The pressure around my wrists released instantly.
Relief hit me so suddenly it almost made me dizzy.
I drew in a slow breath as my arms came forward, stiff and aching from the unnatural position.
My shoulders protested as I moved, a dull pain settling deep into the joints.
I rubbed my wrists gently, my fingertips brushing over the sore, indented skin where the metal had bitten in.
Warmth returned slowly.
“Thank you,” I whispered, quieter now.
I flexed my fingers, testing the movement, grounding myself in something physical again.
Behind me, he didn’t step away immediately.
I could still feel him there.
Close enough that the air between us felt thinner.
I lowered my hands into my lap, keeping them still even as awareness prickled along my spine.
Then I felt him straighten and shift away from me, and only then did my breathing begin to steady.
His footsteps crossed the room—slow, unhurried.
Each one deliberate, not leaving, but choosing his position.
A moment later, the couch gave a soft exhale as he sat, the cushions sinking under his weight.
He sat there so comfortably, as if he belonged in my space—like my small apartment wasn’t beneath him at all.
Why? I thought he would have left by now.
That thought unsettled me more than anything else.
Men like Rafael Pérez didn’t sit in places like this.
They didn’t linger in broken apartments with splintered doors and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke still clinging to the walls.
My fingers dug lightly into the fabric of my lap, forcing myself to stay still instead of fidgeting.
Many women at the office would lose their minds if they knew.
Rafael Pérez—theRafael Pérez—sitting on my couch, speaking to me alone, without an audience, without pretense.
If word ever got out...
I could already hear it.
The whispers. The sharp glances. The quiet accusations dressed up as curiosity.
What did she do to get his attention?
The blind girl?
I pushed the thought aside.
