Mateo is on the floor when I wake up. He's not sleeping, but he's in the same position as before, sitting against the wall near the door. His head is down, resting against his knees with his arms wrapped around them.

I feel terrible. After all, this has been his bed for what seems to be a long time, and now I've kicked him out of the one and only comforting thing in the room.

"Hey," I say, hoping he's not mad at me.

He lifts his head up, and surprisingly, looks excited to see me awake. "Hey, you're up. How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty well," I respond, shocked he's even asking.

I hope he didn't see me crying last night. I don't want him to think of me as a weak girl who can't handle anything. But judging after my first encounter with him, I don't think I'll be able to recover from that image anytime soon.

"That's good," he says. "I had a hard time getting used to the lights in the beginning. Supposedly, they use it as a torture tactic in Guantanamo. At least the prisoners there get to leave their cells."

I'm mesmerized by some of the things he says. "I think I was too exhausted to notice them. But, uh, you really don't need to sleep on the floor. We could sleep back to back or something," I suggest.

"Okay," he says. "We can try that if it's okay with you. The floor kind of sucks."

I nod, glad I don't have to feel guilty about it anymore. "I think I'm going to shower now," I say, standing up.

"Sure, go ahead. The towel on the left hanger is clean," Mateo says, pointing to the shower. "I used the one on the right."

I head to the shower, deciding I should get this over with sooner than later. I go behind the brick tiles that separate the shower from the room and quickly strip, hanging my clothes over the tiles. They're an ugly green color that looks like moss. But a shower is a shower, and I guess I shouldn't complain.

I turn on the spray and revel in the fact that the water is not ice cold. It's lukewarm, just like Mateo said. He also said it runs out quickly, so I better hurry up.

There's a single, plastic bottle of shampoo on the floor. It's one of those family-sized two-in-one types, so hopefully we don't need to worry about it running out soon. Still, I make sure not to use as much as I normally would. I don't know how often they refill the limited supplies in the room. By the time I rinse out my hair, I can already feel the water turning cold. I grab the bar of soap from a small carving in the tiles and quickly wash my body.

I'm trembling when I turn off the water. Mateo wasn't kidding. It went from a nice temperature to almost freezing in no time. I'll have to figure out a better system next time.

As I'm toweling off, I notice bruising around my waist. It's a purplish color that covers both sides. I inspect the rest of my body, particularly my thighs, and I let out a huge sigh of relief when I don't see any bruising there. It still makes me wonder though, and paired with the bruises around my wrists, I fear that they might have touched me. I feel sick thinking about it. I wish there were a mirror in here so I could look at my back or my face.

I dress and exit the shower, unable to stop thinking about whether they did something to me. I find Mateo doing push-ups on the floor. He's shirtless too. It's rather impressive, especially when he switches to do a one arm push-up. Now I can see where he gets all those muscles from.

My eyes zoom in on the eagle on his back. It looks like it's flying as Mateo's shoulder blades flex back and forth. It's a welcome distraction, even though the irony of it isn't lost on me. That bird isn't going anywhere, and neither are we. We're all trapped in this cage. And the freedom it supposedly represents—it's all an illusion.

Mateo stops when he notices me and stands up. Wow. I'm well-aware this isn't the first time I've seen him naked from the waist up, but it's the first time I'm able to appreciate it.

I clear my throat, embarrassed that he just caught me staring. "You don't need to stop because of me," I tell him. "You can continue if you want."

He picks up his T-shirt off the floor and puts it on, stretching his torso in a marvelous way. "Are you okay?" he asks. "You look really pale."

I lower my head, wondering if I should share what I just discovered in the shower. But I know it'll drive me crazy if I don't ask him about it. "I found some bruises on my body. Do you think they might have ... done something to me?"

"Where?" he asks concerned. "Here—why don't you sit down?" he says, signaling towards the bed.

He sits beside me. His eyes flicker between mine, waiting for me to speak.

"Well, I noticed these yesterday," I say, showing him the bruises on my wrists. He looks at them carefully at first, and then reaches out to touch my left one. He turns it around to inspect the other side, and then back again.

