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Nacho’s had a lot of experience with deception. When he was a kid he used to lie to his parents about where he had been after school, and he came home and acted sober, and he hid small amounts of pot under his bed frame. Later on, he lied to his dad about what his job was and where he got his money and he continued to lie, through his teeth, even though they both knew the truth.

For years, he lied to Tuco about where he had been, when he was meeting for some business on the side. He stood up to the man’s ‘lie detector’ without much fear, knowing that he held little control over whether or not Tuco would decide to shoot him point-blank.

He’s lied to the police and to Hector and to Tuco’s cousins and none of it scares him much anymore. He got bold with it sometimes, staring down Tuco and thinking to himself, You fucking idiot. The crystal makes you so paranoid you can hardly think straight and yet you trust me. He visited Hector in the hospital and prayed at his bedside—praying for some luck, praying to finish the job.

Maybe Nacho’s the worst type of person—a disloyal snake, a dog that bites the hand that feeds it—but he doesn’t see much choice. The Salamancas have always had a self-defeating leadership style. They bring it upon themselves.

The equation shifts when Lalo shows up.

He doesn’t have to lie to Lalo’s face very often, and technically he hasn’t even done anything traitorous yet. He does everything Lalo asks him to do, dutifully—knowing that one day he’ll gain the key piece of information that he’ll report back to Fring and the dominos will fall. But so far: nothing.

Still. Sometimes he’s so worried Lalo knows that it makes him feel sick. He’s sure Lalo would continue to act just like this if he did know, or suspect. He’d continue toying with him, shaving layers away with his piercing gaze and devilish grin.

Lalo truly never shuts the fuck up.

Nacho’s sitting with him up in the hills, looking down at the distribution center below. Trucks trickle in and out through the gate and Lalo watches through binoculars, occasionally jotting something down and adding to the tally: trucks in, trucks out. The entire time he hums and sings to himself, some old Mexican ballads that remind Nacho of what his dad plays on the radio in the back room of his shop.

Nacho isn’t exactly sure why he’s here, but he has a pair of binoculars and a notepad too, so he watches and tallies. Trucks in, trucks out. Lalo’s goal is to estimate how much product Fring could move via his fleet of trucks and then see whether that aligns with how much he’s telling the bosses he’s moving. Tonight, Nacho will have to call Tyrus and tell him that.

But for now, he tries not to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about those things when he’s in Lalo’s presence. Tries to fully commit himself to the part of a loyal underling.

Nacho’s eyes start to go slightly crossed from the binoculars so he pulls back and blinks a few times. His gaze falls on Lalo’s hands, as he scribbles something in his notebook, resting against his thigh.

“Left handed?” Nacho says.

Lalo glances up. “Hmm?”

“You’re left handed?” Nacho says again.

“Oh, yeah,” Lalo says. “Write with my left, shoot with my right.”

Nacho raises his eyebrows. “Good to know.”

Lalo laughs. “Is it good to know?” And he goes back to humming, leaning forward to peer through the binoculars. “This is making me want chicken again. You want chicken for lunch, Ignacio?”

“Sure,” Nacho says.

“Not this crap, though,” he says, gesturing toward the Pollos Hermanos trucks in the distance. “I’ll make something.”

Nacho often finds himself disgusted by Lalo’s cheery demeanor. It seems mocking; he hangs around his inferiors, throwing his feet carelessly on the table and terrorizing them with his smiles. There’s something cowardly about it, too, something that makes Nacho’s blood boil. Lalo knows he doesn’t have to explicitly threaten or intimidate people to get what he wants and he seems to take too much pleasure in pretending to be a nice guy.

He thinks of the first time they met, how Lalo let himself into the kitchen, blaring his music, acting like he was Nacho’s friend, knowing how it all must come across, but still smiling. He loves that shit. It’s a form of sadism, probably—seeing how far he can push things before it has to get violent. Later Nacho asked Domingo what happened when Lalo first showed up at El Mich. Apparently he held off telling them he was a Salamanca for some time, letting things escalate, letting the guys get suspicious. “When will Ignacio be here?” he asked again and again, instead of telling them who he was. “You know Ignacio?” Domingo asked, and Lalo had smiled like a cat and said, “Not yet.” No wonder the guys seemed scared shitless by the time Nacho arrived.

