Single dad with limitations

 

The apartment smelled of coffee and wood polish. Clara stood in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a cold mug, staring at the refrigerator. Children's drawings hung there: a blue dinosaur, a house with three windows, a sun too big for the paper. Next to them was a timetable, neatly attached with magnets.

She hadn't expected her new landlord to be anything but tidy. Not after the chaos of her own apartment, which she'd left two weeks earlier because water damage had turned the walls black. Not after the sleepless nights spent chasing deadlines and forgetting bills.

But Matías Ferreyra was not what she had expected.

The evening light streamed obliquely through the tall windows of the old building in Almagro, golden and warm, settling over the wooden floorboards like a second skin. Outside, a colectivo horn blared. Somewhere a radio was playing tango.

 

 

She heard footsteps in the hallway.

"You don't need to stay up," Matías said from the doorway. His voice was deep and calm. No accusation. Just a statement of fact.

Clara turned around.

He wore jeans and a grey T-shirt that was tight across the shoulders. His hair was still damp from the shower. He looked tired, but not exhausted, more like someone who had learned to bear tiredness without complaining about it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

"You haven't tried to sleep yet," he replied. His eyes remained on her, dark and attentive. "It's only half past ten."

She put down the cup. "You're right."

He went to the stove, lit the flame, and put the water on. His movements were precise, practiced. No hesitation. He knew where everything was.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Yes, thanks."

Clara leaned against the countertop. The kitchen was small but bright, with white tiles and open shelves. Everything had its place. It felt strange to stand in a room that wasn't overflowing with things.

"Is your son asleep?"

"For an hour now." Matías took two cups from the shelf. "He asked about you today."

"After me?"

"He wanted to know why you write so much on your laptop."

Clara laughed at people. "What did you say to him?"

"That you work." He poured water over the tea bags, slowly, deliberately. "That some people can think better at night."

"Smart."

“Honestly,” he said.

She watched him get the sugar without asking how much she wanted. He had remembered that she hadn't taken any. That had been three days ago, the evening she had moved in.

He placed the cup in front of her. Their fingers didn't touch, but Clara felt the warmth of his palm as if it were closer.

“Thank you,” she said.

"De nada."

Matías stopped, his hips leaning against the counter. He drank his tea black, without sugar or milk. His hands were large, his knuckles slightly chafed. Work hands.

"You're nervous," he said after a while.

 

 

Clara looked up. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"You drum with your fingers. You do that when you're thinking."

"I don't drum."

"But."

She looked at her hand. Sure enough. Her index finger tapped lightly against the porcelain.

“Okay,” she admitted. “Maybe a little.”

"Why?"

Clara hesitated. The question was simple, but the answer wasn't.

“I’m not good at living with other people,” she finally said. “I break things. I forget to lock doors. I leave water running.”

"You haven't broken anything yet."

"Give me time."

Matías didn't smile, but something in his face softened. "I'm not afraid of it."

"But you should."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a mess."

He put down his cup and folded his arms across his chest. "Chaos is relative."

"Not in your kitchen."

"This isn't my kitchen. This is our kitchen. For the next two months."

Ours. The word got stuck between them, too big for the small space.

Clara lowered her gaze. "You're nice."

"Nice is boring."

"You're still nice."

"I'm practical." He pushed himself away from the counter and took a step closer. Not too close. But close enough for her to catch the scent of laundry detergent and something else, warmer. "And I know that chaos is often just another word for life."

She looked at him. His face was calm, but his eyes were not. There was something there, an attention, that unsettled her because she couldn't remember the last time she had been looked at like that.

"You should go to sleep," she said softly.

"Should I."

He didn't move.

“Matias…”

"I know." He rubbed the back of his neck, a tired smile playing around his lips. "I'm going. Just if you can't sleep, turn on the light in the hallway. It's warm. Sometimes it helps."

"OK."

He went to the door, stood there with his hand on the frame.

"Clara."

 

 

"Yes?"

"You are not chaos. You're just not used to someone making room for you."

Then he was gone.

The next morning, Clara found an oversized hoodie draped over the chair in her room. Dark blue, soft, smelling of laundry detergent and of him. A note lay beside it, in his neat handwriting: In case you get cold at night. M.

She stood there for a long time, the fabric between her fingers, and felt something in her chest that felt like panic, but warmer.

The days unfolded in a rhythm they hadn't planned.

