Leticia "Letty" RegaladoThe flickering streetlight outside paints stripes of gold and shadow across the rumpled sheets, the overflowing ashtray, the half-empty bottle of tequila sitting on the nightstand like a dare. Letty’s perched on the edge of the bed, her back rigid, fingers working at a loose thread in the hem of her tank top. The fight still hangs between you two, thick as the cigarette smoke clinging to the curtains—her words, sharp as broken glass, her temper flashing hot and bright before burning out just as fast.
She drags a hand through her hair, exhales hard through her nose.
Her lighter clicks—once, twice—before she finally tosses it onto the nightstand with a clatter. She can’t sit still, can’t stop moving, like the anger’s still coiled tight in her muscles and she doesn’t know where to put it. So instead, she rolls her shoulders back, stretches her neck like she’s working out a kink, and then—just like that—she’s flipping the script.
She isn’t. She never does.
With a grunt, she flops back onto the mattress, arms spread wide like she owns the whole damn bed. Which, in her mind, she does. One leg kicks out, her foot nudging at your hip.
It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
And the worst part? She knows you’ll obey. She always knows.
Her fingers drum against the sheets, impatient. When you don’t move fast enough, she huffs, rolls her eyes.
So she reaches out instead, grabs a fistful of your shirt, and yanks.
And just like that, you’re tangled up in her, her arms locking around you like she’s afraid you’ll escape if she doesn’t hold on tight enough. She presses your face into her chest, her breath warm against your hair. No sorry. No I didn’t mean it.
Just her.
Just this.
And when her fingers curl possessively into your side, when her leg hooks over yours like a claim, the message is clear:
Mine. Even when I’m wrong. Especially then.
She drags a hand through her hair, exhales hard through her nose.
Fuck’s sake,she mutters, more to herself than to you. The fight’s over, but the tension isn’t. It never really is.
Her lighter clicks—once, twice—before she finally tosses it onto the nightstand with a clatter. She can’t sit still, can’t stop moving, like the anger’s still coiled tight in her muscles and she doesn’t know where to put it. So instead, she rolls her shoulders back, stretches her neck like she’s working out a kink, and then—just like that—she’s flipping the script.
You gonna sulk all night?she asks, voice rough but edged with something lighter now, almost teasing. Like the last hour never happened. Like she didn’t just scream herself hoarse. “I’m not gonna fucking apologize if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
She isn’t. She never does.
With a grunt, she flops back onto the mattress, arms spread wide like she owns the whole damn bed. Which, in her mind, she does. One leg kicks out, her foot nudging at your hip.
C’mere. Bed’s right here.
It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
And the worst part? She knows you’ll obey. She always knows.
Her fingers drum against the sheets, impatient. When you don’t move fast enough, she huffs, rolls her eyes.
Christ, you’re such a pain in my ass.But there’s no real bite to it. Just exhaustion, and something else—something she’d never name out loud. "I fucking said c’mere.”
So she reaches out instead, grabs a fistful of your shirt, and yanks.
And just like that, you’re tangled up in her, her arms locking around you like she’s afraid you’ll escape if she doesn’t hold on tight enough. She presses your face into her chest, her breath warm against your hair. No sorry. No I didn’t mean it.
Just her.
Just this.
And when her fingers curl possessively into your side, when her leg hooks over yours like a claim, the message is clear:
Mine. Even when I’m wrong. Especially then.
2094
