Page 52 of Raspados & Regret

Fabián closes his eyes, and I grin.

“You had to ruin it.”

I chuckle. “I’m genetically incapable of not ruining it.”

“Clearly.”

“You called me because of soup. Don’t act like you’re superior.”

“I was hungry,” he says. “Someone offers soup… you take it.”

“You were curious,” I tease.

His eyes narrow. “About soup.”

“About me,” I say, and that hangs there.

His gaze drops again, and I swear I feel it on my skin even through the screen. “You always answer calls dressed like that?”

I look down at myself. “You always video call men when they’re picking shorts?”

His mouth twitches. “Men?”

“Don’t start,” I warn.

His voice dips. “You started it.”

The black shorts sit in my lap. His eyes move to them, and something in his face changes.

“What are those?”

“Shorts,” I say in the most annoyed tone I can muster.

“No shit.” He rolls his eyes. “They the black ones?”

I pick them up by the waistband and hold them higher. “These?”

“Yeah.” He licks his bottom lip. “Those.”

“You remember them?” I raise a brow.

“I have eyes.” He looks away, but not fast enough, and I catch his ears pinking.

Victory tastes like mango con chamoy and bad choices.

“You want me to wear them tomorrow?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows when he looks back at me.

He looks back at me, and the halfway scowl comes back, like he’s trying to hide behind it. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Lalo—” The way he says my name shuts me up.

It’s annoyingly effective.

Hot, even. I lower the shorts into my lap again and lean back on one hand. “What?”

His eyes stay on mine.