Page 106 of Raspados & Regret

Too serious.

Too fast.

It softens something in me. I have no business letting him touch this early in the morning.

“I’m fine.”

His mouth tightens. “Don’t do that.”

I blink. “Do what?”

“Tell me you’re fine when you’re not.”

Of all the unfair things. This man learns one emotional tool and immediately weaponizes it against me.

“I’m sore,” I whisper. “Not broken.”

His jaw shifts, and the relief in his face is tiny.

I see it anyway.

“You should have stopped me if I was too rough,” he whispers.

“You weren’t,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “I told you to keep going.”

His face heats.

Oh, that’s lovely. The big, bad crop-top menace blushing in my room while holding one sock.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

“Like I know you made a mess of me and then cuddled me until I fell asleep?”

His eyes flick to my bedroom door. “Quiet.”

“My mom is down the hall, Fabián. Not in my dresser.” I snort.

“Sound travels.”

“You would know. You growled into my pillow.”

His whole body goes still.

I bite back a grin.

There he is, my favorite haunted little mechanic.

He drags his hand over his face. “I need to leave before you get me killed.”

“No, you need to leave because your tía wonders why you’re not at Mass,” I retort.

“That too.”

The words are normal, but the air is not. Because he is still standing by my chair, dressed but not gone, watching me with the same hungry, scared look he had on the porch. Like leaving is the responsible thing, but staying is the thing he actually wants.