Nacho feels it’d be kinder to cut to the chase. Was there something merciful about Tuco in that sense, letting you know right from the start what you were in for? Tuco may have been unpredictable but he was also, in Nacho’s experience, not that bright. As long as they were talking, Nacho could keep things under control. Tuco could be flattered, appealed to, manipulated. A conversation with Lalo, on the other hand, has him feeling completely out of his depth.

Lalo and Fring are more similar than they are different, he thinks. He wishes they would just kill each other and leave him out of it. They both play a game of decorum and seem to enjoy it. Maybe you can’t get that far up the ladder if people sense your disdain for it. They can probably sense Nacho’s disdain for it, which is why he’s always been shut out. Fring and Lalo are comfortable with their power, settled into it, wearing it like a well-tailored suit. They’re both scary enough that they rarely have to remind anyone of it.

Nacho wonders if he had met Lalo just a year earlier if he would have liked him, admired him, aspired to be like him. Maybe the real reason he resents Lalo is not some kind of moral disgust, but envy. Lalo’s family and business interests are perfectly aligned, one and the same. He’s never had to make a choice between the two.

That’s probably why he’s so fucking happy all the time.

Lalo either likes to have company or he likes to keep Nacho in his sight. Maybe both. Most of Nacho’s days are spent chauffeuring him around, eating meals together, watching Lalo tinker on cars in the garage.

They’re there today, Lalo up to his elbows in the guts of a 1970 Monte Carlo. Nacho knows a thing or two about cars but it’s quickly apparent that Lalo knows more about what’s under the hood. Still, he’s a competent assistant. For a moment it reminds him of helping out at his dad’s shop, a thought that he immediately forces from his mind, disgusted by the comparison.

Lalo asks him where he learned about cars, ostensibly harmless small talk, but Nacho just says, “Here and there,” hoping that his usual reticence will disguise the instances when he’s actually being withholding.

For Lalo, this has clearly always been a hobby. His hands are streaked with oil now but Nacho knows that as soon as he washes them they’ll be clean again, un-calloused.

“Your father owns a vehicle upholstery shop, yes?” Lalo asks him. “A-Z? On Zuni?”

Nacho nods. Stupid of him to hope there was some way Lalo didn’t already know.

Lalo smiles at him. His brow is sweaty and creased, sleeves rolled past his elbows. “So you learned from him.”

It’s not a question. Bristling, Nacho says, “We only work on the interiors.”

“Okay, okay,” Lalo says, laughing like he doesn’t quite buy it. “Let me know what you think of the leather, then. Maybe we can stop by after this.”

Slowly Nacho opens the driver’s door and leans in, looking at the seats and the stitching. The leather’s in near-perfect condition, age only having softened it. He can already hear his dad trying to talk Lalo out of it. What a waste, a vintage car like this, to tear out the original leather when it’s in such great condition.

He closes the door and tries to explain this to Lalo, who immediately starts shushing him. “No, no, no, it’s fine. I like supporting family businesses.”

On the drive over, Nacho feels sick. He thought this type of intimidation was finally over. Fring has his own coldly calculating approach, using his dad as a bargaining chip, but Nacho didn’t miss the humiliation of this type of direct confrontation. Lalo’s going to waltz into his father’s shop looking cartoonishly like a member of the cartel, Nacho at his side, laughing and winking and dolling out hundreds of dollars cash. He might introduce himself as a Salamanca, but even if he doesn’t, his dad will connect the dots.

Now, Lalo hums and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. He hasn’t asked for any directions. He knows the way. Nacho hasn’t been this angry at him since they met.

When the store is within sight Nacho can’t stand it anymore and he says, imploringly, “Just… be subtle. Please. It’s a legitimate business.”

Lalo scoffs, looking mildly offended. “I would never do something to jeopardize your father’s business. What do you take me for?”

“Sorry,” Nacho mutters. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be so nervous,” he tells him, and pulls into the parking lot.

