Page 80 of Raspados & Regret

At 12:38, my phone starts vibrating, and when I flip it over, it’s an Instagram video.

@fabi.sin.filtro calling.

My heart kicks so hard the phone shifts on my chest. I let it ring twice.

Three times. Then I answer.

Fabián’s face fills the screen. It looks like he’s in bed too, or maybe sitting against his headboard. The room behind him is dark except for one lamp glowing orange in the corner. He is wearing the gray crop top from earlier, like he never changed. His eyes look wild.

Beautiful.

Bad for me.

“You’re still awake,” he says.

“Clearly,” I deadpan.

“You answer all your late-night video calls in bed?” He says it, and his tone still tells me he’s a little hurt from me leaving him in the parking lot.

“You make a habit of late-night video calls to all your enemies?”

His mouth doesn’t twitch. Instead, he drags a hand over his face, then looks at me like the camera is not enough, like he is furious there is glass between us.

“Come over,” he says.

Not asking.

Telling.

My stomach drops, and I prop the phone against a pillow and sit up. “No.”

His eyes sharpen. “No?”

“No,” I repeat.

“Lalo.” That voice.

I almost fold.

Almost.

I tilt my head. “You don’t get to order me over like takeout.”

“I—” He pauses for a second, then stutters over his words. “I’m—I’m not trying to order you.”

I snort. “You literally are.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a second, then back. Then there is nothing but an awkward silence between us, and I let it fester.

He needs to say it.

Not command. Not hide behind that tough-guy scowl and dry little threats.

“Come over,” he says again.

Softer this time, but it’s still not enough. Coming from the man who said he would deny he kissed me if it got out.

I deserve more. Better.