Page 128 of Raspados & Regret

“The arguing ones.”

“That narrows it down less than you think.”

She laughs and points at me. “You’re Crop Top Papi, right?”

I stare at her, and Elías coughs into his hand. Junior makes a wounded animal sound from the cooler. My tía, sitting at the back table counting bills, says without looking up, “He is not answering to that.”

I say, “No.”

The woman’s friend says, “You kind of are, though.”

Elías turns away to hide his smile.

There I see it. A little crack in the polite facade.

I lean closer under the noise. “Something funny?”

His eyes flick to mine.

For a second, last night is there.

Sweat, skin, and his perfect mouth on mine.

Then he blinks it away.

“Lots of things,” he says.

Then he hands the customer her raspado.

Not me—the customer.

I grit my teeth and mumble under my breath. “It’s gonna be a long fucking night.”

By seven, I decide I’m done being mature.

Maturity is boring.

Maturity tastes like cardboard and church guilt.

Elías is at the back table, restocking lids. I move beside him and grab the stack he is reaching for before he can. His fingers stop short and he clears his throat.

“Needed those,” he says.

“You can ask.”

His brow lifts. “For lids?”

“For whatever you want.”

His eyes sharpen. Then his mouth curves, but not enough. “That your attempt at flirting?”

My confidence, a fragile animal with no survival skills, trips over a rock. “Yes.”

He stares at me, then laughs softly.

Not in a cruel way. It’s more fond than anything.

“I’m serious,” I mutter.