It’s not busy, which is a saving grace. Inside the office, Manuel Varga stands behind the desk, checking orders. His eyes flick up when the door opens and as soon as Nacho meets his gaze he remembers that he has not one but two wildcards in this situation. He was so worried about what Lalo would do that he forgot his father is stupidly, honorably brave and is liable to say something to get them both killed.

Nacho approaches the counter, Lalo trailing him, and silently begs his father to just play along. “Papá,” he greets him. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Eduardo.”

Lalo reaches across the desk to shake Manuel’s hand. “Call me Lalo.”

Nacho watches as his dad takes in Lalo’s expensive clothes, the huge belt buckle and boots, and the car they arrived in, parked just outside.

“I’ve heard great things about your work,” Lalo says, leaning with his elbows against the counter now. “Had to come see for myself.”

He speaks to Manuel in Spanish, with a similar Mexican accent, not like Nacho’s Americanized dialect. Before his dad can respond, Nacho asks, “Should we go take a look?” and nods out to the parking lot. The more this can stay focused on the task at hand, the better.

His father looks at him for a long moment and Nacho, cowardly, does not quite meet his eye. They go to the parking lot where Lalo swings the door open.

Manuel takes one look and immediately, predictably, starts fretting. “This leather is in such good condition. And the stitching… It’s high quality. It’d be a shame to replace it.”

“I told him that,” Nacho says, arms crossed.

There’s a beat of silence, Lalo grinning his wide, empty grin. Then he claps his hands together and says, “Well, you’re the expert. Is there anything else I can get done? I’d love to patronize your shop while I’m in town.”

“Maybe some detail work?” Nacho suggests quickly. “Embroidery?”

“Great idea, Nachito—maybe an ‘ES’ on the headrest, something like that. My initials,” he adds with a wink at Manuel. “Take your artistic liberty with it, eh? We’ll pick it up tomorrow morning.”

Lalo tosses his keys to Manuel and strides off across the parking lot. After shooting an apologetic, pleading look at his father, Nacho follows him.

“Now we don’t have a way out of here. Should’ve planned this better,” Lalo says, hands on his hips. “It’s okay, I’ll call a ride for us.”

While they wait to be picked up, Lalo says, “Your papá. Seems like a good guy.”

“He is,” Nacho says, feeling grit in his throat.

They’re brought to Lalo’s place and Nacho isn’t sure if he’s allowed to leave. He doesn’t have his own car, still parked at the garage. Lalo starts making dinner and pulls two beers from the fridge so that’s Nacho’s signal to take off his jacket, settle in. He’ll be here for a while.

“You like chiles rellenos?” Lalo asks him as he tosses a few poblanos directly onto the gas range. Their waxy green skins begin to bubble and blister, turning black.

“Yeah,” Nacho says. “Thanks. Need any help?”

“Nah, it’s quick.” Lalo collects the rest of the ingredients, cheese and eggs from the fridge, and gets a shallow pan of oil heating on the stove. “You just have to keep me company. I’ve been here for a week already and no one’s taken me to a good Mexican restaurant yet. Can you believe that? It’s just like home, they said. No. Nothing compares to my housekeeper Yolanda’s cooking. If I ever get you down there, you’ll see.”

Nacho says, “Yeah, maybe.”

Lalo starts vigorously hand-whisking egg whites in a bowl, his forearm flexed, and Nacho has a sudden vision of a competitive baking show, the type of thing Amber puts on the TV when she’s hungry but too high to cook anything more complicated than mac and cheese. He can picture Lalo decorating a cake, his steady hand piping a line of icing around the rim.

“So, I’ve been here a week,” Lalo continues, “and I’m wondering. What do your guys think?”

Nacho pauses, taking a sip of his beer. “About what?”

“About what?” Lalo repeats, in an approximation of Nacho’s monotone. “About me. Do they say anything to you?” Lalo adds the yolks to the bowl and keeps whisking, the batter turning pale yellow. Sensing Nacho’s hesitation, he looks up and smiles. “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me who said what. It’s anonymous. I just wanna know.”

