Page 11 of Raspados & Regret

“Lalo—” His nickname comes out too rough, and his smile falters.

I grip the edge of the table until my knuckles ache. The silver bar through my left nipple catches against the inside of my shirt when I breathe too hard, sending a sharp little reminder through my chest. I focus on that, on the bite. On the real, physical thing I can explain.

Not on him.

Not on the shorts or the tongue ring, or the fact that for one insane second, I wonder what that silver ball would feel like against my di⁠—

No.

Absolutely not.

“I’m gonna regret this summer,” I mutter.

Elías hears me and leans in just enough that his shoulder finally brushes mine.

“Probably,” he whispers back.

Then he picks up a clean cup and gets back to work like he has not just ruined my entire life before Labor Day. I stand there under the string lights, surrounded by family, chisme, shaved ice, and the smell of sugar burning into hot pavement, and realize something with perfect clarity.

This summer is gonna be hell.

TWO

ELÍAS

Iblame the crop top.

Not myself.

Not even the heat. Or the fact that I apparently have the survival instincts of a raccoon eating aluminum foil behind a taquería.

His crop top.

No grown man should be allowed to show up to a family-friendly summer market wearing Dickies low on his hips, tiny silver hoops in his ears, and a faded black shirt cut high enough to expose the strip of stomach below his navel like it’s not a direct threat to public order.

Specifically, the happy trail.

That’s the problem.

I don’t even know why it’s called that. “Happy trail” sounds too cheerful. Too innocent, like something you’d see on a children’s cereal box with a smiling sun and a suspiciously enthusiastic cartoon bee.

There is nothing innocent about the dark line of hair disappearing beneath Fabián Salcedo’s Calvin Klein waistband while he stands behind our shared booth looking pissed off at the concept of shaved ice.

It’s not a happy trail.

It’s a crime scene.

A trespassing notice.

A little arrow made by Satan himself.

And I’m staring at it.

Again.

“Elías.” My mom snaps her fingers in front of my face.

I blink, and the cooler thumps onto the pavement six feet away. Fabián straightens from where he’s setting it down, rolls one shoulder, and the hem of his crop top lifts just a little higher.