Page 149 of Raspados & Regret

He steps back and lets me in, and Fabián’s apartment is way cleaner than I expected. Not because I thought he lived like a disaster. He seems too controlled for that. But I expected more… I don’t know… bachelor chaos. A plate in the sink. Work boots thrown somewhere. Mail stacked in threatening little towers.

Instead, the place is sparse and neat. A small couch in the living area by the door complete with a TV and coffee table with a few old car magazines. A pair of work boots and shoes are in an organizer. Keys and a rosary in a little ceramic bowl that looks like something his tía bought him and he pretends not to like. A small kitchen to the left and a tiny dining table with two chairs. One bedroom visible through a half-open door and a bunch of framed pictures of him with his tío and tía on a shelf.

It smells like soap, coffee, motor oil, and him.

Dangerous.

Deeply dangerous.

“You cleaned,” I say.

“No,” he says very quickly.

“Fabián.”

He carries the food to the kitchen counter. “I just picked up.”

“Your couch has vacuum lines.”

His ears go red.

I smile slowly. “You cleaned for me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You cleaned for your boyfriend.”

His hand stills on the container, and that’s when I realize I said it. The word.

Boyfriend.

I said it because I’m apparently determined to put my bare hand on every hot surface. Fabián looks at me from across the kitchen, breathing only a little harder than he was before.

“Yeah,” he says.

My smile fades. “What?”

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I cleaned for my boyfriend.”

Oh, well. Okay.

My heart trips, falls down the stairs, and lies there dramatically.

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

“Like what?”

“Like I just proposed or some shit.”

“I mean—” I look around jokingly. “You’re not going to, are you?”

He rolls his eyes and opens the container of albóndigas, and steam rises between us, warm and tomato-rich and familiar. It should break the tension.

It doesn’t; if anything, it makes the apartment feel more domestic.

“So,” I say, crossing the room and leaning against the counter, “your family?”

His hand tightens on the spoon.