Page 59 of Raspados & Regret

All slow, making sure his black shorts ride up, and I crush a paper cup in my fist.

My tía looks at the cup, then at me. “¿Todo bien?”

“Fine,” I seethe.

Elías, still bent over, says, “He’s okay, señora.”

I want to throw him into the ice chest, and then again, I want to wrap my hand around the back of his neck and drag him behind the trailers.

I want him quiet and louder at the same time.

The line stays steady, which is probably the only reason I don’t commit a felony. Customers come and go, and people recognize us from the videos. Someone asks if we’re “the raspado guys from TikTok,” and Elías immediately says yes while I say no.

The group of patrons around us laughs.

One girl points between us. “So are you two like… a thing?”

I open my mouth, but Elías beats me to it. “We’re just coworkers.”

I glare at him, and he smiles at the customer.

She looks disappointed. “That’s it?”

“Unfortunately,” Elías says.

I grab a lid and slap it onto a cup harder than necessary.

Elías leans close under the noise and says, “Careful, Salcedo. People will think I hurt your feelings.”

“I don’t have feelings,” I say as my jaw tightens.

He hums, and I hate him.

I want him.

Fuck, I want the flirtatious son of a bitch so bad.

By nine-thirty, the rush breaks, and the night settles into that late-market rhythm where everyone is sticky, tired, and sun-worn. Music still thumps, but it’s softer—more old school than the upbeat Bad Bunny. Kids droop against their parents, and some vendors start quietly packing the extra supplies they know they won’t use.

Elías wipes down the syrup bottles with a rag during the downtime between customers; his tongue ring clicks against his teeth.

Click. Click. Click.

I hear it over everything. “You need to stop that,” I say.

He glances over. “Stop what?”

“That.”

He clicks it again.

My hand tightens on the cash box, and his eyes brighten. “Does it bother you?”

“Yes,” I mumble.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because it’s annoying.”