Page 87 of Raspados & Regret

This is his house. His life. With his mamá asleep behind one of these doors, I’m standing inside it after midnight, hard in gray sweats, wearing the same crop top he spent all night trying not to stare at, because I came here for him.

All because he told me to come get him.

And I did.

Elías watches my face. “You’re thinking too hard,” he whispers.

“I’m not.”

“You look like you’re doing taxes in your head.”

I huff, but it comes out almost like a laugh. His mouth curves, and the softness of it does something dangerous to my chest.

“Hey,” he says.

I look at him.

“Don’t disappear on me now.”

My throat tightens. That should piss me off because he says it like he knows I might. Like he knows I’m standing here halfway between wanting him and running back out the door before wanting him becomes something I can’t shove into a drawer and ignore.

“I’m here,” I say.

“I know.” His gaze drags over me, slower this time. Not playful. Not for an audience. “I can see that.”

My stomach pulls tight, and he steps closer. We meet in the middle like neither of us knows how not to. Our mouths come together softer than they did on the porch. Not gentle exactly; I don’t think we know what to do with gentle yet. But it’s slower. Quieter. The kind of kiss that has to fit inside a sleeping house. The kind that makes every breath feel too loud.

His hands slide up my stomach under the crop top.

I shudder.

He smiles against my mouth. “Still works.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m literally just touching you.”

“Then keep touching me.”

He freezes.

So do I.

The words are out before I can drag them back. Elías pulls away just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark behind the glasses. “Yeah?”

My hands curl at my sides, and I hate that he can hear the answer before I say it. “Yeah.”

His smile fades, it’s not gone. Just softer around the edges. He takes my hand and pulls me down the hallway and up the stairs.

“Quiet,” he whispers.

“I know how to be quiet, cabrón.”

He looks over his shoulder. “Do you?”

I think of last night behind the trailers. The sound he made when I bit his lip. The way my own voice broke when he touched my piercings. The way his name sounded coming out of me.

“No,” I admit.