Page 83 of Raspados & Regret

I unlock the door and open it, and Fabián stands on the porch. He changed or half-changed.

The gray crop top’s still on, the one from the market, stretched tight across his chest. Gray sweats now instead of Dickies. Black slides with white socks and silver studs in his ears. His face is open in a way I’ve never seen before.

Not soft, exactly.

But stripped down jaw tight, eyes dark, breathing like he ran here even though his truck is parked at the curb.

My mouth goes dry while he looks me over too.

Oversized Raiders shirt. Bare legs. Glasses. Bed hair. Hickey still dark on my neck.

His hands curl at his sides.

“You actually came,” I say.

He huffs once. “You told me to.”

His eyes lift to mine, and I can’t tell if he looks angry. Then I realize he is not angry. He is terrified. Wanting me this much scares him.

Good, because it scares me too.

“Say it,” I whisper.

His brow pulls tight. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

He steps closer, into the porch light, but stops before crossing the threshold. “Don’t make me do this outside.”

My chest warms, and I lean against the doorframe. “Then come inside.”

His eyes flick past me into the dark house. “Your mom’s home.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Lalo—”

“—Fabián.”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, they’re rough and so fucking gone.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he says.

I go still. “The kiss?” I ask.

“Your mouth.”

My breath thins while his voice drops. “Your taste. The way you sounded and the way you kept looking at me tonight like you knew I was dying.”

“You were?”

“Every single moment my mouth wasn’t on you.”

That admission hits harder than a kiss.

He looks down, then back up, and his pride’s there, bleeding out on my porch.

“I miss your taste,” he says, his voice rough enough to scrape skin. “And tonight was almost painful not having it, with you just right there.”