Chapter 4
FOUR
MIGUEL
The sound of the drill fills the room, drowning out my thoughts until my phone buzzes against the tile floor. I kill the power and glance at the screen. Caleb’s name.
Caleb
Therapy sucked.
Two words, but they’re enough to twist something in my chest. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist and stare at the text for a long beat before I type.
Miguel
Shit, that was today. You okay?
His reply is slow coming.
Caleb
Not really.
I grip the phone tighter.
Fuck.
It’s always hard to read that, even harder when I can’t be there to pull him out of it. I tell him I can take lunch, but he brushes it off like he always does, promising he’ll get through the rest of his day. Then the last message hits.
Caleb
Uh… can I stay with you tonight?
I don’t hesitate.
Miguel
You never have to ask. I want it to be your home too. You have a set of keys for a reason, baby.
I stare at those words after sending them, my chest heavy. He doesn’t see what I see when I look at him. He doesn’t see how strong he is, how brave. He just sees the mess. I see the fight underneath.
The rest of the day drags.
Every outlet I wire, every breaker I reset, I’m thinking about him. The way his voice goes small when he’s tired. How he tries to make himself smaller when he’s hurting. I hate it—hate that there’s nothing I can do to erase whatever’s been done to him.
But I can give him a safe place now. That’s something.
Right?
By the time I’m packing up my tools, the sun’s dropping behind the hills. I text him once more before I get in the truck.
Miguel
Headed home. Drive safe after practice.
He just sends a thumbs-up emoji, which for him means I’m trying.
I get home and head straight to the bedroom to change before getting things ready for him being here.
The sheets still smell like him, like his skin and the faint trace of my cologne.
I strip the bed anyway, tossing the old ones in the hamper and pulling out a clean set.
The motion helps. Doing something helps the nervousness.
It’s the only way to keep from overthinking.
Something I find myself doing often now that we’ve started this… relationship.
By the time the bed’s made, I’m making a pot of albóndigas.
The smell fills the kitchen, tomato and cilantro mixing with steam.
I taste the broth, add a pinch of salt, and smile to myself.
My mother taught me to make it when I was a kid so I can happily say this is something I have perfected.
She always said caldo can fix anything, that feeding someone is just another way to love them.
Today is just the day for caldo too. Mi Vida needs that extra dose of love that only soup brings.
I text my mother a photo.
Miguel
Mamá, your recipe still hits like magic.
She sends back a heart emoji and a message.
Mamá
Keep him fed, mijo.
I don’t even have to ask who she means. Mamá always knows.
While the soup simmers, I straighten up the living room. Throw blankets. Pillows. Netflix queued. I even light one of those overpriced candles Caleb likes, the one that smells like cedar and rain. It makes the place feel less like an empty condo and more like… us.
By the time I finish, the front door unlocks.
Caleb steps in quietly, backpack slung low, hoodie up. His hair’s damp with sweat from practice, cheeks flushed. He looks exhausted—like he’s been running from his own thoughts all day and they’re finally catching up.
“Hey,” I say, voice low.
His eyes lift to mine, and the tension in his shoulders softens just enough for me to see him. Not the mask he puts on for everyone else. Him.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough.
I close the distance in two strides and pull him into my chest. His body folds into mine like muscle memory.
His arms slide around my waist, fingers gripping the back of my shirt.
He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to.
I can feel the tremor in his breath, the way it shudders out like letting go takes effort.
“Dinner’s ready,” I murmur against his hair. “Albóndigas. Thought you might want something warm.”
He nods against me but doesn’t move yet. I let him stay there, let him breathe me in. I don’t rush him. I never do.
Never will.
Finally, he looks up, eyes glassy. “Thanks, Miggy.”
“Always.”
We eat at the counter. He doesn’t talk much, but I don’t push. I just make sure his bowl stays full and that he actually eats it this time. He finishes it all, slow but steady. When he’s done, I brush my thumb over the corner of his mouth and smile softly.
“Shower or couch?” I ask.
He glances toward the living room, then back to me. “Shower.”
“Come on then.”
The bathroom fills with steam, the water just the temperature he likes—scalding.
He stands there under the light, head bowed as if waiting for permission to exist. I tug his sweatshirt over his head, then his shirt, then the rest, gently and unhurried.
His skin is cool, still marked by goosebumps from the chill outside.
He doesn’t meet my eyes, and that’s okay. He doesn’t need to.
I step in behind him, pulling him under the spray, warm water cascading down his shoulders. He exhales, quiet and shaky, like the heat is loosening something he’s been holding too tightly.