In the mornings, Matías took his son to school. Clara worked at the kitchen table, her laptop in front of her, headphones in her ears. When he returned, he made coffee, placed a cup in front of her, and didn't ask if she wanted one. He just knew.

In the evenings, he would pick up the boy. She could hear them through the thin walls: laughter, stories, the clatter of building blocks. Sometimes the little boy would knock on her door and show her a drawing. She always said it was beautiful. He would beam and run back inside.

And at night, when the house became quiet, they met in the kitchen.

It was never planned. But it happened.

Clara had stopped resisting it.

“What do you actually do?” Matías asked on a Thursday.

They sat at the table, a bottle of wine between them. Outside it was raining heavily, the raindrops drumming against the windows.

"Professionally?"

"Yes."

"I write content for a marketing company. Product descriptions, blog posts. The usual stuff."

"Do you like it?"

Clara shrugged. "It pays the rent."

"That's not an answer."

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t like it. But I’m good at it.”

"What would you rather do?"

She laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Something pointless. Writing stories. Novels, maybe. But that's not a job."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't make a living from it."

Matías leaned back, his arms folded behind his head. "I thought chaos was relative."

She smiled. "Touché."

"Have you ever written a story?"

"Years ago. Years ago."

"Why did you stop?"

Clara turned the glass between her hands. The question was simple, but the answer was profound.

“Because nobody wanted to read them,” she said quietly. “And then I stopped believing it made sense.”

Matías looked at her for a long time. "That's sad."

"That's life."

"No." His voice was firm, without harshness. "That's fear."

Clara gasped. "You don't know me."

"I know that feeling." He gestured at her, then at himself. "I studied architecture for years. And now I repair furniture. Because I thought I couldn't have both, the dream and the child."

"So? Do you regret it?"

"Sometimes." He took a sip. "But not often. Because what I have is real. And what I lost was never truly tangible anyway."

Clara remained silent.

“But you,” he continued, “you still have time. You can still choose.”

"And what if I choose the wrong one?"

"Then you vote again."

She laughed at people, bitterly. "It's not that simple."

“No,” he said. “But it’s possible.”

In the following week, things began to shift.

It was the little things. Like how Matías placed the cup in front of her in the morning, his fingers lingering on the handle for a second too long. How she stayed in the evenings, even though her laptop was long since closed. How they sat side by side on the sofa, a film playing, but neither of them really watching. How the silence between them was no longer empty.

One night, it was Tuesday, another Tuesday, Clara stood in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing his hoodie. She hadn't given it back. He hadn't asked.

Matías came in and stood in the doorway.

"You're wearing it," he said.

"It's comfortable."

"It suits you."

Clara turned around. "Matías..."

 

 

"I know." He stepped closer, slowly, as if giving her time to leave. "I shouldn't say anything."

"Then why are you saying it?"

"Because I'm tired of pretending I don't see you."

The air between them became thicker.

"You shouldn't..." she began.

"I know what I should do." His voice was rough. "But that doesn't change what I want."

Clara swallowed. "And what do you want?"

He was now standing directly in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin. But he didn't touch her.

“I want you to stay,” he said softly. “Not just for two months. I want to wake up in the morning and know you’re there. I want my son to put your drawings on the fridge. I want…” He broke off, took a deep breath. “I want you. And that scares me. Because you’re right, you’re chaos. But I think I need that.”

Clara stood frozen. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it.

"I can't do that," she whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know how to stay."

"Then learn it." He raised his hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was so gentle that she trembled. "With me."

"And what if I break it again?"

"Then we'll repair it."

She looked at him, this man who had his life under control because someone depended on him. Who had still left room. For her. For her chaos.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

"Me too."

"But..."

"Clara." He lowered his forehead towards hers, their noses almost touching. "Please. Be afraid. But don't go."

 

 

She closed her eyes. Breathed it in. Laundry detergent. Coffee. Something that smelled of safety. And then, very slowly, she placed her hands on his chest. Felt his heartbeat. Fast. Like her own.

"Okay," she whispered.

"OK?"

"I remain."

Matías exhaled, a sound somewhere between relief and disbelief. Then he pulled her to him, his arms tightly around her shoulders, and Clara let him. Let him hold her. Let someone carry her.

It was still raining outside.

It was warm inside.

The refrigerator now had two new drawings. One of a red dinosaur. And one of three people holding hands. Clara hadn't asked who the third person was. She knew.