As he does this, I notice the scar on his wrist. An angry pink line of raised skin that runs in the direction of his veins. I pull my hand back in shock.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay. It's just sore," I lie. Well, it's not a lie, but it wasn't the reason I pulled my hand back. I don't want him to know my reaction to his scar.

"Do you have any other bruises?" he asks with caution.

"Yeah. Around my waist."

"Can I see?"

I hesitate, not wanting to lift up my shirt.

"I won't touch you," he says. "I just want to help you figure this out."

I guess I don't really have a choice, so I lift up my shirt.

He moves in closer to me and bends down to get a better look. "Can you stand up?" he asks.

I stand up, and he remains seated on the bed. I hold my breath at the intimacy of the position. I notice he tucks his hands underneath his legs as he looks at both sides of my waist.

It feels like forever until he says, "Turn around?"

I do as he says, wanting to know if he sees anything there. I lift the lower back part of my shirt.

He leans into me again, and his breath tickles my skin. I have to control myself not to shiver. "Can I lift your shirt up higher?"

My face heats up at his words. The last person who asked me something like that was Jackson when we first started dating. "Okay," I whisper, relieved he can't see my expression. I barely believe how weak my voice is. It's ridiculous I'm even having this type of reaction at a time like this. I tell myself it's normal. Mateo is a stranger. I'm just nervous another man is close to me like this.

He stands up with me and lifts my shirt up to my shoulder blades. I make sure to keep it tightly secured in the front. He pulls it back down quicker than I was expecting. "Okay, you can sit back down."

We both sit down on the bed. He avoids making eye contact with me. "Anywhere else?" he asks.

"Just my neck. I mean, I can't see it, but it feels really tender."

He nods, looking somewhat hesitant. "Can you pull your hair back?"

I grab my hair into a pseudo ponytail. He winces at whatever it is he sees, and I know it can't be good.

He swallows before speaking. "May I?" His hand reaches towards my face and I nod. He lifts up my chin. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he moves my chin from one side to the other. His fingers slowly caress my neck. I'm fairly certain he does it unintentionally, as part of his inspection. Even so, I stop breathing.

But then I see the look on his face, and I can't help the tears from forming. It's bad. Really bad, judging from his expression alone. I let my hair back down and look away.

"No, no, no. Lili, wait. It's not what you think," he says.

I wipe my eyes and look at him confused. "It's not?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think they did anything to you besides the bruises on your wrists. Those marks look like cable ties. I had similar ones when they brought me in." He pauses for a moment. "You don't have anything on your back. But the bruises on your waist and neck, I—I'm pretty sure I did those to you yesterday. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

He looks agonized as he tells me all this, but I feel so relieved to know it was him and not whoever our captors may be. "Mateo, it's okay. Don't worry."

"No, it's not. I should have never done that to you. I remember grabbing you by the waist when we were struggling, and then by your throat. You wouldn't stop screaming and I panicked. I didn't know how else to get you to stop. I'm sorry."

I take a deep breath. "Well, if I remember correctly, I also did some things to you that I'm not proud of. So, let's just call it even."

He rakes his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily. "I don't know. I feel really shitty right now. I can't believe I did that to you," he says. "That's not how I was raised."

Mateo is quickly becoming an enigma to me. Everything about him is contradictory. On the outside he's tough and rugged, but inside he's broken and kind of sweet.

I can't imagine everything he's been through or how long he's been here, but it has to have been bad and long enough for him to cut his wrist and want to end his own life. And now, I just need to know if the same fate awaits me.

"Mateo, can I ask you something?"

He nods, although he seems apprehensive of what I might ask him.

"How long have you been here?"

He scrunches his forehead. "You really want to know that?"

"Yes," I answer with as much confidence as I can muster.

He sighs before locking eyes with me. I notice for the first time they're a rich caramel-like color. Ones that seem to melt the more you look at them. Ones that seem to care deeply.

"Three hundred and thirty-three days."

Author's Note: Yikes! Did you imagine Mateo being held for that long?

We also got to see a bit of a moment between Lili and Mateo. She's definitely starting to see him in a different light.