Hopefully, the heat loosens whatever he’s carrying.
I pour shampoo into my hands and run my fingers through his hair. Slow. Careful. His eyes flutter closed as I massage his scalp, and his breathing evens out a little. I rinse it, then start on his shoulders, tracing the tension there with my thumbs.
He leans back against me, not saying a word. The steam wraps around us, heavy and soft.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper against his ear. “Let it all go, Caleb. I won’t let you go.”
He nods once, barely moving.
I take my time washing him, starting with his arms, back, then chest. Nothing rushed, nothing that could be mistaken for lust. Just care.
Reverent, quiet care.
When I finish, I turn him around and meet his gaze. His eyes are red but steady.
“Better?”
He nods again. “Yeah.”
We towel off, the silence between us easy now. I hand him one of my shirts, one that’s plain gray and soft from years of wear. It hangs on him, the collar slipping low on his shoulder. He looks small and safe in it.
“You forgot a clean one again, huh?” I tease lightly.
He shrugs, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe on purpose.”
That smile is everything.
We end up on the couch with a blanket draped over us, Netflix idling on some random show neither of us are really watching. His head rests against my shoulder, his body heavy against mine in that way that says, “I trust you enough to stop fighting sleep.”
My arm is around him, fingers tracing idle circles on his forearm. His skin is warm. His breathing has that uneven rhythm it gets when he’s trying not to fall apart.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I tell him quietly. “Whatever happened today.”
He hums, low and tired. “Didn’t plan to.”
I chuckle softly. “Fair enough.”
Minutes pass. Then he shifts, turns toward me, and climbs into my lap without a word. His legs straddle my hips, hands braced on my chest. The movement isn’t sexual—it’s grounding.
He’s looking for connection, for the one place that still feels safe.
I’m his safe space and just knowing that makes everything worth it.
His fingers curl into my shirt, tugging lightly as his lips find mine. The kiss is slow at first, searching, trembling at the edges. I kiss him back, but gently, giving him space to pull away if he needs to.
After a moment, I pull back just enough to speak. My voice is rough, soft around the edges. “We don’t need to do this tonight.”
He looks at me, eyes wet, lashes clumped from the shower. “I know,” he whispers. “But I just want to feel normal.”
He presses his forehead to mine, breath trembling against my mouth. “This feels normal. I need you. I fucking need you, Miggy.”
And I hold him tighter. Sometimes love isn’t about fixing, it’s about holding someone together long enough for them to remember they’re still whole. If this is what he needs to feel whole, then that’s what I’ll give him.
His words hit me like a punch to the chest. Not because they hurt, but because they’re too raw and so fucking honest. I feel them under my skin, in the steady thrum of my pulse.
I wrap my arms around him, holding him close enough that I can feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His face presses into my neck, warm and damp, the faint scent of my shampoo clinging to his hair.
“Okay,” I whisper.
It’s all I can give him. No promises I can’t keep, no lies about how it’s going to be easy. Just okay.
He stays there for a long time, quiet except for the sound of his breathing. The weight of him on my lap, the slow rise and fall of his chest—it’s grounding. For both of us.
I run a hand up his back, tracing small circles between his shoulder blades. He relaxes gradually, the tension draining from him like the tide pulling back from shore. His breathing slows. The blanket slides down his back, and I tuck it closer around us, not ready to let him go.
He doesn’t see it, but I’m the one shaking now. Not from fear, but from how much I love him. From how much I want to protect him from everything that ever hurt him.
I used to think love was supposed to be easy. Simple. Something that came and went without tearing you open. But this—this quiet, trembling, heavy thing—it’s the real kind. The kind that asks you to stay even when it’s hard.
I kiss his temple. “You’re safe,” I whisper, mostly for him, but maybe a little for myself too. “You’ll always be safe with me.”
Caleb doesn’t answer. His eyes are already closing, exhaustion pulling him under.
I hold him until his breathing deepens, until the last bit of tension leaves his body. The credits on the show roll across the screen, light flickering over the room, but I don’t move to turn it off.
There’s a peace in this moment I don’t want to break.
He’s sleeping now, soft and quiet against me, and all I can think is how lucky I am to be the one he comes back to after the storm. How much I want to keep being that for him, even if it breaks me a little each time.
I tilt my head, whispering against his hair, words he won’t hear, but I need to say them out loud anyway.
“I’ve got you, baby. Every time.”
And I will.
Every time.