“Nobody really says anything,” Nacho says. The egg batter now whipped to a fluffy mound, he watches as Lalo picks up the knife to cut a slit in each of the charred and skinned poblanos, peeling the flesh back to scoop out the stringy guts and seeds.

“¿De verdad? New guy shows up, the old boss’s nephew, and nobody says anything?”

“Not to me.”

“Okay, okay.” Lalo clearly doesn’t buy it. He stuffs the peppers’ cavities with chunks of Oaxaca cheese and uses toothpicks to sew them back together.

“You know everyone’s terrified of you, right?” Nacho blurts. “And the nice guy act, it doesn’t help.”

Lalo glances sharply up, and for once, stops what he’s doing.

Nacho sighs, considers shutting up and not digging this hole deeper, but… “I mean, Domingo let you win at poker the other night. I’m just saying, it doesn’t help to have a boss who everybody’s afraid to challenge. It leads to secrecy, and…” Nacho swallows hard and lets the sentence stay unfinished.

Lalo waits a beat, staring, until it’s clear that Nacho isn’t continuing. “Are you terrified of me?”

Nacho gives it a moment’s consideration. “No.”

He thinks it’s true. He feels a certain amount of resentment toward Lalo, some trepidation and annoyance, and he has trouble reading him, but he doesn’t feel real fear when he’s around him. Nothing like the bone-deep, chilling effect Fring’s presence has on him.

Lalo smiles. “And you’re not afraid to challenge me.”

“I guess not,” Nacho says, refusing to return the smile.

“So, your men talk to you, and you can talk to me. Right?” Lalo says. “Chain of command?”

Nacho agrees, relaxing by a degree. Maybe Lalo’s right; if he’s only here temporarily it doesn’t really matter what his guys think of him. And if Lalo trusts Nacho to have things under control he can’t be planning to hang around too much longer.

“What did you say?” Lalo asks then, the amused smile growing on his face. “‘Nice guy act’?”

Nacho winces. “I…”

“You think it’s an act?”

Nacho shrugs: Isn’t it?

“Escúchame, Ignacio…” Lalo waves him in, turning away from his work as he wipes his hands on a towel. Nacho takes a hesitant step forward, around the edge of the counter, and Lalo’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Any day, any moment, I could be shot in the head, and that would be that. A lot of people want to kill me. I grew up like this. After a while, it’s background noise. All of this… it’s not that serious. We make a million dollars, or we don’t. The cops arrest some street dealers or they don’t. You know what I mean? At the end of the day, if I’m still alive, it’s all…” He waves a hand. “It’s all fine.”

“It makes a big difference to the street dealer,” Nacho says, his skin prickling, thinking about Domingo sitting in jail as they speak.

Lalo laughs. “Bleeding heart, eh? I see big things for you, Ignacio. But you have to detach a little. You’ll wear yourself out caring so much.”

With that, Lalo slaps his shoulder and turns away, going back to work.

The point of contact seems to burn and Nacho thinks: You should’ve seen who I used to be. You would’ve liked that version of me. Before your family did this to me.

Lalo coats the stuffed peppers in the egg batter and fries them on the stove. “There’s salsa in the fridge,” he says to Nacho, nodding his head, and Nacho goes to retrieve it.

They eat at the kitchen counter, sitting on barstools, mostly in silence. When they’re done, and without being asked, Nacho collects the dishes and begins to wash them. It’s a transparent attempt to make up for his earlier insubordination, but Lalo seems appreciative.

Lalo opens another two beers for them, leaving Nacho’s on the counter, and when he’s done with the dishes, Nacho stares at it, knowing it means he’s expected to stay.

“Do you want me to stay the night?” Nacho asks him and Lalo’s eyebrows quirk in amusement. “For security,” he clarifies. “While you sleep.”

“Eh, I don’t sleep much,” Lalo says dismissively. “You’re free to do whatever you want.” As he says it, he gestures at the open beer bottle.

Nacho doesn’t feel free. He takes the beer and follows Lalo to the adjoined living room where he takes a chair as Lalo sits in the direct center of the couch. This house is small and unassuming, sparsely furnished. It’s not as protected as Nacho’s place—no high walls or alarm system—which tells him this house is not well known. He’ll have to report this back to Fring. He tries to recall the nearest cross street and the house number. He can check again when he leaves.

