Page 53 of Raspados & Regret

For a man who avoids words like they charge interest, he suddenly looks like he has too many of them and no idea which one won’t get him killed.

“So you bringing the soup or what?” he asks, changing the subject.

I laugh, but it comes out quieter than usual. “You really want me to?”

Another pause.

Then, “Nah, you know what? It’s all good.”

Every single part of me wishes he would have said yes.

Which is stupid.

It’s soup.

It’s fucking meatballs in broth, not a marriage proposal. But the way he pulls back so fast, like wanting one small thing out loud might get him caught, makes something in my chest pinch.

I sit up a little, the black shorts still bunched in my lap. “Fabián?”

His eyes flick to mine. “What?”

“You asked,” I whisper.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I asked if you were bringing it.”

“Yeah.” I tilt my head. “And then I asked if you really wanted me to, and you ran like I pulled a knife on you.”

His jaw tightens and the scowl comes back, but it doesn’t cover everything. Not this time. I can still see the awkwardness under it. The hunger too, maybe. Not just for food. For being offered something and not knowing what the hell to do with it.

“You always gotta make shit weird?” he asks.

“Only when you make it obvious.”

He scoffs. “I didn’t make anything obvious.”

“Papi, you video called me over soup.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then stop acting like you need to be fed by hand.”

His mouth parts, and I grin because I’m a bad person and because his face does something dangerous when I push.

“Relax,” I say more softly. “I’ll bring you some tomorrow at the market.”

“I said it’s fine.”

“And I heard you. Still bringing it.”

“Lalo.” That name again.

Rougher this time, and my skin notices. I lift the black shorts by the waistband, partly to distract myself and partly because apparently I value chaos over peace. “And I’m wearing these tomorrow.”

His eyes drop, then his jaw works like he has to physically swallow whatever thought came up.