Page 54 of Raspados & Regret

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Because I told you to?” The words hit low.

I should say no, because giving him that much satisfaction sounds dangerous. Instead, I smile slowly. “Maybe.”

He looks like he wants to say something.

He looks like he wants to do something.

He looks like he hates that both are true at the same time. Then his voice drops. “Don’t start something tomorrow unless you want me to finish it.”

I stop breathing for half a second. There are smarter answers I could come back with. Safer ones. Funny ones.

I could laugh.

I could call him dramatic.

I could hang up and save myself.

Instead, I look at the black shorts in my hand, then back at his face.

“Then finish it,” I say.

Fabián goes still.

Somewhere down the hall, my mom yells, “Elías, are you eating more soup or no?”

I close my eyes. “I’m going to walk into the ocean.”

Fabián’s laugh is quiet, rough, and unfairly good. “Bring the soup tomorrow, Cárdenas.”

Then the call ends and I stare at my phone. At the black shorts. Then at my closed bedroom door.

Tomorrow’s not just a market shift anymore.

Tomorrow is a promise.

And apparently, I’m delivering soup to a man who just told me to wear a very specific pair of shorts, because whether he admits to it or not, they do something for him.

FIVE

FABIÁN

The problem starts with soup. Not the video call where Elías Cárdenas answered in bright orange boxer briefs and looked at me like I had personally invented bad ideas.

The soup, because last night, when he offered to bring me albóndigas, I said no like a dumbass.

Not because I didn’t want them.

I did.

I really wanted the soup, but what I wanted more was him at my door holding a plastic container full of his mom’s cooking. I wanted to stand too close on the walkway outside my apartment and act annoyed while he ran his mouth and pretended not to look at my tank top. I wanted all of that so badly I shut it down before the want could get comfortable because I’m a grown man with pride, boundaries, and the emotional instincts of a possum trapped in a recycling bin.

Now it’s Friday morning, and I’m hungry, annoyed, and staring into my fridge like it owes me an apology. Inside, there are three eggs, half a lime, a bottle of salsa, and one sad foil-covered plate from my tía that turns out to be two tortillas and a single piece of chicken with the texture of a roofing shingle.

“Perfect,” I mutter.