Page 108 of Raspados & Regret

I roll my eyes because if I don’t, I might pull him back into bed. “Yes. I’m sore, hungry, tired, and in desperate need of a shower but emotionally thriving.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Always.”

“Good.”

Good. Like he needs the normal back.

Like we both do.

He leans down and I think he means to kiss my forehead.

This I don’t allow. I grab the front of his crop top and pull him down until his mouth meets mine. The kiss is soft at first. Then it’s not. It turns hungry quickly, his hand cupping the back of my head, mine fisting in his shirt, and his breath catching when I bite his bottom lip. For one dangerous second, he shifts closer, knee pressing into the mattress, his body remembering exactly where it belongs.

Then he pulls away with a rough inhale.

“Mass,” he whispers, like the word hurts.

“Go pray for us.”

“Us?”

The word falls out. Small and stupid. We both hear it, but only his face changes.

I should make a joke. I should say, “Us as in sinners, pendejo.” Us, as in people who almost broke my bed. Us, as in your tía is going to smell me on you and throw holy water.

Instead, I don’t say anything and neither does he. The silence stretches until finally, he looks down. “I’ll text you.”

“From church?”

“Maybe.”

“Kinda disrespectful, don’t ya think?” I say, feigning a look of shock.

“You like disrespectful.”

“Mmmm, I do love competent blasphemy this early on Sundays.”

His mouth twitches again, then pulls on the other sock, shoves his feet into his slides, and slips out of my room like a man still very bad at sneaking but deeply committed to the bit.

I listen to him creep down the stairs.

One step.

Two.

A pause when the fifth step groans like a dramatic old woman. My mother coughs downstairs. Fabián freezes so hard I swear I can feel it through the floor.

I press my fist to my mouth.

Silence.

Then the front door opens.

Closes.

He is gone, and my room feels bigger without him. I flop back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling.