Chapter 2: La Biblioteca y el Apunte
The library was a tomb of whispers and dust. Sunlight cut in weak, grimy shafts through high windows, illuminating galaxies of floating motes. Martín had come here specifically for the silence, for the distance from the echoing halls and the relentless buzz of his phone. Mostly, for distance from her.
He’d chosen a table buried deep in the Philosophy section, where the books smelled of mildew and forgotten arguments. He spread his notebook open, the blank page a small promise of control.
The control lasted about seven minutes.
He heard the soft scrape of chair legs on linoleum first. Then the scent of her shampoo—something cheap and sweetly artificial—cut through the smell of old paper. He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes glued to a diagram of the carbon cycle that might as well have been hieroglyphics.
Marta sat directly opposite him. She let her bag drop with a thud that echoed in the quiet. A librarian shushed from somewhere in the gloom.
“Qué suerte encontrarte aquí,” she murmured, her voice a low hum. “Necesito silencio para concentrarme.”
He snorted softly, barely a breath. Yeah, right.
For a while, there was only the sound of her unzipping her folder, the rustle of pages. He could feel her gaze on the top of his head. It was a physical pressure. He forced himself to read the same sentence three times. Photosynthesis converts light energy into chemical energy.
Then she moved. She leaned forward over the table, her elbows sliding towards him. The neckline of her blouse—a soft, worn grey cotton—gaped open. It wasn’t a dramatic plunge, just a natural, inevitable shadowed curve. From his seated angle, it was a direct line of sight. He saw the lace trim of her bra, the soft swell of skin.
“Oye, ¿me pasas un boli? El mío se ha quedado sin tinta.”
His eyes flicked up. She was looking at him, her chin resting on her hand, a small, innocent smile playing on her lips. Her other hand was near her chest, fingertips just brushing the fabric where it gaped.
He stared at her face. Her plain, challenging face. He grabbed a pen from his pencil case and slid it across the table without a word.
“Gracias.” She took it, her fingers brushing his. She didn’t pull her hand back. She leaned further, as if to examine his notebook. Her scent intensified. “¿Qué estás haciendo? Bio?”
“Sí.”
“A mí me va fatal.” She sighed, a performed little sound of frustration, and finally sat back. The relief was momentary.
A minute later, she was gathering her things. He thought she was leaving. A sharp, confusing pang—disappointment?—shot through him. But she just stood, walked around the table, and settled into the chair right next to him. Their thighs aligned, separated only by the denim of his jeans and the thin fabric of her leggings.
He froze. The carbon cycle blurred.
She spread her notes out, invading his side of the table. Her leg pressed flush against his from hip to knee. It was a firm, warm, undeniable line of contact.
“Aquí veo mejor la luz,” she whispered, her shoulder nudging his.
He couldn’t breathe. He was monumentally, painfully aware of the heat of her, the softness of her thigh against his muscular one. He kept his gaze forward, his jaw aching from clenching it.
She shifted, squirming in her seat as if getting comfortable. The movement made her breast press against his bicep. A soft, full weight. It lingered. He felt every nerve in his arm light up.
“Dios, este sujetador,” she sighed, almost to herself. She brought a hand up to her shoulder, hooking a finger under the strap and tugging it. The adjustment made her body shift again, renewing the pressure against his arm. “Me está matando. Lo compré la semana pasada y ya me queda pequeño. ¿No es una putada?”
The vulgarity of the word in the hushed library sent a jolt through him. His face burned. He couldn’t form a sentence. He was caught between the urge to shove her away and the terrifying, guilty need to turn his arm, to increase the contact.
“Marta,” he finally managed, his voice gravelly. “Para.”
“¿Para qué?” she asked, all fake confusion. She turned her head towards him. Her lips were inches from his ear. “Solo estoy quejándome. Es incómodo. Te aprieta todo el rato, aquí…” Her hand drifted down, her fingers skimming the side of her breast, tracing the line of the underwire through the blouse. “Y aquí. Se notan mucho, ¿verdad?”
It was a direct callback to yesterday in the hall. A challenge. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned his head, finally meeting her eyes. They were dark, glittering with triumphant amusement. And beneath it, a raw, vulnerable hunger that shook him.
He saw it. For a second, the mask slipped. It wasn’t just a game. She was laid bare, desperate for his validation, for any sign from him.
And he was giving it to her. He was stiff as a board, his breathing shallow, his gaze unconsciously dropping to where her hand still rested against the curve of her breast.
The realization of his own transparency was a splash of cold water. Shame flooded him, hot and nauseating.
He shoved his chair back. The legs screeched against the floor, a violent sound in the quiet. He stood up so fast his head spun.
“Eres insufrible,” he hissed, low and vehement. He started shoving his books into his bag, his movements clumsy. “De verdad. Insufrible.”
She leaned back in her chair, watching him. The vulnerable look was gone, replaced by a cool, assessing satisfaction. She’d gotten what she wanted. A reaction. A big one. She crossed her legs slowly, letting her foot brush his discarded chair.
“Solo estaba hablando de la ropa, Martín,” she said, her voice sweet as poison. “Relájate.”
He couldn’t look at her. He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked away, his strides eating up the dusty floor between the bookshelves. He felt wrecked. Humiliated. Aroused.
He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
Marta watched him disappear into the gloom. She uncrossed her legs and brought a trembling hand up to her own cheek. It was hot. Her heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against the lace of the too-tight bra. She touched the spot on her arm where his warmth was already fading.
He had felt it. He had felt her. And he had run.
A slow smile touched her lips. It wasn’t a victory smile, not quite. It was something sharper, hungrier. Running was a type of acknowledgment. Running meant he was afraid of what would happen if he stayed.
She gathered her things, her movements languid now. The empty table felt charged, the air still vibrating with his furious exit. She had gotten under his skin. Deep. And for now, for her, that was enough. It was everything.