Disarm (What We Don’t Say #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

CALEB

Do you know how hard it is to wake up every morning and pretend you have the perfect life and just go about it like the pain you carry inside doesn’t exist?

No?

I do. That’s my daily grind.

Wake up. Skip breakfast. Shower. Go to class. Basketball practice. Rinse. Repeat.

Keep the mask on. Don’t let them see the cracks.

Except now, I have someone other than my dad and stepmom on my case about everything.

Miguel.

My stepbrother. My everything.

It is easier to believe I deserved him at the cabin over Christmas—just us, the snow, his hands on me, the world shrunk down to a fire and a bed that smelled like him.

I can pretend we existed in our own little universe where stepbrothers weren’t a sin, where no one cared who I kissed, and where I wasn’t the guy with a brain held together by duct tape and denial.

Back here, it’s different. Back here, there’s Dad’s expectations, school emails, coaches watching my stats, and teammates who think they know me. I’m the golden boy with a scholarship, not the guy who got to fall apart in his stepbrother’s arms.

So I tuck all of that away and tell myself he deserves someone who isn’t a walking red flag, someone who doesn’t have to hide in the shadows with him.

I wake up to the buzz of my phone and the soft blue glow of his name on the screen. Our late-night conversation is still open, the last messages a lifeline I keep rereading like scripture.

Caleb

I’m a fucking mess, like, all the damn time.

And a lot to handle.

Miguel

You’re my mess.

And I can handle you, Caleb.

All day.

Now go to sleep.

But I can’t fall asleep for another hour after his last text. I lie there and overanalyzed everything—every word, every pause. I tell myself he deserves someone who isn’t broken. Someone who can walk beside him in daylight. Someone who isn’t me.

The alarm blares again, and I roll out of bed. The dorm’s cold, a chill that bites under your skin even through the thick cotton of my UCSC hoodie. My roommate’s already gone, leaving behind the smell of cheap coffee and the faint thud of the bathroom door down the hall.

I brush my teeth until my gums ache, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection. Red-rimmed eyes. Bruised half-moons beneath them. The kind of face that looks like it’s been awake too long.

“Pull it together,” I whisper.

The mirror doesn’t answer. It never does.

By the time I make it to my first class, my chest’s tight enough that I can feel my pulse in my throat. My therapist reminds me it’s anxiety, not a heart attack, but that doesn’t make it feel less real.

Anxiety is a bitch.

It’s your brain trying to kill you, but it doesn’t quite cut it. So it just repeats over and over until you do something about it, whether that’s medication, therapy, or straight-up raw doggin’ it.

I’ve opted for the second and third options.

I keep my head down, hood up. Take notes that I won’t remember later. Pretend to laugh when someone cracks a joke behind me. Pretend I’m fine.

I’m anything but fine.

Basketball’s supposed to help. Moving until the noise quiets down.

But lately it’s been harder to find that sweet spot—the moment where my body takes over and the thoughts fade.

Today, my legs feel heavy, every sprint dragging.

Coach yells something about keeping my head in the game, but I’m not sure I’ve ever known how.

After practice, I shower, change, and check my phone again.

Miguel

You alive?

I smile despite myself. He always knows when to ask.

Caleb

Barely. Coach killed us today. Sprints are the bane of my existence.

Miguel

He can try. You’re still faster than all of them.

Caleb

You haven’t seen me lately.

My brother—the track star—would laugh at how winded I get from fifteen-minute sprints.

Miguel

I don’t need to. I know you.

Three words. I know you.

Sometimes they terrify me. And sometimes they are the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Today is one of those days where falling apart would feel pretty damn good. I know I can’t, though.

The drive back to the dorm is quiet. Late afternoon fog’s rolling in from the coast, smothering the campus in pale gray.

It’s my favorite kind of weather, the kind that makes the world feel smaller, softer, like it’s holding its breath.

It’s one reason I chose this school, other than it being super close to my dad and Celeste.

I had scholarships to a few schools out of state for basketball, but I wanted to stay close to home.

I needed to.

My phone buzzes again before I reach the steps.

Miguel

Come over for dinner. Mom came over earlier and brought way too much food.

It’s an excuse, but I take it anyway.

Caleb

Okay.

I tell myself it’s because I haven’t eaten, but we both know it’s because I need to see him. Need to know the world hasn’t ended since the last time he touched me.

That we haven’t ended. Because even though I won’t say it out loud, he’s my world.

Miguel’s condo is fifteen minutes from campus, in an older complex that always smells like sea air and cut grass. His truck’s parked out front, gleaming under the streetlight.

He opens the door before I can even knock.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, steady, and familiar enough to make something unclench in my chest. He looks tired, with grease still on his hands and work boots still on, but he smiles when he sees me.

“You look like hell.”

“Love you too,” I say, stepping inside.

The apartment’s warm. Spanish music hums softly from the kitchen, the smell of onions and cilantro thick in the air. Celeste must’ve stocked his fridge, there’s always good food here. Always warmth.

