The first rays of morning sun pierced the simple linen curtain, drawing dusty golden stripes on the wooden floor. One of them, more insistent, fell directly on Carlos's face, warming his eyelid. An automatic, weary thought surfaced. Monday. Weekend's over. Time to get up and face the reports, the meetings, the iron crisis...

  But the thought got lost, dissolved by the sight beside him. The same band of golden light didn't hit him alone. It bathed Quixotina, who slept on her side, facing him. The light fell on her loose hair, transforming the blonde strands into a whirlwind of honey and illuminated straw. Some curls escaped, coiled against the pillow, others covered part of her relaxed face. She breathed deeply and slowly, her lips slightly parted. The smell in the room was an intimate mixture: the dried sweat of the night, the residual aroma of wine, and something unique that was simply her.

  He watched, hypnotized by the unusual peace in her features. The warrior was unarmed, the minister, on leave. She was just a woman, beautiful and vulnerable at dawn.

  Her eyes moved behind her eyelids, then slowly opened, revealing the rubies still blurred by sleep. She blinked a few times, focusing on him. A tiny, sleepy, and private smile curved her lips. She stretched like a cat, her arms reaching up, her back arching for a moment, and a low groan of satisfaction escaped her throat. The movement made the blanket slide, revealing the gentle curve of her shoulder and the upper part of her breasts.

  "Good morning..." her voice came out hoarse, heavy with sleep, more a whisper than speech.

  The memory of the previous night flooded Carlos with the force of a tide: muffled laughter, exploratory touches, shared sighs in the dark. A warmth that wasn't from the sun spread through his chest.

  "'Good morning' nothing," he retorted, trying to sound practical and failing miserably, his tone was soft, caressing. "It's a workday. We need to get ready, Luíza. Work awaits."

  She laughed, a low, rough sound that vibrated against the pillow. With a deliberately slow movement, she pulled the linen blanket up to her chin, partially hiding. Her eyes, now more awake, sparkled with mischief.

  "I only have classes this afternoon today. Grading papers." She shrugged, the movement making the blanket slip again, a bit more this time. "And you... you're the president. You can be late. No one will dare complain to the Chief. Stay here a little longer." She sank into the bed, turning on her side to face him better. "The bed is so warm... and good..."

  Carlos looked at her. The intention to be responsible, to get up, was there, but it was a weak flame compared to the cozy fire of the bed and the naked woman in it. He opened his mouth to say "no," but before the word could come out, Quixotina – Luíza – made her move.

  With a gesture that was both defiant and inviting, she pushed the blanket down, fully exposing her small, firm breasts to the dawn light. The skin there seemed paler, sprinkled with almost invisible freckles. She said nothing. She just stared at him, an eyebrow slightly arched, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

  Carlos swallowed dryly. The sight erased any remaining thought about logistics or meetings.

  "Well..." he said, his voice a bit thicker. "When you present such... convincing arguments... I think I can reconsider my schedule. Five more minutes."

  She pulled the blanket back up, covering herself again with an air of false modesty, but her eyes shining with victory.

  "Indeed," she agreed, feigning a professorial tone. "From what I recall, you demonstrated a considerable appreciation for these two arguments last night." Her face grew serious for a moment, the playfulness giving way to a deeper curiosity. "But unfortunately, it's still too early to reassess them. Instead... I'd like to know. About you."

  She propped herself up on an elbow, her hair falling over her shoulder. The light now fully illuminated her face, showing the small lines around her eyes, the frankness in her expression.

  "You already know you're the second man in my life. The first was... well, you know... But what about me? How many were there before me? And your family? You never talk about them."

  Carlos turned to face her. The straw mattress creaked softly. He reached out and, with infinite care, brushed aside a lock of blonde hair that fell over her eye, tucking it behind her ear. Her skin was warm and soft to the touch.

  "In school days," he began, his fingers still playing with the strand of hair, "there were a few flings. Nothing serious. Holding hands, a kiss or two behind the bleachers. Teenage stuff. As an adult..." He paused, his eyes losing focus for a moment, looking at a distant point on the wall. "I had two more relationships. The last one... lasted almost three years. I thought it was serious. Until I found out she was cheating on me with a coworker. That was... years ago." He gave an empty, humorless smile. "I think that marked me more than I like to admit. It left a distrust, a caution... maybe part of that 'cowardice' you mention so often."

  A flash of genuine fury passed through Quixotina's eyes. She frowned, her lips tightening.

  "That wasn't your fault, Carlos," she said, her voice firm and sharp. "That was a lack of character on her part. Pure and simple. It's not your fault for trusting someone who wasn't worthy." Her expression softened, and she placed her hand over his, which was still on her face. "And know this: with me, you needn't fear deceit. If I feel something, if I don't want something, I'll say it. I'll say it to your face, in plain words. I'm learning to do that. To be clear."

