Previously:
After Ellie’s questions left her raw, Lucia kept her promise to meet Matteo at the beach. His easy care quieted some of her fear, and she allowed herself to move closer. Then a brief dance exposed the grief beneath his charm. Instead of looking away, Lucia asked what had upset him.
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Matteo
What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.
~Fyodor Dostoevsky
“It used to be a simple movement.” Matteo shrugged, then looked away before the admission could become more than a casual comment. One foot angled outward on the blanket before he noticed, his body speaking a language he no longer trusted. His fingers flexed against his thigh in a rhythm that belonged in a studio, not a confessional. The double tour en l’air once lived cleanly in his body: lift, rotation, effortless landing.
“I earned a place in a prestigious ballet school in New York.” It was all he could offer her, the ruined outline. His eyes dropped to the food in his hands.
Beside him, Lucia shifted closer but froze before the comfort could become touch. The ocean breeze cooled his skin while his silence filled with what he hadn’t told her. His jaw tightened, trapping the words in place. From the corner of his eye, he caught her reaching for his hand, then curling into the blanket instead. The loss of her unfinished gesture landed with surprising sharpness.
He lay back on the blanket, and after a moment, she settled beside him. Close enough for the distance to become its own kind of ache. He fixed his eyes on the sky, but in the stillness, his body answered without permission.
Calf tightening, arch pointing, ankle rotating toward movements that no longer led anywhere. Then his weight shifted, following the old command. His center of gravity tracked toward a push-off that had nowhere to go. He caught the movement and stopped it: both feet flat, hands open, breath released in a controlled count.
Everything he hadn’t said remained in the space between them, waiting. Her voice broke the silence, but he didn’t turn toward her.
I started early, took my dog,
And visited the sea;
The mermaids in the basement
Came out to look at me.
And frigates in the upper floor
Extended hempen hands,
Presuming me to be a mouse
Aground, upon the sands.
He shifted once beside her, then stilled again.
But no man moved me till the tide
Went past my simple shoe,
And past my apron and my belt,
And past my bodice too,
He drew a slow breath through his nose and held it until his ribs tightened. The rhythm of her voice rose and fell with the surf behind her.
And made as he would eat me up
As wholly as a dew
Upon a dandelion’s sleeve —
And then I started too.
And he — he followed close behind;
I felt his silver heel
Upon my ankle, — then my shoes
Would overflow with pearl.
His eyes stayed fixed on the sky; his hands shook. The poem found the seam he couldn’t seal. She leaned in. That was all she gave him. It was enough.
His hand moved before he could think better of it, tentative by the time his fingers brushed hers. She didn’t pull her hand away. His hand remained beside hers, near enough to feel the warmth she allowed.
She squeezed his hand, brief and deliberate. Her voice tilted, playful. “So, do you have a dog?”
He rolled onto his side and leaned over her, careful to leave her room to move away. Her pupils dilated, her breath went shallow, and he could not tell whether she wanted him closer or needed him to stop.
“Yes, her name is Bella.” He smiled through the pull of her, but his voice roughened on the words. Her fingers brushed his hair, tucking it behind his ear. His breath caught.
He did not cross the distance between them. Their heat did it for him. His Adam’s apple shifted with a hard swallow. He needed space before wanting made him reckless. “It’s hot. Let’s get in the water.”
Her gaze snapped to the surf. The color drained from her face. “I don’t do waves.”
“I will keep you safe,” he said, as if his certainty could hold back the ocean.
“What if I want to get out?” Her shoulders tightened, breath came quick.
“We get out.” The conviction in his voice unsettled him. His family trusted his discipline. The right to choose was something they would never consider.
“You won’t drag me in?” With his gaze holding hers, she bit the rest of her thumbnail.
“I will never do anything you don’t want me to do.” The promise settled heavy on his chest.
“First, sunscreen.” His voice hoarse as he knelt beside her and slipped a careful hand under her elbow.
“I don’t burn.” She shrugged, like it didn’t matter.
He looked at her. “You will burn this time of day. And it would be difficult to explain to Abuela if you look like a lobster.”
That earned him a dry, reluctant smile. “Right. She doesn’t like seafood.”
Her smile eased the air between them, but her dark, guarded eyes tracked his movements. Steadiness was all he trusted himself to offer.
He reached over her shoulder, guiding her braid forward and letting it fall onto her chest. His fingers, slick with sunscreen, met the soft curve of her upper back. He did not linger.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the flicker of tension in her muscles, the shift in her breath, marked the edge of retreat. Stillness was not permission.
The scent of her, faint coffee and sun-warmed skin, threaded into his breath. He kept his heat in his chest and out of his hands. Every pass of his fingers across her spine held the quiet demand: be careful.
The distance between them tightened. She had not pulled away, and her choice unraveled him. He sat back, giving her space to rub sunscreen on her arms and legs.
She said nothing, but her chest rose and fell in shallow pulls. He pretended not to notice as he rubbed sunscreen on his body. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the rhythm of the waves and the cries of gulls.
He dabbed a bit of sunscreen on her nose and smiled. She surprised him by asking, “Do you want me to do your back?”
“Thanks,” he said, already too aware of what he had agreed to.
Her first touch was hesitant. The longer her fingers remained on his skin, the more certain they became. Her hesitation had burned off. Only care remained.
When her palms met his shoulders, heat spread beneath his skin in an aching ripple. Her fingers moved slowly, tracing his muscles. When she reached his lower back, his skin pebbled.
Sweet Mother of God. Her fingers circled his freckles, grazed over his spine, paused slightly at the curve, lingered in a way that sent a shudder through the muscles he’d trained himself to control. He bit his lip, silencing the sounds building in his throat.
Instinct tugged through him, urging him to turn and reach for her. But he wouldn’t. His discipline held.
She stood up first. Her breath had become sharp and uneven. She turned, eyes bright with fear, as if the line between them had shifted under her feet.
Author’s note
Lucia asks an ordinary question: “What if I want to get out?” Matteo answers, “We get out.” He doesn’t demand a reason or try to decide whether her fear is reasonable. One sentence governs the scene: “Stillness was not permission.”
In the 1980s, young women inherited a sexual script built to defeat itself. We learned that preventing sex was our responsibility: “Just say no.” While we were cast as gatekeepers, we had no authority. No one taught us how to negotiate desire or withdraw consent after giving it.
The culture also taught young men to treat refusal as modesty, uncertainty, or an opening bid. Saying no invited persuasion instead of acceptance. Even when a boundary could protect a body, it put the relationship at risk. I lost a boyfriend because I said no. He stopped, and the relationship ended. I was hardly the only young woman who learned the price of refusal.
Matteo leaves Lucia room to move away, then treats the change in her breathing as information rather than an obstacle. She never has to translate fear into a performance he will accept. His own desire remains his responsibility. By promising to leave whenever she asks, he makes it clear he will accept her choice.
His promise, “I will keep you safe,” still carries a flaw. Matteo believes discipline can guarantee an outcome, although his own body has already taught him otherwise. Safety cannot rest on his certainty. It depends on whether Lucia can change her mind without having to overcome him.
How can we shift our understanding of consent from simply asking, “Did they say no?” to ensuring, “Are they genuinely enthusiastic and comfortable?”
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