5. Fabián
FIVE
FABIáN
The problem starts with soup. Not the video call where Elías Cárdenas answered in bright orange boxer briefs and looked at me like I had personally invented bad ideas.
The soup, because last night, when he offered to bring me albóndigas, I said no like a dumbass.
Not because I didn’t want them.
I did.
I really wanted the soup, but what I wanted more was him at my door holding a plastic container full of his mom’s cooking.
I wanted to stand too close on the walkway outside my apartment and act annoyed while he ran his mouth and pretended not to look at my tank top.
I wanted all of that so badly I shut it down before the want could get comfortable because I’m a grown man with pride, boundaries, and the emotional instincts of a possum trapped in a recycling bin.
Now it’s Friday morning, and I’m hungry, annoyed, and staring into my fridge like it owes me an apology.
Inside, there are three eggs, half a lime, a bottle of salsa, and one sad foil-covered plate from my tía that turns out to be two tortillas and a single piece of chicken with the texture of a roofing shingle.
“Perfect,” I mutter.
The fridge hums back at me, judgmental as hell. My phone sits on the counter beside me, face down, silent for once.
Also judgmental.
Everything in my apartment has an opinion today. One thing I know for certain is I’m not going to kiss him. Not at the market. Not behind the booth or behind the trailers. Not even if he wears the little black shorts.
Especially not if he wears the black shorts.
I repeat this to myself later while changing after work, which is how I know I’m already in trouble.
Every shirt in my apartment suddenly looks like an invitation to ruin my life.
Too loose. Too tight. Too plain. Too much.
Not enough. I stand in front of my dresser in black Dickies shorts and socks, glaring down at my clothes like one of them personally betrayed me.
Finally, I pick the white crop top.
Because it’s hot.
It’s practical.
I am not dressing for him.
It’s cut high, the sleeves are gone, and the hem is sitting above my navel. Shows my stomach. Shows the trail of hair disappearing under my waistband. Shows just enough that I already hear Elías running his mouth about it, and the imagined sound makes my jaw tighten.
I should change.
Nah, you know what… fuck it.
I add my silver chain. Swap out my earrings for some studs, slip on my rings, and then I look at myself in the mirror and immediately regret having eyes.
I look like a problem.
Not my problem.
Someone else’s.
Maybe his.
“No,” I tell my reflection, and my reflection looks unconvinced.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Don’t be late, crop top. It’s gonna be hella hot today, so you know it’s about to be busy as fuck.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Don’t be annoying.
Lalo.Con.Limón
So don’t show up? Let all the thirsty people on TikTok down.
I snort before I can stop myself, then I get mad at myself for snorting.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You should wear a white one today… we could have a wet t-shirt contest, and I’ll bet that will really bring’em in.
I stand still, and my eyes lift to the mirror. If I get wet, all my tattoos will show through. My nipple piercings will for sure, and I don’t know about the rest of the world… but once I notice some nipple piercings, my eyes don’t look anywhere else.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
You stalking me now? I just put a white one on.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Lucky guess.
Bullshit.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Wear the black shorts.
He doesn’t answer for almost a minute.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Already have them on.
My chest does that stupid tight thing again, and I toss the phone onto the bed like it started the fire instead of me. Then I pick it back up because apparently I have no pride left, just silver jewelry and nerve damage.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Of course they are.
Lalo.Con.Limón
You sound mad.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
I am mad.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Good
You’re hotter when you’re mad.
I close my eyes—the smart thing would be to stop answering him. The mature thing would be to put my phone away, drive to the market, do the shift, and treat Elías like any other man I am not constantly imagining pressed up against a wall. A door or really any surface that could hold him upright.
Fabi.Sin.Filtro
Better watch your mouth tonight.
Lalo.Con.Limón
Make me.
I stare at those two words until they stop looking like English. Then I shove my phone into my pocket, grab my keys, and leave before I do something more embarrassing than exist.
The market is already loud when I pull in.
Friday night hits different, and the fact that it’s over a hundred makes it even more chaotic.
The lot is packed before sunset: vendors unloading under string lights, food trucks lined along the far fence, kids screaming near the bounce house, and music thumping.
The air smells like grilled meat, sugar, diesel, and hot pavement cooling too slow.
Normal.
It is normal.
I am normal.
Then I see him. Elías stands at the back of the Cárdenas trailer with one foot propped on the bumper, tying his shoe.