  "And no kicking?" he asked, a real smile returning to his lips.

  "Kicking is for the football field and for enemies," she replied, her own smile lighting up her face. "I promise to try to control myself."

  He took a deep breath, the weight of that old memory seeming a bit lighter.

  "As for my family... it was small. Just me and my mother, Marta. My father..." He hesitated, choosing his words. "My father didn't abandon us. He was a good man. A bricklayer. He died from a stray bullet on his way home, a shootout between a gang and the police, when I was nine. It was a rainy day. I was walking home from school with an umbrella in one hand when I saw a commotion on the street, I got there and saw my father..."

  Quixotina fell silent, her eyes scanning his face, reading the old, resigned pain there.

  "I'm sorry, Carlos," she whispered, her hand squeezing his.

  "Don't be. The pain... the pain passed a long time ago. What remains is a longing for him, of course. But what hurts me more, to this day, is thinking about my mother." His voice grew rougher. "Her life was nothing but work. Raising a son alone, on a housemaid's wage. Getting up at four, coming home at ten. Not a day of rest, not a trip, nothing that was just for her. She died still relatively young, her body tired, her hands calloused, and with nothing accumulated besides the debts I helped pay off later. She deserved... so much more."

  Carlos's voice trailed off. He wasn't crying, but his eyes were bright, fixed on the wooden ceiling.

  Quixotina said nothing more. Words were useless in the face of such intimate pain. Instead, she moved. She drew closer, sliding across the mattress, and enveloped him in a hug. It wasn't a passionate or seductive hug. It was a firm, cozy hug that said "I'm here." She rested her head on his shoulder, and they stayed like that for a long minute, listening to the first sounds of the city awakening outside.

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  "Seems like neither of us had an easy road," she murmured finally, her voice muffled against his chest. She moved back just enough to look him in the eyes. "By the way... Quixotina. It's just a character, you know? A crazy, strong, fearless knight I invented to survive, to be someone other than the frightened woman I was. When we're alone... you can call me Luíza. My real name is Luíza."

  Carlos felt a knot of emotion in his throat. It was a gift greater than any brooch. It was the surrender of her most fragile identity.

  "Alright, Luíza," he said, the name sounding strange and precious in his mouth.

  He leaned in and placed a light, gentle kiss on her lips. A seal of acceptance. It was in that moment of sweet quiet that a sleepy, high-pitched voice cut through the air, coming from the direction of the living room.

  "Mom? I'm hungry!"

  It was Dulcinéia. The magic of the moment shattered like glass. Quixotina – Luíza – sighed, a mixture of frustration and maternal love on her face.

  "Coming, my love!" she shouted back, her voice taking on its usual maternal tone.

  She reluctantly got out of bed, her naked body bathed in the now stronger light. Carlos couldn't help but admire the sight for a second – the curve of her spine, the softness of her hips – before she grabbed her simple cotton robe and wrapped herself in it. Carlos did the same, searching for his pants and shirt scattered on the floor. Looks like the truce is over, he thought, with a twinge of regret.

  When they emerged from the bedroom, still getting dressed, they found Dulcinéia sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing her eyes with her fists. The girl stopped mid-motion, her amber-red eyes widening as she saw Carlos.

  "Uncle Carlos? What are you doing here?"

  Quixotina didn't miss a beat. She went straight to the cupboard, grabbing a cloth bag with coins.

  "Uncle Carlos was very sleepy after the theater yesterday, sweetie," she said, with impressive naturalness, while rummaging in another cabinet. "And since our house is closer to the theater than his, I let him sleep here. So he wouldn't have to walk in the dark."

  "But..." Dulcinéia furrowed her little brow, her childish logic detecting a flaw. "Why did he come out of your room, Mom? And not the guest room?"

  Quixotina, with her back to her daughter, exchanged a quick look with Carlos. There was a flash of comic panic in her eyes, followed by fierce determination. She grabbed the coin bag and, with a precise throw, tossed it to Carlos, who caught it in mid-air.

  "It's because he's a heavy sleeper, that's the truth," said Quixotina, now holding a glass jar with dark powder. "He fell asleep on the living room couch and snores like a champ. I had to carry him to bed, and since I was sleepy too, I just left him there. Enough interrogation, my daughter!" she announced, raising the jar. "Uncle Carlos is going down to buy fresh bread, and I'm going to make hot chocolate for you."

  "Chocolate! Yayyy!" Dulcinéia's doubt evaporated instantly, replaced by pure euphoria. She started kicking her small feet under the table.

  Carlos, holding the coin bag, endorsed the story with a forcedly innocent smile.

  "That's right, Dulcinéia. I'm an incurable sleepyhead. Now I'll redeem myself and bring the best bread from the bakery for our breakfast.”

