9
Marta blinked at the message.
Breakfast.
She was not expecting that.
A moment ago, sleep had been tugging at her, pulling her under in that heavy way that comes after a long night. But now? Now, she was very much awake. Her fingers hovered over the screen, unmoving.
She had a decision to make.
Immediately, her mind began listing the options, methodically, like she would in a meeting, weighing the pros and cons.
Option one: Make an excuse and decline.
A perfectly reasonable course of action. Keep the distance, maintain control. This—whatever this was—was already toeing the line of something too uncertain, too unpredictable. Besides, wasn’t it better to quit while she was ahead? Before she found herself too invested?
Option two: Say nothing.
The coward’s choice. Also, ineffective—Fina was persistent, and Marta got the distinct impression she wouldn’t let this slide so easily.
Option three: Go.
She immediately dismissed it. Absurd. Too much.
As she sat there, indecisive, another thought struck her—one that had been lingering ever since this whole thing with Fina started.
As a teenager, she had noticed women, in a way she never had with men, but she had learned early on to push those feelings aside, to bury them deep where they couldn’t be touched. It wasn’t something talked about, not in her family, not in the world she had grown up in. So she had locked that part of herself away, never spoken of, never acknowledged—except for that one drunken night with Begoña, a confession met with wide eyes and a teasing smirk. Begoña had never let her live it down since, but even then, it had been a joke, something Marta had brushed off, something that had never really meant anything.
Because she had never acted on it.
How could she? She wouldn’t even know where—or how—to start.
But a voice inside her whispered that maybe, with Fina, she had found a reason to try.
She pressed her lips together, subconsciously twirling a loose lock of hair from the nape of her neck between her fingers. A nervous habit she’d had since childhood.
Her phone vibrated again.
Too early? Too forward? Too devastatingly charming to resist?
Marta let out a quiet snort before she could stop herself. God, she’s impossible.
She exhaled, tilting her head back against her pillow. If she were smart, she’d choose option one or two. But—
But she could already picture it. Sitting across from Fina. Watching her talk with that effortless ease, the way her mouth curled around words, how her lips would wrap around the rim of a coffee cup.
No.
Marta squeezed her eyes shut. This is ridiculous.
She could just say no. Keep things as they were. But the thought of not seeing Fina, of cutting this off before it had even started, made something in her chest tighten.
One breakfast. What harm could it do?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a response.
Fine. But if the food is terrible, I'm blaming you.
Fina’s reply came almost instantly.
I accept full responsibility. But I should warn you—I have impeccable taste.
Debatable.
Oof. Feisty already. I like it. See you at Café Gaspar at 9?
Marta rolled her eyes but typed out a simple: See you then.
She stared at the message for a moment before tossing her phone onto the nightstand. What the hell am I doing?
She had no answer.
An hour or so later, Marta stood in front of her closet, arms crossed.
What does one wear to a breakfast date?
Not a date. Just breakfast. A date was too everything.
She bit her lip, rifling through hangers. Too formal. Too casual. Too much like she was trying. Am I trying? She cursed under her breath.
Finally, she settled on something simple—dark jeans, a fitted blouse, ankle boots. Polished, but not like she was about to walk into a boardroom. She glanced at herself in the mirror, smoothing her hair.
"You're overthinking this," she muttered to her reflection.
Still, her stomach was in knots for the entirety of the short drive.
When she pulled up near the café, she sat in her car for a moment, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
This was so unlike her. She didn’t do spontaneous. She did planned, carefully measured.
She took a deep breath. One breakfast. No big deal.
And yet, as she stood on the threshold of the cozy familiar cafe—not far from where she lived, how had Fina even known?—a new thought crept in.
This isn’t just breakfast.
She knew it. Felt it in her bones.
And that was terrifying.
As she waited next to the hostess stand, the panic surged. She could still leave. Say she got called into a work emergency, make up some excuse—
She turned on her heel, ready to go.
"Marta."
Her breath caught.
She didn’t need to turn to know who it was. She felt it—the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, the way the air shifted around her.
That voice. The soft lilt in which her name was spoken.
Slowly, she turned.
There, in a corner booth, sat Fina.
Their eyes met, and for the second time since that night at the concert, Marta felt something shift in her world.
And just like that, she knew—
This was anything but just breakfast.