Page 107 of Raspados & Regret

I reach for my phone on the nightstand and unlock it.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Being an adult. Give me your phone.”

He hesitates.

I hold out my hand. “Fabián.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and gives it to me like I asked for a confession. I open his contacts, create a new one, and type in my actual number.

Not Instagram.

Not DMs.

Not @lalo.con.limón with a stupid little profile picture and a public comment section breathing down our necks.

My number.

Me.

When I hand it back, his eyes drop to the screen.

Elías Cárdenas.

I almost let that stand, then I snatch the phone back and add a lemon emoji. His mouth twitches.

“There,” I whisper. “Now we can talk like adults and not some horny internet people.”

He raises his brow and smirks. “We are horny internet people.”

“Fine. But now we can be horny internet people that communicate like the adults we are.”

He looks at the contact again, and something flickers across his face.

Soft and annoyingly pretty.

“You didn’t put ‘problem’?” he asks.

“I considered it.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because last night I had your mouth on mine and your hands shaking against my hips and your voice breaking when you said you thought you’d feel different after.

Because I was your first, and that means something even if neither of us is built to survive saying so this early.

Because I don’t want to be a joke in your phone.

I shrug. “Guess I’m maturing.”

He snorts. “Okaaay.”

There.

That almost-smile—I want to collect it in a jar and claim ownership of it. Fabián pockets his phone, then stands there another second too long.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.