Page 153 of Raspados & Regret

“Fuck the fridge.”

“You’re very romantic.” I mumble through kisses.

He pulls back. “I have soup on the counter and you in my kitchen. I’m doing fucking great if you ask me.”

He is.

Fabián carries me out of the kitchen like I weigh nothing, and I wrap my legs around his waist, kissing him as he walks. His apartment blurs, and I forget about where the couch is because we’re already at the bedroom door. The fan hums louder in here, the window cracked open to the warm night. His bed is even made.

Made.

I pull back as he lowers me onto it.

“You made your bed too?”

“Come on, nene,” he chuckles. “Don’t start.”

“You cleaned and made the bed for your boyfriend.”

He crawls over me, eyes dark. “Keep saying it.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Boyfriend.”

The word lands between us, and it hits different because it’s something real.

My chest goes tight. “Boyfriend,” I whisper.

His eyes close for half a second.

When they open, there is no hiding in them.

“Again,” he says.

I reach up and touch his face. “Mi novio.”

He kisses me like the words are something he can swallow, and the bed creaks under us. No mother down the hall this time to be worried about.

No market outside the trailer.

No customers waiting for extra chamoy.

Just his apartment.

His bed.

His body pressing mine into the mattress.

The quiet privacy of being wanted with the door shut because he invited me in.

I pull at his tank. “Off.”

He sits back and strips it off over his head. I should be used to his body by now. I’m not. The piercings catch the lamplight, silver through brown skin. His shoulders. His chest. The dark trail of hair disappearing under his shorts. The shape of him, strong and built like someone who has spent years making himself useful instead of asking to be held.

Mine.

The word arrives again, only this time I let it stay.