  Buying the bread was a relief. The morning air was fresh, the city's bustle beginning. When he returned, the apartment smelled of warm bread and hot chocolate, an aroma that was pure comfort. Breakfast was relaxed, with Dulcinéia chattering about a school friend and Quixotina laughing, her bare feet touching Carlos's under the table, hidden from the girl's view. It was simple domestic happiness, and Carlos was surprised to realize how much he had missed it.

  After Dulcinéia left for school, a leather satchel slung over her shoulder and a hurried kiss for her mother, the apartment fell silent again. Carlos stayed in the kitchen, helping to wash the cups. His eyes fell on the steel and ruby brooch, which he had carefully placed on the table the night before. He picked it up, feeling the cool weight of the metal in his palm before pinning it to his shirt again. A silly smile insisted on staying on his face.

  "You know," he said, not looking at Quixotina, who was drying a pan, "sooner or later, we won't be able to hide from Dulcinéia what's happening between us. Kids are smarter than we think."

  She stopped drying and leaned on the counter, looking at him with a mischievous smile.

  "And what exactly is happening between us?" she asked, provocatively.

  "Boyfriend and girlfriend," he said, turning to face her. The word sounded strange in this context, but it was the truth. "I think that's what we are. Although I'm not sure if that concept exists here in the same way. Basically, lovers before marriage. Or..." he made a dramatic pause, "or I'm completely mistaken and we're still just two very close friends who share a bed."

  "Hah!" she let out a laugh, tossing the dishcloth onto the counter. "'Lovers before marriage' sounds so... prosaic. In my homeland, after honoring a lady the way you honored me, you were expected to propose marriage the next day."

  She approached, taking the lapel of his shirt and adjusting the brooch with an unnecessary touch.

  "But..." she continued, her voice lowering to a more serious tone, "I'm beginning to understand that things in your world are different. Slower, perhaps. More full of... conversations. So, for now, I'll accept being your 'girlfriend.' Until you make up your mind."

  Carlos's smile widened, a feeling of stupid happiness taking hold of him.

  "Well, you should know, Luíza," he said, emphasizing the name, "that if we ever get to that point," he said, emphasizing the word, "our wedding will be done in the style of my world. And I should warn you: it will be very, very different. And beautiful."

  "'If'?!" she repeated, letting go of his lapel and placing her hands on her hips in a classic pose of indignation. "After doing that... and that other thing... and that thing with your tongue that I didn't even know was possible... you're still on 'if'? Carlos, we're already committing grave sins just by being here, alone! You've corrupted this innocent maiden!"

  "Now, now," he laughed, pouring himself some more cold tea. "By my memory, which is excellent, the so-called 'innocent maiden' was more than willing. She even surprised me. And if I recall correctly, it was you who took the first decisive step. Besides, after meeting that so-called 'saint' of the Church, who is nothing but a greedy politician, I've come to the conclusion that there aren't many saints in this world after all."

  Quixotina laughed, the false indignation dissolving.

  "Alright, you win this round," she admitted, sitting down at the table across from him. Her tone became thoughtful, more introspective. "But speaking seriously... I didn't expect that from myself either. Before, all of this," she made a vague gesture, "the touch, the intimacy... I thought it was disgusting. Impure. Something women endured out of duty." She looked directly at him, and her vulnerability was palpable. "But with you... it was different. I just felt safe. I knew that if I said 'no,' if I stopped, you would stop. Your... 'cowardice,' that hesitation to hurt me... was what made me feel confident. It was good for me."

  Carlos felt his heart tighten. He took a sip of tea, holding her gaze.

  "That's good," he said, softly. "Good that my chronic hesitation has some positive side. Now, my dear girlfriend, if you'll excuse me, I really should go. The Republic's arsenal won't expand by itself. I have sketches to review."

  He stood up, stretching his arms. But as he turned to pick up his jacket, a firm hand grabbed his. He looked back. Quixotina – Luíza – was standing now. Her face no longer held the amused or thoughtful expression from before. There was an intense gleam in her ruby eyes, a focused determination he knew well, but which was now directed at something completely different.

  "Luíza?" he asked, uncertain.

  "It's still too early for you to go, Carlos," she said, her voice a hoarse, intention-laden whisper. Her other hand rose and touched the brooch on his chest. "I said I'm learning things about myself. New things, new feelings... and a certain... urgency." Her fingers slid from the brooch to the top button of his shirt. "And you... you're going to help me learn everything."

  This time, Carlos needed no further explanation. The message was clear, and the last shred of will to work evaporated. A slow, determined smile formed on his lips.

  Without a word, he turned to face her. In one fluid motion, he bent his knees, put one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, and lifted her into the air in a firm embrace.

  "Carlos!" she exclaimed, surprised, but laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  He didn't reply. Carrying her, he crossed the small living room, completely ignored the guest room door, and entered their room. The door closed behind them with a soft thud, leaving behind the kitchen table with empty cups and the morning light, now full and golden, which promised a day far more interesting than any weapons plan.