7. Fabián
SEVEN
FABIáN
The lock clicks behind me. A tiny sound that somehow lands louder than the whole night market.
Elías stands in front of me in the dark hallway, barefoot, wearing nothing but an oversized Raiders shirt and those glasses.
His hair is damp. His mouth is wet from mine.
The hickeys on his neck look darker in the low light.
Mine.
No.
Not mine.
Maybe mine.
Fuck.
There are family photos on the wall beside us. Baby pictures. Graduation pictures. One of Elías with braces and a soccer ball tucked under his arm, grinning like he was born knowing he would grow into being a problem.
Shoes sit near the door. Somewhere in the house, something smells faintly like albóndigas, laundry detergent, and lemon cleaner.
It should make this less hot. My brain reaches for reasons why this would be, but it only makes it worse because this isn’t the market. It’s not some stupid TikTok. Or behind the trailers where the shadows make everything easier to deny.
This is his house. His life. With his mamá asleep behind one of these doors, I’m standing inside it after midnight, hard in gray sweats, wearing the same crop top he spent all night trying not to stare at, because I came here for him.
All because he told me to come get him.
And I did.
Elías watches my face. “You’re thinking too hard,” he whispers.
“I’m not.”
“You look like you’re doing taxes in your head.”
I huff, but it comes out almost like a laugh. His mouth curves, and the softness of it does something dangerous to my chest.
“Hey,” he says.
I look at him.
“Don’t disappear on me now.”
My throat tightens. That should piss me off because he says it like he knows I might. Like he knows I’m standing here halfway between wanting him and running back out the door before wanting him becomes something I can’t shove into a drawer and ignore.
“I’m here,” I say.
“I know.” His gaze drags over me, slower this time. Not playful. Not for an audience. “I can see that.”
My stomach pulls tight, and he steps closer.
We meet in the middle like neither of us knows how not to.
Our mouths come together softer than they did on the porch.
Not gentle exactly; I don’t think we know what to do with gentle yet.
But it’s slower. Quieter. The kind of kiss that has to fit inside a sleeping house.
The kind that makes every breath feel too loud.
His hands slide up my stomach under the crop top.
I shudder.
He smiles against my mouth. “Still works.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m literally just touching you.”
“Then keep touching me.”
He freezes.
So do I.
The words are out before I can drag them back. Elías pulls away just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark behind the glasses. “Yeah?”
My hands curl at my sides, and I hate that he can hear the answer before I say it. “Yeah.”
His smile fades, it’s not gone. Just softer around the edges. He takes my hand and pulls me down the hallway and up the stairs.
“Quiet,” he whispers.
“I know how to be quiet, cabrón.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Do you?”
I think of last night behind the trailers. The sound he made when I bit his lip. The way my own voice broke when he touched my piercings. The way his name sounded coming out of me.
“No,” I admit.
He bites his smile back.
“Then I’ll teach you.”
My dick twitches so hard I get distracted and actually walk into the wall once we hit the landing. My shoulder hits drywall with a soft thud, and Elías has to slap his hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
I point at him. “Keep walking.”
He leads me into his room and shuts the door carefully behind us.
His room’s small with a fan rattling in the corner like it’s fighting for its life.
Clothes on the chair. Bed half-made, sheets tangled.
A little ceramic dish shaped like a lime on the dresser, full of rings and silver earrings.
There are posters on the wall, a bookshelf packed too tight, and a laundry basket overflowing near the closet.
The air is thick with heat and the specific musk of him—detergent, skin, and something metallic from the fan.
It looks like him.
Loud without trying.
Messy but lived-in.
Real.
He turns the lock slowly, then faces me.
For a second, neither of us moves. Outside his room, the house breathes quietly. Pipes. A distant car. The hum of the fan. My own pulse. Somewhere down the hall, his mom snores—a long, rattling sound that stops abruptly.
We freeze and stare at each other.
Three seconds.
Four.
The snoring starts again.
Elías exhales and presses his forehead against the door. “We’re going to hell.”
“If she wakes up, I’m jumping out the window.”
“We’re on the second story. You’ll break your legs.” He laughs.
“Then I’ll crawl away.”
He turns around, leaning back against the door. “You good?”
I close my eyes. “I hate that question.”
“I know.”
I open them, and he’s still watching me.
No joke this time.
Or almost none.
“I’m good,” I say. Then, because he deserves better than my usual bullshit, I add, “Just a lil nervous.”
His expression changes. “Because of me?”
“Because of this.”
His gaze drops, then comes back up. “This?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Say it.”