For now, he tries to put the thought from his mind, worried it might show on his face.

“What exactly do you see for me?” Nacho asks him, since that’s what an ambitious lieutenant might ask over dinner and drinks with the boss. “Big things?”

“Well, you’ve been running things since Hector’s stroke right?” Lalo says. “I’d rather not move here—no offense—and my cousins, I love ‘em, but they aren’t the leadership types, you know? Not so charismatic. But you, you’re good. And you’re not soft either. I heard what you did to some kid who tried to short you. And your friend, too? That’s tough. You need to make tough decisions to be a leader.”

Nacho feels bile begin to rise in his throat. “Did Don Hector tell you that?”

“No, no. Heard it from one of your guys.”

Now Nacho goes still, processing this, trying to figure out who might have told him—and Lalo must have expected the stunned reaction. He laughs. “I’ve asked them about you. Don’t worry, they all like you. Even the one you beat to a pulp at El Mich.”

He laughs again, sickeningly.

And Nacho, maybe worn down by the hours and hours he’s spent in Lalo’s presence this past week, with no end in sight, snaps. He says in a low voice, “That isn’t fucking funny.”

There’s a long beat of silence and Nacho stares straight ahead. Lalo leans forward and puts his beer on the coffee table, a clink of glass against glass, before he settles back against the couch cushions, still maintaining his casual poise. Nacho’s heart jumps to his throat.

Lalo says, “You don’t like me, do you?”

Nacho doesn’t answer. He’s going to die. He’s going to die and the last time he saw his papá it was to bring another cartel man to his shop, to ask him to go against his morals yet again.

“Look at me,” Lalo says, and Nacho obeys, meeting his eyes. Lalo doesn’t seem angry, but he never does. “I like you, Ignacio.”

Nacho grits out, “You don’t know me.”

“What don’t I know about you?” Lalo asks. “I know you grew up here. I know your papá doesn’t approve of what you do. I know you think you’re better than me because even though we do the same things, you let it tear you up inside. You think that makes you better than me. Right? What else do I need to know?”

Nacho feels some hysterical emotion welling up in his chest but he’s not going to let it show and he’s certainly not going to beg Lalo to spare him. All he says is, “Don Lalo, I’m sorry if I’ve disrespected you.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lalo scoffs. “I’m not angry with you. Look, my tío… He’s a little obsessed with respect, you know? It can be a detriment to business. I’ve told him that. And Tuco, he’d smash your skull in if you looked at him sideways. And you saw where that landed him. I’m more restrained. You can relax.”

Nacho does not relax.

“I think respect goes both ways,” Lalo says. “How can we work together if we don’t respect each other?”

Nacho’s probably not going to die tonight. He’s starting to realize this, but it doesn’t bring him much comfort. “I do respect you,” he tells Lalo.

“Hmm.” Lalo smooths his thumb over one side of his mustache for a moment, watching Nacho. “You had just been promoted by default, you were doing a fine job, and then I showed up and started stepping on toes. Yeah?”

It’s darkly funny that Lalo thinks that’s why Nacho is upset but it’s a reasonable explanation so he doesn’t refute it. “I liked the freedom,” he admits, even truer than it sounds.

“I bet you did. You worked hard to get here. How about this: You are in control over all day to day operations. You report to me, but it’s your decision. Okay?”

Nacho nods. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“And you don’t have to be so formal with me,” Lalo says, either completely unaware of his station or pretending to be, to lull Nacho into a false sense of security. He puts his hands on his knees, poised to stand up. “Do you like sotol?”

Back at the kitchen counter, Lalo pours them two shallow glasses of the golden liquor and toasts, “To your promotion. Officially.”

The sotol is earthy and vegetal, slightly sweet, and draws a warm line down his throat to his stomach as Nacho takes a first sip. “Mm.”

“You like it? I invest in this distillery, in Chihuahua. They do great work.”

Nacho can’t help but chuckle a little at that. Of course he does.