She’s offered to bring me meals, especially when she noticed I wasn’t eating. She never believed my “I’m cutting weight” excuses. My stepmother has been in my life long enough to know when I’m lying.

Miguel hands me a bowl of frijoles de la olla before I can protest. “Eat first, overthink later.”

He knows me all too well.

I grin, small but real, and sit at the counter. Looking at the bowl in front of me, I think to myself that this is one of my favorite things his mom makes. It’s simple. But it was the first thing she fed me when I came to live with them after what happened.

He doesn’t know that, though.

Miguel leans against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes soft. Watching me.

“Stop staring,” I mutter between bites of rice.

“Can’t.” He smirks. “You’re cute when you pretend you don’t like it.”

I roll my eyes but don’t look away.

For a second, it feels normal, like two brothers teasing each other in a kitchen. Then his hand brushes against mine when he takes the empty bowl, and everything shifts. The air tightens.

He doesn’t touch me again, but the look in his eyes says enough.

It says, “I’m here.”

It says, “I haven’t changed my mind.”

It says, “You’re mine even if we can’t say it out loud.”

“Do you wanna talk?”

I let out a sigh. “Not really.”

Miguel’s back is to me as he washes the dish at the sink, but I can see the tension in his back. He’s trying so hard to respect my space. I love him for that.

“I need a shower. Today was pretty rough at work.” He turns around and leans against the counter. “If I take one real quick, will you still be here when I get out?”

I shrug. Probably not.

“Come on,” he says, already moving towards the hallway. “You’re taking one with me then.” I don’t argue. Arguing would be pointless, especially when all I want is his hands on my body. He disappears down the hall, not waiting to see if I’ll follow.

I do.

The sound of the shower starts before I reach the doorway. Steam curls into the air, softening the edges of everything—light, sound, and thought. Miguel’s shirt hits the floor just as I step inside the bathroom. He doesn’t look at me right away, just reaches into the stall to test the water.

“Want me to turn it down?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No.”

He turns then. His eyes find mine, dark and steady. It’s a look that says, “I’ve got you, even when you don’t know how to have yourself.”

For a second, neither of us moves. Then his hand reaches out, slow and careful, and brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead. My chest aches from how gentle it is.

“Clothes off,” he murmurs. “You’ll feel better once the heat hits you.”

He says it like a promise, not a command. Still, it sends a shiver down my spine.

By the time I step into the shower, the room’s fogged up enough to blur everything but him. Water runs down his shoulders, tracing muscle and ink, catching light. I stand there, useless, naked, my soul bared to only him.

Miguel reaches for me again, fingers sliding around my wrist, guiding me under the spray. The heat burns first, then soothes, until my body remembers how to open itself up and just breathe.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You good?”

I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s true.

He doesn’t call me out on it, even though he knows it’s a lie. He just steps closer, enough that I can feel the warmth of him even through the steam. His hands find my face, thumbs brushing over the bruised shadows under my eyes.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he says quietly.

“Trying to.”

“Liar.”

A smile flickers and dies on my lips. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Not easy,” he says, “just not something you have to do alone. Stay here, Caleb. Fuck the dorms.”

Something inside me breaks at that. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the quiet, inevitable give of something that’s been held too tight for too long.

I lean forward until my forehead rests against his chest. Water pounds against my back. His heart beats against my skin. A rhythm that’s soothing to my tired brain.

“Don’t let me fall apart,” I whisper.

He wraps his arms around me. “Then don’t hold it in. I’ll be right here to pick up the pieces if you do.”

So I don’t.

It all comes out in small, broken chunks, half sentences, and the things I never get to talk to anyone about.

How hard school’s been on my mental health, the struggle with being the perfect son.

All of it. Miguel doesn’t interrupt me. He just holds me there, steady and solid, while the shower keeps running, washing away everything I can’t keep inside anymore.

When I finally look up, his eyes are glassy. He presses a kiss to my temple. Not demanding. Not hungry for more. Just there.

“I told you,” he says softly. “You’re my mess. You can talk to me about anything. Will you stay here tonight? Please, Caleb.”

I want to.

But I can’t.

I lay my head back on his chest and shake my head.

“Just… consider it, baby. I want you here. There is plenty of space.”

When I finally leave, the fog’s heavier, the night quiet.

I sit in my car with the engine off, watching the light fade in his window.

A part of me wishes I would have just stayed the night.

Falling asleep in his arms sounds way better than sleeping alone in my dorm room with the weighted blanket that smells like him.

I should feel better.

I should feel full.

Instead, there’s an ache under my ribs, the kind that never really leaves.

I pull out my phone.

Caleb

Thanks for dinner.

And the talk.

Miguel

Anytime. Text me when you’re home.

Caleb

I will.

Miguel

Good. I like knowing you’re safe.

I stare at the last message until the screen goes dark.

Safe.

If he only knew how far from that I really am.