's cracked up to be. Constantly under a microscope, every choice judged. Maybe that's why I lean towards the unpredictable. Like daydreaming about adopting a pet amidst all the chaos."

He raises an eyebrow, taking a deliberate bite of his sandwich. "So, the mayor's rebellious daughter wants a dog to stir things up even more? Sounds on-brand."

A laugh bubbles out of me. "Not just about rebellion. Pets offer pure love, no strings attached. No politics. No judgment."

Marcelo pauses, sipping his water. "I get the appeal, though I've never really felt that pull. Everything in my life has been about order, schedules..."

"But surely, there's more to life than just ticking boxes?" I prod gently.

He smirks, leaning back slightly. "Unpredictability has never been my strong suit. But this place, these animals," he nods toward the shelter, "they're making me question a lot."

A warmth spreads through me, realizing he's opening up, even if just a bit. "Wait, are you saying there's a chance Mr. By-The-Book might go off-script and adopt a cat?"

His chuckle surprises me. "Well, never say never."

I continue munching on my sandwich, intrigued by the depths Marcelo might be hiding. "You know, for someone so by-the-book, you've got a hint of mystery to you. What made you this way? Always wondered what drives someone to such discipline."

He looks a bit taken aback, his walls momentarily showing cracks. "Most people don't ask. They just assume," he admits.

"I'm not most people," I say with a playful smirk. The gusts of wind outside rattle the building ever so slightly, yet inside this little pocket of stillness, the air grows heavy with anticipation.

He hesitates, then finally exhales. "Alright, you've got me cornered. I guess it’s a mix of family tradition and personal choices. The military is in our blood, but for me, it became a haven when things got tough."

Curiosity piqued, I press on. "What kind of things?"

---