“It’s a legitimate investment,” Lalo continues, smiling warmly. “Got to do some good with this money, right? Can’t let the ‘nice guy’ thing just be an act.”

Nacho can tell he’s being teased, but he can’t quite place how friendly it is. He laughs, playing along. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Nobody’s ever said something like that to me before,” he says, still grinning, his mustache twitching as he tries to get it under control enough to take a sip of his drink.

Nacho feels a slight thrill at that; maybe he likes to think he’s special, smarter and bolder than the guys Lalo typically has working under him. Or maybe he’s falling for Lalo’s flattery assault.

“You think it’s true?” he prompts, testing where the line is by teasing back.

Lalo downs the rest of his sotol, screwing up his face as he swallows. He pours himself another glass and gestures for Nacho’s. “I don’t know. Maybe. Does it matter?”

The beers and the sotol, thrown back quickly, are starting to have an effect on Nacho. He doesn’t use much anymore and he doesn’t drink a lot unless he’s in a situation like this, and he forgets sometimes: he really likes this stage of being drunk, when everything’s a bit fuzzy but the thread of his jeans against his thighs feels more distinct, the rushing of blood through his ears louder and sharper. It’s like stepping fully into his body after being away.

It also makes him want nothing more than to drink a little bit more, so he knocks the rest of the sotol back and lets Lalo top him off.

“That’s it,” Lalo encourages, steadying Nacho’s hand with his own as he pours.

While they drink, standing around the kitchen island, Lalo asks him, “Do you like it here?” his nose wrinkled in anticipation of the answer.

“It’s a place. Gotta live somewhere.”

“No, no, no,” Lalo says, seemingly heartbroken. “A place can have a real soul. It makes you feel connected, you know? Does Albuquerque make you feel connected?” He relishes the four syllables of Albuquerque the way only a non-native can.

Nacho doesn’t feel like defending the only home he’s ever known so instead, he turns it back on Lalo, his eyes falling on the man’s forearm, resting on the countertop. “Why do you have a ying yang tattoo? Don’t tell me you’re trying to reach Nirvana.”

“Yin yang,” Lalo says immediately, emphatically. “Yin. Ignacio, please. It’s about… balance. Light and dark, you know?” He throws an obnoxious wink and then after a second, he cracks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I thought it looked cool in the artist’s book. I was a kid.”

Nacho can’t help but laugh, his shoulders shaking. “You as a kid,” he says, sort of nonsensically, but the thought amuses him.

“What’s the story with this?” Lalo asks, as his hand flies up to Nacho’s ear, fingers tugging on the earring in one lobe.

Instinctively, Nacho’s hand rises to mirror Lalo’s, and he slowly drops it, fingers trailing down Lalo’s wrist. “Um. Not much story.” He forces a laugh, hoarse. All of his senses heightened, he can feel Lalo’s fingertips brushing against the fine hairs on his earlobe. “I’m scared of snakes. It’s kind of a joke.”

“Hmm.” Lalo’s hand stays there, dropping slightly to rest against the back of his neck, thumb on his jaw. “You take the thing you’re scared of and keep it close.”

Nacho’s about eye-level with Lalo’s chin and he doesn’t lift his gaze to try to get a better read on this. Maybe this makes sense. Lalo sort of kidnapped him today, technically, cooked for him, gave him booze. I like you, Ignacio.

And maybe the reason why Nacho’s getting through the night unscathed is less to do with his leadership potential and more to do with, well, this. He remembers what Lalo said earlier, his professed life philosophy: as long as he’s still alive at the end of the day, what difference does the rest make? Maybe there’s some wisdom in that.

Lalo’s fingers tighten on the back of his neck, a slight tug forward, and Nacho feels it in his spine.

He thinks, You’re not afraid to challenge me.

Nacho puts his hand firmly against Lalo’s stomach, making a fist. He doesn’t push away, just holds his distance. “You see big things for me, huh?”

“Mhmm,” Lalo hums, pulling his hand forward, under his chin, running against the grain of Nacho’s stubble.

“And you’re not just flattering me so I’ll let you fuck me?”

