The afternoon went by quietly.The landlord baked cookies—"just to test a recipe he saw on TV"—and I stayed there with him, sitting on the couch, leg stretched out, watching some random show where two people argued about pizza crusts as if the fate of humanity depended on it.
We ate warm cookies, a bit crooked, a bit burnt on the edges, but delicious.We talked about bees, about rain, about how some people can fold fitted sheets and others absolutely cannot (I, definitely, cannot).We laughed. A lot.
But we didn't talk about Rafael's past… and we didn't need to.The silence around that subject was its own kind of care.
When I noticed, afternoon had slipped into early evening, and warm orange light spilled through the window.That's when the door opened.
Rafael walked in.
He looked serious, like he always did after university, his shoulders still holding the weight of concentration, his hair messy from the wind.He dropped his backpack on the floor for a moment, as if his body needed to arrive before his mind did.
"How's the knee?" he asked, direct, no sugarcoating.
"Better every day," I replied honestly. "I think the appointment tomorrow is going to be good."
He nodded but kept looking, as if he needed to confirm it with his own eyes.
"And your class?" I asked.
He made a short grimace.
"Can't say the same."
"I loved today," I said, turning to the landlord. "It was great. But now I'm going upstairs. I want to be rested for the doctor tomorrow. Who knows, maybe he'll look at me and say I'm so good I can even climb trees again."
The landlord laughed loudly.
I laughed too.Rafael muttered something that sounded like "you're not climbing any trees."
He picked up his backpack and placed it on the armchair.
"I'll help you up," he said.
"You'll walk with me," I corrected, lifting my chin but smiling. "I can get up there on my own."
Rafael tried to make that closed, annoyed face of his, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a tiny smile.
I turned to the landlord before standing up.
"Thank you for lunch… and for the cookies," I said, smiling.
"I'll send up a plate of dinner for you later," he replied.
"I feel guilty for bothering you so much…" I murmured.
He put his hands on his hips.
"You're not bothering anyone," he said firmly. "A house without people in it gets too quiet. I like knowing there's someone going up and down these stairs, complaining about knee pain, talking loudly at the TV. Keeps the place alive."
My chest warmed.Rafael was beside me, holding my crutch. He handed it to me without a word.
And I realized again—I was only using one.
I really was getting better.
We stepped out of the living room and stopped in front of the stairs.
Rafael turned to me.
"Are you sure you don't want help?" he asked, already expecting the "no."
I gripped the railing with my free hand.Took a breath.
"Just appreciate the climb," I said.
He didn't laugh.I started up, slow and steady.
Foot, weight, crutch…Foot, weight, crutch…
Rafael followed right behind.
Close.Very close.
So close I could feel his breath, his steady presence, his silent attention.So close I had to force myself to focus on the knee, the railing, the steps… and not on the fact that he was right there, inches away, like he was afraid I'd fall if he took one step back.
When we reached the top, I stopped by my door, breathing a little faster than I wanted to admit.But the feeling was good.It was victory.
"I made it up," I said, smiling, unable to hide the joy.
Rafael stood there, looking at me.
It wasn't irritation, or worry, or tiredness.It was something I couldn't name at first.
Almost… admiration.
But that was probably just my imagination—my head had been too full of him lately.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare keyring.The metal clicked softly, and the pendant… the small flower, simple lines, worn by time… it swung gently as it moved.I recognized it.
His mother's keychain.
I stared at it for a moment, but before I could say anything, Rafael spoke:
"You're doing much better," he said plainly. "There's no need for me to keep the spare key anymore."
He started removing the key from the metal ring, pushing the loop with his thumb.
I touched his hand.Barely—just a touch.
"I want you to keep it," I said.
He froze.Looked at me like he hadn't understood.
"If you don't mind," I added, softer. "I feel safer that way. Knowing you have the key."
Rafael kept looking.So I added, with a small smile:
"With the way my life goes, you never know when you'll have to come in again to save me. Shower rescues are already at two, by the way."
I said it jokingly, but my voice was warm inside.And I think I actually saw Rafael blush.
He turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and put the keychain back in his pocket—without removing anything.
"You need to be more careful, Helena," he said quietly.
I knew it wasn't a scolding.It was his way of saying I care.
I stepped into the studio, but he stayed at the doorway for a second, as if making sure I was truly okay.Then he lowered his head and stepped back.
"Try to stay safe," he said, voice low, almost a sigh. "I'll bring dinner later."
"Rafael…" I called.
He stopped, still facing away.
"Thank you. Really… for everything."
He was silent for a moment, but didn't turn around.Then he continued down the stairs, step by step.
The door closed behind me.Just me and the quiet.
I put on some music—one of those songs that fill the room without demanding too much attention.Opened a bag of store-bought cookies and took a bite.
Terrible.
The landlord's cookies tasted like home.These tasted like… plastic.
I laughed to myself, shaking my head.
I sat on the edge of the bed and thought of him—Rafael going with me to the doctor tomorrow, the way he grumbled while taking care of me.
I picked out clothes for tomorrow and set them on the chair.
"My clothes are so boring…" I muttered, scrunching the hem of my shirt. "No wonder he doesn't look twice when I dress like a geography teacher during exam week."
I rolled my eyes.
At least the bathroom fall had been just that: a scare, a fatal dose of embarrassment, and another story to cringe about later.My knee was stable. I was okay.
And the hours drifted like that.Soft music.Loud thoughts.
Until a knock pulled me back to reality.
Light knock, but unmistakable.
"Come in!" I said without getting up. "Or did you forget you have the key too?"
The door opened.
Rafael walked in holding a steaming plate.White rice, butter-seared steak, half-moon tomatoes, golden fries.
My heart did a childish leap.
"If I were in better condition, I'd be jumping right now," I declared.
Rafael raised an eyebrow.
"Calm down and eat," he said.
"No doubt about it, my favorite meal in the world is steak and fries!"
"Are you a child?" he muttered.
We stayed like that.
Me, sitting on the bed with the plate on my lap.Rafael, leaning against the wall with crossed arms, watching the world from a safe angle.
I ate slowly—though not slowly enough to hide how happy I was.
When food is good, I have a habit I can never control.I start humming.Very softly.Almost without noticing.
I only realized I was doing it again when I heard his voice:
"So steak and fries win the award for Most Upbeat Song," he said in a tone too neutral to be unintentional. "Stroganoff comes in second. Vegetable soup in third."
I froze mid-chew and made a face at him.
"You keep track of those things?" I asked.
"Didn't have to write anything down," he said.
I went back to eating, humming even quieter this time—aware he was listening.
Nothing ever escapes Rafael's eyes.