Page 9 of Marcelo

But, just as our lips threaten to reconnect, the harsh blare of Marcelo's phone interrupts, shattering the atmosphere. He pulls away, annoyance and tension evident in his eyes as he glances at the screen. The EmergenSEA logo flashes, demanding his attention.

"Damn it," he swears softly. "I have to take this."

The urgent, raw moment we shared is suddenly on pause, the world barging back in with no mercy.

Chapter 6

Marcelo

The vibrating phone breaks through the thick atmosphere between us, jolting me to reality. I hastily pick it up, recognizing the EmergenSEA number on the screen. But before I can say a word, a sharp knock reverberates through the small office.

Through the small gap between the blinds, I spot a figure waiting, likely another volunteer or perhaps a shelter worker. My stomach tightens. It's the worst possible timing.

As I mutter a hurried, "This is de Leon," into the receiver, my attention is split. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Winnie quickly step back into her wet leggings, pulling them on, followed by her t-shirt. Her red hair, previously tousled and wild, is swiftly tucked behind her ears, her composure returning piece by piece.

It’s a simple, mundane action, yet I'm struck by an affectionate warmth. Despite the whirlwind of our shared moment, she remains undeterred, ready to face whoever is behind that door.

But there's also a twinge of anxiety. We'd been so lost in each other that we hadn't considered the world outside. Now, it's knocking—literally—demanding our attention.

Winnie glances at me, her expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. I wish I could reassure her, but I'm pinned in place by the call. All I can offer is an apologetic, empathetic look before she turns to face the door, taking a deep breath and swinging it open.

Still on the phone, I hear the urgency in the voice on the other end, a detailed briefing about a new situation EmergenSEA is handling. My mind catalogs the information, preparing for rapid decisions. But the muffled conversation by the door tugs at my attention.

"... couldn't accommodate them all," the volunteer's voice filters in, tinged with distress. "And with the storm still causing havoc, they've nowhere to go."

I catch snippets, but they're enough to piece together the picture. More animals. Displaced. Need shelter.

Winnie's voice rises slightly, masking her concern with professionalism. "How many are we talking about?"

The volunteer hesitates, shuffling her feet. "Around fifteen. Mostly cats, but a few dogs as well."

I hear Winnie's soft exhale, likely visualizing our limited space and the challenge of accommodating even more animals amidst the storm's chaos.

Winnie's eyes dart over to me, seeking backup. "Marcelo," she calls out, trying to get my attention, "we need more space. Do you have any suggestions?"

But my focus remains divided. "Just a minute," I murmur into the phone, flashing her a hand gesture to wait while simultaneously jotting down notes from the call.

She attempts again, with a clear edge of desperation in her voice, "Marcelo, we need to figure this out now. They're arriving in twenty minutes."

I empathize with her predicament, but I'm bound by my own call and can't immediately offer support. The voice on the other end drowns out everything. Offering a terse "I'm on it, give me a moment," I hope it conveys reassurance, but I can sense her frustration building.

Winnie's footsteps echo as she strides out of the office, signaling both her urgency and her capability. She has this surprising and innate ability to rise to challenges, even in the most chaotic situations. It’s one of the many qualities I deeply respect about her. Though I want to chase after her and offer assistance, I trust that she has everything under control.

The voice from EmergenSEA, now increasingly insistent, pulls my focus back. There's been a shipwreck near the coast, and they need me to coordinate the rescue efforts immediately. It’s all hands on deck.

"I understand," I mutter into the phone, urgency tightening my voice. The lives of crew members hang in the balance.

Grabbing my gear, I make a beeline to find Winnie, hoping to explain the situation. I find her in the makeshift area set up for the new arrivals. She's directing volunteers, creating space for the animals, her face etched with concentration and concern.

"Winnie," I begin, trying to find the right words.

She glances up, her gaze piercing. "Not now, Marcelo," she says, her voice strained.

"I have to leave. There's been a shipwreck. They need me to—"

She cuts me off, frustration evident. "I get it. Your job is important."

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"