Black shorts.
The black shorts.
A four-inch inseam, maybe less, riding up his thighs like they have a personal vendetta against me. White tee tucked at the front. Silver chains. Silver hoops. Glasses and that slutty little tongue ring flashing when he looks up and smiles.
Not a big smile.
Worse.
A knowing one.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel, and that’s when I consider reversing. I could leave, but my tía would kill me. Then again, death might be the safer option at this point.
Elías lifts two fingers in a lazy little salute.
Fuck my life.
I park slowly, like a man driving toward his own bad decision with full awareness and no brakes.
When I get out, the evening heat hits the strip of skin under my shirt.
I close the truck door and turn. Elías is watching me, not hiding it one bit.
His gaze starts at my Vans, climbs my Dickies, catches on my stomach, stalls on the happy trail, and then drags up to my chest, my throat, and my mouth.
By the time his eyes meet mine, my pulse is already off rhythm.
His smile widens.
“The white one,” he says with a little smirk.
I slam my truck door harder than necessary. “The black shorts.”
He looks down at himself like he forgot. “Oh, these?”
“Don’t act stupid.”
“I’m not acting.”
“Finally, some honesty.”
He laughs and pushes away from the trailer, walking toward me like he has all the time in the world and none of the shame. That’s one of the many problems with Elías. He moves like everything belongs to him.
The booth. The market. The air.
My attention.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see one tiny silver ball on his tongue when he speaks.
“You look mad already.”
“I was having a good day,” I snort. “Then I saw you.”
“Liar.” He smirks. “You know I just made your whole ass week.”
I roll my eyes, moving to the back of my truck to grab the two bags my tío tossed in the bed.
Elías, not loving the fact that he’s not the center of attention at the moment, starts going off. “You’re the one who texted me before noon.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” I say. “Go on, keep talking. We both know you love the sound of your own voice.”
God, I’m being such an asshole, but this might be the only way I make it through today with him. If I don’t put some distance between us, I’m gonna end up bending him over some crates and catching a case because I fucked him in public. And let me tell you, that is not on my summer bingo card.
His eyes flick to my mouth. “That sounded like permission.”
“That was a warning.”
He snatches one of the bags from me and turns, talking to me from over his shoulder. “You always threaten men in parking lots before dinner?”
“Only the annoying ones.” I smirk, staying behind him a couple passes.
“Special treatment,” he calls back, whipping his whole body around to walk backward toward the little opening for the vendor tents. “I’m honored.”
My brain has gone completely mush, because instead of listening to him clap back at me, I’m lost in his thighs. Toned, with a light spattering of hair, all the way down to the little script tattoo at his ankle. It’s so tiny that I can’t read it.
Maybe I could if his leg was on my shoulder?
Elías’s voice drops. “You good, Fabián?”
My name in his mouth nearly folds me in half, and I lift my eyes back to his. “I’m fine.”
He smiles like he knows I’m not.
“Boys!” my tía calls from the booth. “If you’re done measuring each other with your eyes, come help.”
Elías chokes, and I roll my eyes.
Behind him, his mother says, “Consuelo!”
My tía answers, “What? They are.”
“I’m not measuring anything,” I snap.
Elías looks down at my body again, quick and filthy. “Shame. I would have guessed two hands.”
I take one step toward him, and he takes one step back, still smiling. That’s what makes me want to grab him, but instead of causing a scene, I walk past him toward the booth. He falls into step beside me with his shoulder close.
Too close.
Enough to make my skin notice.
“You gonna behave tonight?” he asks.
“Are you?” I snap.
“Nope.” He says it, popping the p.
“Then there’s your answer.”
He laughs softly, and the sound crawls under my shirt.
The first two hours are hell, and not the regular hell you would assume comes with over a hundred-degree heat. Not traffic-on-880 hell.
Special hell.
A personal hell, if you will.
Elías knows exactly what he’s doing, and the worst part is that I know he knows.
He bends too much, reaches too far, and drinks from a straw while looking at me over the top of his glasses.
He says, “Excuse me, papi,” every time he has to pass behind me, even though there is plenty of room and every mother in a five-mile radius probably feels disrespected.
I try not to react.
I fail—repeatedly.
At one point, he drops a stack of lids on purpose, and I know it’s on purpose because nobody loses control of plastic with that much eye contact.
He bends to pick them up.