Page 127 of Raspados & Regret

This is what I asked for.

Space.

Time.

A fucking emotional waiting room with bad lighting.

The booth is already busy, but not Saturday-busy. Sunday has a different flavor. It’s less feral and more family-oriented. More abuelas with exact opinions about condensed milk. More people coming for the food instead of the drama, although a few phones still lift when they see us together.

The videos from last night have already spread. I know because Junior sent me six before noon and then texted this:

Junior

Broooooooo

They zoomed in on Lalo’s hickey.

The comments are insane.

One person said, “Crop top papi marked his territory.”

Did you?????

Asking for science, not that I care if you like guys.

I didn’t answer.

Then he sent one more.

Junior

Silence is a confession, cabrón.

Now I stand at the register, taking payments while Elías works beside me without touching me.

Not once.

He reaches around me without brushing my arm.

He says “excuse me” without adding papi.

He bends for cups like a normal person instead of trying to kill me with his thighs.

He laughs with customers, but not too much. Flirts, but lightly. Safe, sparkly, and public-friendly.

Not the way he flirted yesterday, all teeth and gasoline.

Not the way he flirted with me before I gave him something to protect.

I thought I wanted that.

I thought I wanted him to be careful with whatever this is with us in public. Now I want to throw the tablet.

A woman orders two strawberry-lechera raspados and looks between us with bright, hopeful eyes.

“Are you two the ones from TikTok?” she asks.

Elías smiles. “Depends on which one’s TikTok you mean.”