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.

Then, gripping the edge of her blanket with both hands, she says, “It started before we moved here.”

You remain silent.

She keeps her eyes on the neighboring rooftops instead of you. “At first I thought it was in my head. Tomás worked late shifts, and sometimes Esteban would stop by the apartment—bringing groceries, asking if the landlord had fixed something. He was always helpful. Always polite.” Her mouth tightens. “Then one afternoon, he stood too close in the kitchen.”

Cold spreads through your arms.

“He brushed against me when there was no need,” Lucía continues. “I stepped away and told myself it meant nothing. After that came the comments. Small ones. About my hair. My mouth. How a dress fit. The kind of things a decent man can always claim were harmless if a woman dares to repeat them.”

Your skin feels too tight.

“And you told Tomás?”

Lucía shuts her eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wasn’t sure yet.” Her voice trembles for the first time. “Because if I said it wrong, I’d be the one who poisoned the family. Because Esteban is respected, and I was the new wife from a small town who still got lost on city buses and hadn’t finished my paperwork at the clinic. Because men like him rely on hesitation.”

For a moment, the stars blur before your vision steadies.

You lower yourself onto the low wall across from her. The concrete still holds a trace of warmth from the day. “What happened after you moved in?”

Lucía inhales slowly. “The first week was fine because everyone was around. Then one night I woke up and saw light under our bedroom door. I thought maybe your mother was unwell or Tomás had forgotten something. But when I opened it slightly, no one was there. Just the hallway.” She swallows. “The next night, I heard footsteps stop outside our room.”

Your hands tighten on your knees.

“The third night,” she says, “the doorknob moved.”

Neither of you speaks.

The wind stirs the laundry hanging on the far side of the roof. Somewhere below, a dog begins barking at nothing. You think of the narrow hallway upstairs, of doors opening in the dark, of your own husband standing in the shadows outside a young woman’s room.

“I locked the door after that,” Lucía says. “The next morning, Esteban joked at breakfast that the old hinges in the house made strange noises and could make people imagine things.” She looks at you then. “I hadn’t told anyone what I heard.”

The night seems to tilt.

“He knew,” you whisper.

“Yes.”

Anger flares so hot it makes you dizzy.

You want to reject it—to insist there must be some misunderstanding, that Esteban is strange but not predatory, awkward but not dangerous. But the details align too perfectly. The staged sleep. The careful light. The doorknob. The comments. The way Lucía chose proximity over distance, placing herself between you as if your presence were a shield.

“Why sleep between us?” you ask, though you already suspect the answer.

Lucía’s eyes fill with tears.