Lalo smirks. “You would let me fuck you if I flattered you?” His other hand finds Nacho’s hip, tugging on his belt loop.

Nacho stays rooted in place, letting Lalo come to him instead. He decides that all he really wants from this is to feel that it isn’t only about Lalo finding a convenient warm body, but maybe it’s a little bit about Nacho, being compelling enough that Lalo does something he doesn’t usually do.

It’s embarrassing how quickly he concocts the fantasy—the circumstances under which he’d be okay with this. Into this, even. He’s not treated like a prize very often. If people want him, it’s only for what he can provide. He’s sick of being a means to an ends.

So he steps in and presses his hip flush to Lalo’s groin.

“I thought so,” Lalo says, as he moves to push Nacho against the kitchen counter, forcing one knee between his legs. It’s rough enough that it makes him gasp, holding onto Lalo’s forearms to steady him. Lalo rucks his hands up inside Nacho’s shirt and says, “Your body,” breath hot against his ear.

Something in his tone makes Nacho shiver—lust and admiration, but there’s a darker shade of envy under the surface. Lalo wants something that he might not be able to have.

Feeling heady with power, Nacho begins to push forward, walking Lalo backwards toward the couch, but Lalo redirects them to the bedroom, hands on his hips until Nacho’s back hits the mattress. It moves quickly from there. Lalo barely gets undressed, just shoving his jeans down his thighs. When he pushes in, Nacho screws his eyes shut, exhaling hard through his nose. Lalo starts to move and Nacho’s body adjusts, and he feels more emboldened and defiant than he’s felt since Lalo arrived, thinking, You have no idea, do you? while Lalo bites at his neck, breathing heavy.

When Nacho wakes up, Lalo is already dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. Nacho blinks at him, clearing the sleep from his eyes. It must still be early, judging from the muted gray light peeking through the blinds.

“We have a big day ahead of us,” Lalo tells him. “Let’s pick up my car.”

Nacho gets dressed in his clothes from yesterday, having no other choice, and Lalo calls a ride. They arrive to the upholstery shop right as it’s opening, and Nacho sees the Monte Carlo sitting in the lot. Lalo peers in the windows, cupping his hands around his eyes to shield from the sun.

“Ay, it looks good. I’ll be riding in style.”

Inside the office, an employee is at the front desk, and Lalo glances around, asks Nacho, “Where’s papá?” but he doesn’t push it. He pays, thumbing through the wad of hundreds in his wallet and tipping generously.

Back in the parking lot, Lalo opens the door and takes a closer look, whistling his approval.

There’s a metal clanging as the garage door opens and Nacho looks up, seeing his father inside. Lalo seems distracted for the moment, so Nacho takes a few steps toward him.

Manuel holds his hand up, and Nacho stops in his tracks. “Do not do this to me anymore,” he says, quiet but firm.

Nacho feels awash with shame, knowing it doesn’t matter that he had no choice—knowing that he always has a choice. Knowing now that he could’ve pushed harder yesterday, that Lalo might’ve listened to him if he put his foot down. Might’ve respected him for it. Knowing that he can’t take it back now.

Before he can say anything to his father, Lalo descends on them, swooping past Nacho to offer a hand to Manuel. “Señor, bien hecho. Great work.”

Manuel shakes his hand, but his expression remains steely. “Don’t come here again,” he says, chin held high as he makes eye contact with Lalo and looking so small next to him.

Nacho can’t see Lalo’s face from where he stands, but he sees that he stops shaking Manuel’s hand for a moment, holding still. Then he squeezes once and drops his hand, glancing back at Nacho, a grin splitting his face. “He’s fiery, eh?” And to Manuel, “I see where your son gets it from. I’ll respect your wishes. You won’t see me again.”

He turns on his heel and walks past Nacho, back to the car.

Nacho lets his breath out, feeling hesitant relief, and looks at his dad. His dad seems more sad than angry and Nacho holds the eye contact as long as he can before he hears the car start behind him and Lalo call out the window, “Ignacio! Come on!”

His dad turns away first, disappearing inside the garage, maybe knowing what Nacho will choose and not wanting to wait around to see it.

Nacho turns to go to the car.