4. Elías #3
I sit up so fast my knee hits the side of the bed. “You called me.”
“Oh, I’m aware.”
I fumble for some kind of intellectual words, but I land on, “So don’t look at me like I broke into your phone half naked.”
“You answered… like that?”
I grunt as I reach for a blanket to cover myself up with. “You called without warning.”
“Hey, you offered me soup.”
I blink. “That’s why you called?”
His jaw shifts. “Maybe.”
I stare at him, and he stares back.
This man is going to make me climb through the screen and shake him.
“Fabián,” I deadpan.
“Hmm?” He mumbles, his eyes only breaking from mine for half a second while he tries not to look down.
“You video called me because I offered albóndigas?”
Then he smirks. “I wanted to know if you meant it.”
The room goes quiet, and my joke loads and dies in my throat because he doesn’t say it like a joke. He says it low, almost awkwardly, like the question cost him something. Like he is not used to people offering to bring him food unless it comes with an obligation tied around its neck.
My chest does a strange little squeeze.
Absolutely not.
Tenderness—who the fuck invited this sneaky bitch?
“I meant it,” I say, softer than I intend.
His eyes lift to mine through the screen, and for a second, neither of us speaks. Then, because silence makes me itch, I add, “My mom always makes enough for the whole block. You can totally have some. Unless you’re scared of big balls.”
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.
For a man who avoids words like they charge interest, he suddenly looks like he has too many of them and no idea which one won’t get him killed.
“So you bringing the soup or what?” he asks, changing the subject.
I laugh, but it comes out quieter than usual. “You really want me to?”
Another pause.
Then, “Nah, you know what? It’s all good.”
Every single part of me wishes he would have said yes.
Which is stupid.
It’s soup.
It’s fucking meatballs in broth, not a marriage proposal. But the way he pulls back so fast, like wanting one small thing out loud might get him caught, makes something in my chest pinch.
I sit up a little, the black shorts still bunched in my lap. “Fabián?”
His eyes flick to mine. “What?”
“You asked,” I whisper.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I asked if you were bringing it.”
“Yeah.” I tilt my head. “And then I asked if you really wanted me to, and you ran like I pulled a knife on you.”
His jaw tightens and the scowl comes back, but it doesn’t cover everything. Not this time. I can still see the awkwardness under it. The hunger too, maybe. Not just for food. For being offered something and not knowing what the hell to do with it.
“You always gotta make shit weird?” he asks.
“Only when you make it obvious.”
He scoffs. “I didn’t make anything obvious.”
“Papi, you video called me over soup.”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t call me that.”
“Then stop acting like you need to be fed by hand.”
His mouth parts, and I grin because I’m a bad person and because his face does something dangerous when I push.
“Relax,” I say more softly. “I’ll bring you some tomorrow at the market.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“And I heard you. Still bringing it.”
“Lalo.” That name again.
Rougher this time, and my skin notices. I lift the black shorts by the waistband, partly to distract myself and partly because apparently I value chaos over peace. “And I’m wearing these tomorrow.”
His eyes drop, then his jaw works like he has to physically swallow whatever thought came up.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Because I told you to?” The words hit low.
I should say no, because giving him that much satisfaction sounds dangerous. Instead, I smile slowly. “Maybe.”
He looks like he wants to say something.
He looks like he wants to do something.
He looks like he hates that both are true at the same time. Then his voice drops. “Don’t start something tomorrow unless you want me to finish it.”
I stop breathing for half a second. There are smarter answers I could come back with. Safer ones. Funny ones.
I could laugh.
I could call him dramatic.
I could hang up and save myself.
Instead, I look at the black shorts in my hand, then back at his face.
“Then finish it,” I say.
Fabián goes still.
Somewhere down the hall, my mom yells, “Elías, are you eating more soup or no?”
I close my eyes. “I’m going to walk into the ocean.”
Fabián’s laugh is quiet, rough, and unfairly good. “Bring the soup tomorrow, Cárdenas.”
Then the call ends and I stare at my phone. At the black shorts. Then at my closed bedroom door.
Tomorrow’s not just a market shift anymore.
Tomorrow is a promise.
And apparently, I’m delivering soup to a man who just told me to wear a very specific pair of shorts, because whether he admits to it or not, they do something for him.