The sea that night was breathing slowly, heavy and alive.
The yacht slid forward through the darkness, heading toward the island owned by Miguel's associate.
Inside the cabin, Naiara slept, or seemed to.
Her body barely moved, yet her fingers were clenched in the sheets, knuckles white.
For her, sleep was never rest. It was a door.
And that night, the door opened wide.
Music hit her first. A pulsing Latin rhythm. Glasses clinking. Laughter, shouts.
The air thick with smoke and cheap perfume.
Flashing lights flickered, distorting faces, melting reality. And in front of her, sitting at the table, Javier.
"You turned off your phone, ¿verdad?"
His voice was soft and venomous, like something slithering through the dark.
"Javi, please, not again…"
He leaned closer, pupils wide.
"I saw you. With him. You touched your hair, like you always do when you lie. Do you think I'm an idiot?"
"It was just a colleague!"
His hand slammed the table. The glass tipped over, wine spilling like blood.
The music swallowed her protest.
"Don't lie to me!"
She tried to pull away, but he grabbed her wrist, tight, too tight.
"Outside."
"No!"
He dragged her through the crowd.
People laughed, moved aside, not looking twice. The emergency door banged open.
Cold night air slapped her face.
"Talk to me tomorrow, please," she whispered.
"Tomorrow?" His grin twisted. "There won't be a tomorrow for us."
The first slap came fast.
Her head snapped sideways, a hot sting on her cheek.
The second hit her lip, splitting it open.
"Stop!" she cried, but the alley swallowed her voice.
"You're mine!" he shouted, his breath thick with alcohol and madness.
The first punch hit her stomach.
The second made her drop to her knees.
He kept hitting, blind, furious, muttering fragments of words that no longer made sense. Her body stopped resisting.
The rain started to fall, soft at first, then harder, washing blood down the cracks of the street.
"Can't you see? I love you! You can't leave me!"
The knife appeared like lightning. Metal glinted under the streetlight. She froze.
"Javi, no… please."
The first stab struck her back. A white-hot pain tore through her. She gasped, her scream caught in her throat.
The second cut across her abdomen, a brutal arc that joined the first, forming one long, burning wound.
She fell forward, face against the pavement, hands slipping on the wet ground.
Rain, blood, and tears mixed together.
Her breath faltered. The world dimmed.
Then, footsteps. A crash.
A voice.
"¡Basta, idiota!"
A body hit the ground. The knife clattered away. A man knelt beside her, breathless, voice rough but steady.
"Don't close your eyes. I've got you. Breathe, do you hear me?"
She tried to see him. All she could make out were shadows, two pale eyes, and warmth.
"Stay with me," the voice urged.
"I'm here."
Then darkness swallowed everything.
Naiara woke up screaming.
Her body jerked upright, drenched in sweat.
Her heart pounded, wild and uneven.
She touched her stomach, sure she'd feel blood.
"No… no, stop…" she whispered, shaking.
The cabin door burst open.
Damian appeared in the doorway, bare chest rising and falling, his voice sharp.
"What happened?"
She scrambled back, curling against the headboard.
"Stay away from me!"
He froze, startled by the raw fear in her eyes.
"Naiara, it's okay. You're safe. It was just a dream."
"Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me!"
Her hands went to her stomach as if to shield herself.
"I don't want to see that knife again. Please, stop…"
Damian stepped forward, then halted.
His face tightened.
"There's no knife, Tigna. No one's going to hurt you."
"Don't call me that!" she snapped, trembling.
That name, Tigna, cut deeper than he could ever know.
He lowered his gaze and slowly sat on the edge of the bed.
His voice softened.
"Breathe with me. One… two…"
He placed a hand over his chest, demonstrating.
She tried, but her breathing came in ragged bursts.
"I can't… I can't breathe…"
"Yes, you can. Look at me."
She did. And in his eyes, she didn't see threat, only something human.
He reached for a blanket, moving slowly, and handed it to her.
She took it, shaking.
Silence settled between them, fragile and uncertain.
He watched her in the dim light, her shoulders trembling beneath the fabric.
Something cracked inside him, something he didn't recognize.
"Nobody's ever safe," she murmured. "Not even in dreams."
Damian swallowed hard.
"Not while I'm here," he said softly, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
He looked at her again: small, curled up, terrified.
A wounded creature. A frightened kitten.
Step by step, he moved closer.
Each motion was careful, hesitant, as if approaching a wild animal.
She watched him, wide-eyed, unsure.
He lifted a hand, paused, then gently rested it on her shoulder.
She flinched, but didn't pull away.
"It's okay," he whispered, his voice lower, gentler than ever before. And slowly, she let him in.
Her body leaned into his, trembling but seeking warmth.
He wrapped his arms around her, careful not to startle her, and rested his chin on her damp hair.
Neither spoke.
There were no promises, no explanations.
Just silence, and the fragile comfort of two broken souls who, for one night, stopped running from their ghosts.