Buried Urges

Camilla's POV

My father walks me up the grand staircase, each step echoing through the quiet halls of our home. He stops at the door of the room I'd always found refuge in as a child, painted with a soft, creamy white, with large windows draped in linen curtains. Familiar and safe, just as I need it right now.

“Settle in,” he says, his voice gentle. “The maids will bring your meals. If you need anything, tea, blankets just let me know.”

I nod, my heart thudding in my throat. He pauses, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob. “I’m proud of you, Camila. You’re strong. You came back and that matters.”

A warmth blooms in my chest. I open my lips to say something, a promise, maybe but the words vanish. I just nod again, my voice caught in the ache of returning.

He steps into the corridor, and I watch him go until the padding of his shoes fades. Then, I close the door behind me and lean against it, exhaling so sharply I taste relief and grief at once.

Here I am. Back in the house I lost. Back to the place where everything started and ended.

I turn slowly, my eyes scanning the room: the antique dressing table where I used to apply makeup before my wedding, the framed photographs of me holding my medical scrubs the day I passed my nursing exams, the bed, the same bed where I tucked myself after nightmares, adult and innocent alike.

It's the only room that's mine. I set my suitcase by the bedside. Each item I unzipped and brought here felt like a piece of me I'd reclaimed. Now they lie there, quiet and patient, waiting to be unpacked.

I walk toward the bathroom, planning to shower. My skin feels grimy with memories, sweat and tears from the hospital bed, the grit of abandonment and betrayal. I need the water to wash it all away.

My fingers close around the door handle. I pause not out of fear, but a familiarity born of a lifetime of sudden entries and unexpected confrontations. Before I can take another breath, the door swings open.

The air shifts and I freeze. He's there. Matias stands in the doorway, with hands in his pockets, he has changed his outfit. Slim black trousers, crisp white shirt, all angles and shadows. His posture relaxed, almost casual. But the air between us is taut.

I gulp. My heart pounds so loud I wonder if he can hear it. He steps forward, closing the gap between us with knowing slowness. The door behind him clicks shut without a sound.

I stiffen. My mind races questions, defenses, truths all jumbled, unsaid, unknown.

He stops two feet away from me, near the edge of the bed. The distance between us is charged.

My mouth goes dry. I want to run, to scream, to throw myself into the safety of the bathroom, but I can’t. Something stronger keeps me rooted.

He moves again, five inches. Another five. Until I’m stepping back, reflexively falling onto the bed. My elbow hits the edge, knocking me sideways, but I don’t land because he’s there.

His hands find my waist immediately, sturdy and warm. He holds me, firmly, protectively. I want to jerk away, but my body can't decide whether to flee or lean in.

I swallow hard, my eyes darting to the side. Anything furniture, shadow but not him.

He lets out a low sound. Almost amused. Almost tender. “You aren’t even looking at me.”

His grasp tightens just slightly and I feel the weight of his intensity.

“I… I didn’t know you’d come in,” I whisper. My voice is brittle and unsure. My fingers dig into the sheets beneath me.

He releases one hand and tilts my chin upward, using two fingers under my jaw.

“You didn’t expect me?” he asks quietly. His eyes bore into mine, dark and intense.

I try to swallow, but the throat ache is real. “You have to knock,” I manage.

He smirks, a half-shadow of a smirk. “But we’ve never done that.”

His thumb brushes over my cheek. I flinch in reaction to the warmth I didn’t expect. The curve of his palm grazes my jaw, and for a moment the room tilts, the scent of him, crisp and unfiltered, filling the air.

“Matias…” My voice falters. My knees refuse to let me feel fear or rage. Instead, an ache blossoms in my chest: recognition. A memory of something I craved and lost when he left years ago.

He watches me quietly. “Answer me,” he prompts.

I look into his storm-gray eyes. They’re sharp, revealing nothing, yet promising everything. My throat is tight, chest pounding. “I… didn’t… expect you,” I say again.

His fingers tighten. “But you knew.” His voice deepens. “You knew I would come didn't you Cam?.”

My lip trembles. Because I did know. At some level of my soul, I always knew he would come because he never really left me in the spaces that mattered. He left a footprint inside me smaller than cell or heartbeat.

I want to deny it. I want it not to be the truth but right now, I cannot. My voice is gone, my defenses broken.

He loosens his grip just enough to step back but never breaks eye contact.

“Why? did you come back” he asks softly, the word hanging between us.

I close my eyes. The edges of the room blur as emotion crashes in. “I—I came back because Matteo—” I stuttered.

His mouth quirks. “You came back for me, don't deny it”

I shake my head. “No.” The word is soft. “I came back for me. But if… if you're here… then maybe I needed you to find me too.”

He steps fully into view. His fingers brush mine when he withdraws from my waist. The contact sends electricity through me.

He stares at me for longer than a heartbeat. Then he says, voice low, rough: “I didn’t expect to have you back this soon Camilla. I really should applaud Matteo and Alina, don't you think?.”

I swallow hard. My voice trembles. “ Applaud him for what he did? Why? Are you happy my marriage is ruined by your sister Alina?”

He tilts his head. His gaze softens. For a breath, I see someone who once cared. Someone who hurt me by leaving but still cared. “ Irony, I'm glad”

My heart halves. I reach up slowly and place a finger on his chest, just above his heart. He shifts just beneath his skin but I don’t pull back.

“Why did you leave the day I married Matteo?,” I asked the one question that had been gnawing my mind heavily ever since his return.