I swallow. Of course he wants me to say it. Why wouldn’t the man who spent all night making me suffer want me to stand in his bedroom and pull the truth out of my own ribs?
“Because I’ve never done this with a man.”
His chest rises.
There.
The world doesn’t end.
The floor doesn’t open.
Elías does not laugh.
He just looks at me like I handed him something breakable, and he knows exactly how much it weighs.
“Okay,” he says softly.
Okay.
One word.
No fireworks.
No judgment.
No joke.
Just okay.
My chest hurts.
He steps away from the door and comes to me, slow enough that I could back up.
I don’t.
He reaches for the hem of my crop top. His fingers brush my stomach first, warm and light, and my muscles jump.
“You still want me?” he asks.
My answer is immediate. “Yes.”
His eyes darken.
“You want to stop?”
“No.”
“You need me to slow down?”
I almost say no because pride is stupid and loud. Then I breathe. “Maybe.”
His mouth curves. “Hey, that’s my word.”
“I hate that word.”
“I know,” he says, lifting my crop top inch by inch, giving me too much time to stop him.
I don’t.
When the fabric reaches my chest, it catches on the silver bars through my nipples. Gets hooked, and Elías makes a small sound, fumbling, and we both freeze as the fabric pulls tight, then releases with a snap.
“Sorry,” he whispers, breathless.
“Don’t apologize, just—”
He touches me with both hands, palms flat to my chest. Thumbs careful around the piercings. I breathe loudly through my nose.
“Quiet,” he whispers.
“You’re not quiet.”
“I’m not the one who groaned last night.”
“You touched me.”
“I’m touching you now.”
He brushes both thumbs over the bars.
My head drops forward.
A sound gets trapped in my throat.
Elías’s smile is slow and terrible. “That’s better.”
I grab his waist. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I earned this.”
“You didn’t earn shit.”
“I got you on your knees at my front door.”
My face heats up and his smile widens.
“Careful,” I say.
“Or what?”
I kiss him because it is safer than answering.
That’s a lie.
Nothing about kissing Elías is safe.
His hands slide around my neck, and he melts into me with a quiet sigh that makes my knees feel unreliable. I back him toward the bed without meaning to. Or maybe I mean to.
His knees hit the mattress.
Elías sits while I stand between his thighs, and he looks up at me.
Soft light from the little lamp catches in his glasses, and his mouth is swollen again.
His neck is marked. His bare thighs bracket my legs, warm against my sweats.
I can see the outline of him through his underwear, hard and thick and obvious.
This should scare me.
It does, but the fear isn’t bigger than the want.
That part is new.
Elías reaches for the waistband of my sweats and hooks one finger there. “Can I?”
I nod.
“Words, papi.”
My breath catches.
He smiles like he knows exactly what that does.
“Yes.”
He pulls me closer and presses his mouth to my stomach.
Not my mouth.
Not my throat.
My stomach.
Right above the waistband, and the kiss is so soft. Tender in the craziest way. My hands go to his hair before I can stop them. He looks up from under his lashes, mouth still against my skin.
“Still nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Still want this?”
“Yes.”
His tongue flicks over the trail of hair below my navel, and my entire spine locks. He makes a pleased little sound and mouths lower.
I grab his hair tighter. “Elías.”
“Shhh, Papi.”
“You’re the problem.”
“Mm-hmm.” He kisses the inside of my hip where the sweats sit low, then looks up at me again. “Tell me what you want.”
The answer in my head is too big. Too much. Too many things.
I want him.
I want his mouth. His hands. His voice in my ear. His legs around me. I want to know what he looks like when he stops being clever. I want to touch him and not apologize for it. I want to be wanted by a man and not turn it into something ugly inside myself.
My voice comes out rough. “You.”
His eyes soften.
I hate that it helps.
He stands suddenly, and his mouth hits mine, hard enough to make me step back.
I grab him. He grabs me. The kiss turns messy fast, all teeth and breath and hands.
His shirt rides up under my palms. Skin.
Heat. Waist. Ribs. The hard lines of him.
His skin is sticky with sweat already from summer heat, and I can taste salt when I kiss his shoulder.
He breaks away, breathing too loud.
“Shirt,” I whisper.
He lifts his arms.
I pull the Raiders shirt over his head.
For a second, all I can do is stare.
Elías Cárdenas, naked except for boxer briefs and glasses, is standing in front of me in a room that smells like laundry, summer heat, and him.
He is beautiful.
Not pretty like people say in comments. Not cute like he hates.