Page 142 of Offside Angle

Santi’s mouth curves. He doesn’t look at me when he answers, still watching our parents with that calm, amused expression. “Because you wanted to,” he says simply. “And because you’re dramatic when you’re nervous. It’s cute.”

I open my mouth to argue, then close it again when Lucía glances over at us with a small, knowing smile.

I’m whisper-hissing so hard I’m almost vibrating.

“Do they know?” I demand under my breath.

Santi looks at me, calm as ever. “Yes, guapo. They know.”

The color drains so fast from my face I feel lightheaded. “Everything?!?!” I hiss, horrified.

Santi actually chuckles, and the sound does nothing to help the situation. “If you’re asking me if they know I had my cock inside you…” he says, “no. They don’t. But they do know about us in general.”

My knees go weak.

I have to lock them to stay upright. The casual way he says it—so completely unbothered after putting the filthiest possible image in my head while our parents are twenty feet away—nearly takes me out. Heat floods back into my face so fast I feel dizzy.

“You can’t just say that shit,” I whisper, strangled.

“You’re the one who asked.”

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re fine. They’re happy for us. That’s all.”

I try to breathe.

It only half works.

I turn fully toward Santi, dragging in air as if I’ve just sprinted the length of the house ten times. My chest is tight. My hands feel useless at my sides.

Santi reaches out and runs his fingers over mine, before intertwining them for a second. The contact is warm and grounding.

“Matteo,” he says. “You know my parents. My parents know you. And trust me — our parents knew about us before we knew about us. Take a deep breath for me, cariño.”

I frown, stuck on the middle part. “They knew before we kn… what?”

Instead of answering right away, Santi takes a deep, obvious breath — loud enough that it snaps me out of my spiral. I automatically mirror him without thinking.

“Buen chico,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

My ears go red instantly. Santi’s mouth curves into a small smirk at the sight.

“Stop that,” I complain, though it comes out weaker than I mean it to.

Santi’s expression softens again. He keeps our fingers loosely linked. “Matteo, you don’t have to say anything about us to anyone if you don’t want to,” he says quietly. “But don’t make me the one you only touch when no one’s looking.”

I stare at him.

For a second the words don’t fully land. Then they do — and something hot and offended flares in my chest. “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT WHO KNOWS, SANTIAGO!” I hiss, keeping my voice low only because our parents are in the next room. “It’s… not that.”

I’m actually a little pissed he even thought that. Like I would hide him. Like I’d treat him like some secret.

I huff and look away for a second, then back at him, the fight draining into something smaller and more embarrassed. “I just… it’s weird,” I admit, quieter now. “Cause, well… they raised us.”

I can feel myself pouting and I hate it, but I can’t stop.

Santi’s eyes go soft in that way that always messes me up. He squeezes my fingers once before letting go.

“I know,” he says simply. “But they already love you. That part hasn’t changed.”