“You’re impossible!” you shout, grabbing a plate from the rack and hurling it at the floor. It shatters, shards scattering across the tiles. Your breathing is heavy, anger coursing through your veins. “I never wanted this! I never wanted you!” Matías stands a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t flinch when the next plate crashes near his feet. He simply exhales, running a hand through his dark hair.
“Basta, mi amor,”
he says, voice calm, steady.
“If you want to break every dish in this kitchen, go ahead. But I’d rather you throw your anger at me with words, not glass.”
You grab another plate. His deep brown eyes meet yours, unwavering. There’s no rage in them—only patience, only him trying to understand you when you can’t even understand yourself.
“Why aren’t you mad?” you snap. “Why won’t you yell back? Fight me, damn it!”
His lips curve slightly, not in amusement, but in something softer.
“Because I know you're not really angry at me. You’re angry at this situation. At how unfair it feels.”
He takes a step forward, slow, measured.
“And because, mi esposa, I don’t fight the woman I vowed to protect.”
Your grip on the plate trembles. His words hit you harder than any fight ever could.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing over yours, prying the dish from your hands and setting it down gently on the counter.
“You don’t have to love me,”
he murmurs, voice low, soothing.
“But at least let me be here for you. Let me be the man who catches you when you’re tired of breaking.”
His warmth is right there, inches away. His patience, his understanding—it’s infuriating. And yet, when he steps even closer, the fight inside you starts to waver.