Chapter 2
TWO
MIGUEL
The apartment feels wrong after he leaves.
It’s too quiet. Too still. Silence that hums under your skin until you can’t ignore it anymore. The only silence I want is his.
I clean the rest of the dishes in the sink even though there are only three. Wipe the counters. Rinse the sink twice. It doesn’t matter. It's his voice that still lingers in the air. That soft, tired laugh he gave me when he told me I made things sound easy.
He doesn’t get it.
Nothing about loving him is easy. But I would rather struggle through loving him than not have him at all.
He is worth it. Even when he doesn’t believe it.
The shower’s still damp when I walk back into the bathroom. Steam ghosts over the mirror. His scent lingers in the air—soap and sweat and something faintly metallic, the way rain smells when it hits warm pavement. My throat tightens. I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles ache.
He looked better tonight. Still pale, still too thin, but he ate. He let me touch him. That’s something. But I know the difference between holding him and saving him, and I’m not na?ve enough to think I’ve done the latter.
I dry the mirror with a towel and catch my own reflection. My eyes are bloodshot from the day. Hair damp, shirt still clinging from the humidity. I look older than twenty-three, like someone who’s lived a lifetime inside of guilt.
“Take care of him, mijo. He needs love.”
Mom’s voice echoes in my head, soft but unshakable.
That was months ago, the night she caught us.
She’d walked out of the kitchen late, past midnight. Caleb and I were in the entryway—he was a little drunk, brave with his lips on mine. I thought she’d gone to bed. I thought we were safe.
Just a small, broken sound between us, his hand fisting in my shirt like he was drowning. And I kissed him back.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even something I meant to do. It was gravity. The kind that pulls you under before you realize you’re gone.
When Mom made herself known, we jumped apart like kids caught stealing. Caleb’s face went white. I’ll never forget that look—terror, shame, and heartbreak layered over the quiet plea in his eyes begging me to pretend it didn’t happen.
He ran.
I don’t blame him.
If it had been his dad, the house might have come down.
I didn’t.
Mom didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. Didn’t even look surprised. She just said my name, low and tired, like she’d been waiting for this all along.
After Caleb ran, she stayed across from me. No judgment.
I couldn’t meet her eyes at first.
She knew, and a part of me thinks maybe she’d always known. My mother knows me better than anyone. It would only make sense that she would have caught on that her son was in love with his stepbrother.
All she said to me that night was that I need to take care of him. That he has suffered so much and needed love.
That was the only talk we ever had about it. She’s never brought it up again. But those words haunt me every time I see Caleb’s face.
He needs love.
If only it were that simple. If only he would let me love him.
I turn off the lights and sit on the couch. His hoodie’s still here—gray, frayed at the sleeves, smelling faintly like his cologne. I pull it over my face and breathe him in like it’ll make the ache in my chest settle.
It doesn’t.
My phone buzzes.
Caleb
Thanks for dinner. And the talk.
I type, delete, and type again before settling on something that doesn’t sound like I miss you already.
Miguel
Anytime. Text me when you’re home.
He answers fast.
Caleb
I will.
I stare at that message too long before replying.
Miguel
Good. I like knowing you’re safe.
The dots appear, then vanish. No reply.
I wait another ten minutes before giving up, but my mind won’t stop circling. The way he looked at me under the showerhead. The way he trembled when he said, “Don’t let me fall apart.”
He doesn’t understand that he already did. And that I picked up every piece.
You’re my mess. I meant that more than I’ve meant anything in my life.
But how long before I start breaking, too?
I grab my jacket, keys, wallet, and his sweater, telling myself I just need air. The truth? I’m heading toward campus before I even realize where I’m driving.
The roads are empty this late. The fog settled low, wrapping the world in ghost light. When I pull into the lot behind his dorm, my headlights catch on a row of wet bikes chained to a rack. I cut the engine and sit there, watching the windows.
Third floor. Second from the right. His room.
The light’s still on.
I check the time: 12:14 a.m. He should be asleep by now, but he’s probably lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking too much. I think about calling. Then I remember the way he said I can’t stay and the way his voice cracked when he said it.
He’s not ready.
Maybe he never will be.
That’s the part that scares me most—not that someone will find out, not that my mom will change her mind—but that Caleb will never believe he deserves what I’m offering him. That he’ll keep punishing himself for the things he survived.
Whatever those things may be.
A door slams somewhere across the lot. I flinch and glance back at his window. The light goes off.
Finally.
Relief settles in slow, quiet waves.
I stay another ten minutes, just in case, before starting the truck again. The radio’s low, some late-night bolero station bleeding through static. It’s a song Mom used to hum when she cooked—“Sabor a mí.”
“So much of me is in you that I can’t see where I end and you begin.”
Yeah. That feels about right.
When I finally get home, I leave my phone on the counter, unread messages blinking from friends I don’t care to answer. I shower again, colder this time, hoping to wash the weight off.
It doesn’t work.
I crawl into bed, but the sheets feel too big without him here. I stare at the ceiling until my eyes burn.
Every time I close them, I see him under that water—skin flushed from the heat, eyes glassy, body trembling with exhaustion.
I told him I could handle him.
I didn’t say it wouldn’t cost me.
He thinks he’s the one falling apart.
But I know better.
Because somewhere between that first kiss and tonight’s goodbye, he became the thing that holds me together. And if he ever breaks again, I’m not sure I’ll survive if I can’t put him back together.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Just the sound of rain starting before dawn and the weight of everything I didn’t say pressing down on my chest.
When I wake, it’s barely six. The sky outside is still gray, the kind that makes it hard to tell where night ends. My body’s sore from work, from not sleeping enough, and from missing someone I’m not supposed to.
I reach for my phone before I even get out of bed.
Nothing from Caleb.
He probably fell asleep late. Or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. I picture him curled up on that narrow dorm mattress, a clean hoodie pulled over his head, headphones in. He always says he sleeps better with noise, but I know it’s because silence makes his thoughts too loud.
I scroll through our last messages again. “Good. I like knowing you’re safe.”
It still sits there, unanswered.
I sigh, drop the phone onto my chest, and drag a hand over my face. The sheets smell like him, faintly of shampoo and soap and whatever lotion he uses. I should wash them, but I don’t. I let the scent stay, something small and stupid to hold onto.
The alarm on my watch buzzes. Time to get ready for work.
I pull on my boots and uniform shirt and grab a thermos and fill it with coffee. The world outside is wet, the air thick with salt. The ocean’s close enough that I can hear the low crash of waves if I stop moving long enough.
Before I head out, I check my phone again. Still nothing.
So I type instead.
Miguel
Morning, baby. Missed you in bed.
Hope you got some sleep. Have a good day, yeah?
I stare at the message before hitting send, thumb hovering over the screen. It’s too much. Too soft.
Then I send it anyway.
If loving him in the quiet, in the spaces between, is all I get, I’ll take it.
By the time I lock the door behind me, my phone buzzes.
One message.
Caleb
Missed you too. Heading to my first class. Thanks for last night.
That’s it. No heart emoji, no punctuation. But I can hear his voice in it, rough with sleep, a little shy.
And it’s enough.
I slip the phone into my pocket, start the truck, and let the heater fill the cab to defrost the windshield. When I pull out of my spot and onto the road, it stretches out ahead, wet and silver in the fog.
I drive to work smiling like an idiot.
Because for once, he sounded okay.