Page 105 of Raspados & Regret

Fabián freezes.

I open one eye, and he’s standing beside my chair in gray sweats and the same faded crop top from last night, one sock on, one sock in his hand, his face twisted in the grim concentration of a man defusing a bomb.

The bomb being my laundry basket.

I should say something mature.

“You fighting my clothes now?”

He jerks so hard he nearly knocks into the dresser, and I have to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

His eyes cut to me. “Jesus, Lalo.”

“Don’t bring him into this. You have Mass in, what, an hour?”

His face does something complicated.

Guilt.

Embarrassment.

Desire.

The last one is my favorite because his eyes drop from my face to where the sheet’s tangled low on my hips. I’m not wearing anything underneath it. He knows because he was there when the underwear came off, and somewhere between my mouth and his pride, we lost track of everything else.

His throat works. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, you meant to vanish into the darkness like a slutty raccoon.”

“I wasn’t vanishing.”

“You were one sock away from committing emotional burglary.”

He looks down at the sock in his hand like it betrayed him.

“I have to go,” he whispers.

“I figured.” I lean back.

“My tía⁠—”

“Mass.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, and weird silence settles over us.

Not the nice kind.

Not the post-sex kind where bodies are warm and language gets lazy.

Nope, this one has its shoes on and is preparing to leave.

Fabián rubs the back of his neck and looks everywhere except at me. My chest tightens before I can tell it not to. Stupid chest. Always making executive decisions without consulting the board. I push myself up against the pillows, dragging the sheet with me. My thighs protest and my back complains. But it’s my ass that writes a formal letter.

Worth it.

Still, I wince and Fabián’s eyes snap to me.

“You okay?” His voice drops low.