Page 102 of Raspados & Regret

Elías reaches for the tissue box on the nightstand and hands me a few. No big speech. No awkwardness. He is just practical, quiet, and still watching me like he is making sure I don’t disappear.

We clean up in silence broken only by breathing and the occasional creak of the bed. The tissues are rough and insufficient. He reaches down, touches himself gingerly, and hisses.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Just—” he laughs, breathless. “You were thorough.”

“Sorry.” I wince.

Note to self… do some internet searching on being a better top.

“Don’t be.”

He stands, wobbles slightly, and tosses the tissues in the trash. I sit on the edge of the bed, naked, suddenly aware of my own body, his room, the dampness between us, and the enormity of what just happened.

Elías catches it. “Fabián.”

I look at him. “Hmm?”

“You good?”

“I thought I’d feel different after.”

His face goes still. “Do you?”

“Yeah.”

His throat works. “Bad different?”

I shake my head, and the relief that crosses his face is so fast he probably thinks I missed it.

“No,” I say. “Not bad.”

He reaches for me.

Slow.

Like I might spook.

I let him pull me down, and he shifts carefully, making space in the bed, and I lie beside him even though the mattress is too small and the room is too hot and everything in me is still buzzing. His leg hooks over mine, and my arm goes around him.

Easy, like my body already knows this part.

He rests his head against my shoulder.

A man.

Elías.

Warm and sweaty and real.

Holding me and letting me hold him.

Nothing breaks.

The world keeps spinning.

Somewhere down the hall, his mother coughs once in her sleep.