Page 164 of Raspados & Regret

“He might.”

“What should I say?”

He looks at me, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Say you’re trying to keep me fed, fucked, and less emotionally constipated.”

I choke on my soup, and he smiles like he’s accomplished something noble.

“Oh, so you’re learning jokes now too?”

“I learned from the most annoying man I know.”

“Romantic,” I groan.

“I try.”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin and lean back, studying him across the small table. No crop top, no market lights, no phones, no comments on the internet. Just Fabián in his apartment, looking at me like he is still scared, but not enough to let go.

That’s something.

“You know,” I say, “my mom packed enough food for breakfast too.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“She’s a subtle woman.”

“Very.” He says, leaning back.

“So what do you say? Want me to stay the night and keep you ‘fucked’?”

He takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “But maybe we can also watch a movie or some shit. You know… like a real couple.”

My heart stumbles. “And I stay all night? Like sleeping next to you and waking up in the morning and showering together?”

“It’s a small shower, but I’m sure we can make it work.” He shrugs. “Yeah, all night, nene.”

“Do you work tomorrow?” I ask as his thumb moves over my knuckles.

“Yeah, I have to be at the shop by eight.” He pauses. “You?”

“Mmhm, but I don’t work until ten.”

He nods, and the apartment goes quiet around us. My chest starts to hurt in a good way.

A scary way.

A way I could get used to if I’m not careful.

EPILOGUE

FABIÁN

One year later, the heat is still trying to kill me. So is Elías Cárdenas, but this time it’s with yellow shorts.

Tiny yellow shorts.

Four-inch inseam if I’m being generous, which I’m not because generosity has never survived contact with Elías’s thighs. He is standing at the front of our booth with one foot on a cooler, a white tank tucked into the front of those ridiculous shorts, silver chains against his chest, glasses sliding down his nose, and a tongue ring clicking while he explains to a customer that, no, less chamoy is not a personality trait he supports.

Our booth.