We didn’t rush in the morning. She made coffee in the flat’s tiny kitchen while I tried not to knock anything over. She wore the same jeans as the day before, hair up, no makeup, still somehow better put together than I’d ever be at 9 a.m. I asked if she slept okay. She said “Not bad,” and stretched her neck like someone who hadn’t. I didn’t ask about the earplugs. I just poured coffee and tried not to make it into anything.
She’d booked the tickets. I didn’t even ask when. General admission, timed for 10:30, which meant we had time to walk up. The route she chose curved through a part of the city I don’t think I’d have found alone. It was quieter than I expected. Pale walls. Light that made everything feel slightly overexposed. We passed a ceramic shop with a cracked bowl in the window. She stopped to look at it and said nothing. I still don’t know if she liked it or not.
By the time we reached the main entrance of the Alhambra, it was already warm. Not hot, just that sort of slow heat that settles on your back and shoulders and stays there. She’d been before, once, as a teenager. I hadn’t. I’d read about it — Nasrid architecture, the sultan’s court, fountains, red walls, Charles V’s too-big palace in the middle like an architectural party crash — but none of it really landed until we got to the Generalife and I heard the sound of running water echoing through the garden walls. It wasn’t loud. Just constant, in that way that makes everything else seem far away.
We walked mostly in silence. Not awkward. Just full. I think we both wanted to take it in without performing it for each other. I noticed she walked slower than usual. I slowed too. We stopped in the Hall of the Ambassadors and both looked up at the ceiling at the same time. She whispered something I didn’t catch. I didn’t ask her to repeat it.
Lunch was a sandwich on a stone wall overlooking the city. She took a photo. I didn’t. It wasn’t a moment I wanted to look at later. I just wanted to be in it. Later we found a small shop where she bought a tile coaster for her cousin. I asked which cousin. She said “the one that’s allergic to her own perfume.” I didn’t press for details. I just nodded like that explained everything.
Dinner was late. We ended up in a place neither of us could remember the name of, down a side street that smelled like rosemary and drains. Tapas. House wine. Shared plate of grilled aubergine with honey that was better than anything we’d eaten all weekend. She leaned forward at one point, elbows on the table, and said, “You always wait before you speak. I like that.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I waited.
She asked how I slept. I said “Not much, but not badly.” She said the mattress was better than expected. I said the fan made a nice noise. She said she forgot to turn it on. Then she said, “I don’t like top bunks. I just didn’t want to assume.” I nodded. Said, “Me neither. About either of those things.” Another pause. She said, “So we’re saying we both prefer the same bed?” I said, “We are now.” She raised her glass like she was making a toast, but didn’t say anything. Just smiled.
We walked back a different way. I think on purpose. She let her arm brush mine a few times. I let it stay there once. A cat crossed in front of us. She said “Did you see that?” even though we both did. She was stalling. I didn’t mind.
Back at the flat, we didn’t talk much. I brushed my teeth. She folded her jeans, placed them on the chair, then changed into a long T-shirt that said nothing on it. No slogan. No irony. Just fabric and skin. She slid into bed first. I followed. We lay there without touching. Then I shifted slightly and she turned toward me. Her hand found my forearm. She said, “Don’t snore.” I said, “Only when I dream.”
If you’re wondering what happened, I’m not going to ruin it. But it wasn’t nothing. And it wasn’t everything. It was that middle part where something finally shifts and you realise you’re being let into someone’s life, not just their plans.