Chapter 5 Caleb
FIVE
CALEB
The first thing I notice when I wake up is warmth.
The second is it’s not mine.
It’s Miguel’s arm, heavy across my waist, and the slow, steady drag of his breathing against the back of my neck. He sleeps like he holds on even in his dreams, like if he lets go, I’ll somehow vanish.
The morning light filters weakly through the blinds, cutting lines across the living room and over his forearm. His skin looks golden in it, dust motes floating between us. The TV’s still on, the screen paused somewhere mid-episode.
For a long time, I don’t move. I just lie there and let myself feel.
The way his chest presses against my back when he exhales. The way his thumb twitches every few seconds, like he’s trying to soothe me even in his sleep.
My head’s a mess, but quieter than it was yesterday. Therapy tore me up, and I didn’t realize how much until I walked through that door last night and saw him waiting.
It’s like my body knew what I needed before I could even think.
He made it easy. The food, the shower, the way he washed me like I’d break if he wasn’t careful.
I wanted to hate it and wanted to feel angry that I need that kind of care. But it’s impossible. Every time he touches me, something inside me stops fighting.
Miguel shifts behind me, the arm around my waist tightening just enough that I can feel his breath catch. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper back.
He presses a kiss behind my ear, then rolls back, stretching until his joints pop. “What time’s practice?”
“Not till nine.”
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “You’ve got time to eat first. Still sucks you have practice on a Saturday, though. I’d rather keep you here on this couch with me.”
I hum, not sure I can stomach anything yet. But I’ll try—for him.
He hoists himself up from behind me and barrels over the back of the couch, all warm skin and lazy strength, padding barefoot to the bathroom. The sound of water running fills the apartment, the low rush of his morning routine grounding me in the quiet.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s a text from him, even though he’s only ten feet away.
Miguel
Miss you already.
I huff a small, shaky laugh with a smile that makes my eyes squint and text back.
Caleb
You’re ridiculous.
Miguel
Yeah. But you smiled.
He’s right. I did.
By the time I drag myself off the couch and into the kitchen, he’s got the coffee machine going, hair wet, his bare chest all muscle and ink tempting me. He looks up when I walk in, eyes soft.
“Coffee’s almost done.”
“Thanks.”
He nods toward the counter where he’s set out toast and fruit, pretending not to watch if I’ll actually eat. I grab a slice and take a bite, just to see his shoulders drop in relief.
It makes my heart ache with how much he cares for me.
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have even thought he would care if I existed, but he cares. So fucking much.
Halloween made it clear and our Christmas getaway solidified it.
He steps close enough to kiss the top of my head before heading toward the door, grabbing his tool bag and keys. “I only have a small job to get done and I should be back before your practice is over. Text me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.”
“Promise.”
I glance up and meet his eyes. “Promise.”
He gives me that small, crooked smile—the one that makes everything inside me go still. “Good. I’ll see you after. We’ll get lunch.”
Then he’s gone.
The condo feels bigger without him in it, quieter, but not empty. His smell lingers everywhere: soap, citrus, and the faint hint of weed that I know he keeps in the cedar box I got him for Christmas in the living room.
This place screams Miguel.
I take another bite of toast, sip the coffee, and try to breathe around the ache in my chest. Because even though the memories still cling to me, the feeling of his hands washing the fear off my skin is stronger.
Maybe healing doesn’t have to hurt forever.
The morning air hits like a cold slap when I finally drag myself out of the condo and onto campus. My hoodie feels heavier than usual, clinging to me like a second skin I don’t want to wear. Fog’s still rolling in off the coast, soft and pale, curling around the quad and muffling the usual chatter.
My gym bag digs into my shoulder, but I barely notice. Everything feels unreal, like my thoughts are a pane between me and the world.
Basketball practice is early. It's too early for my brain to catch up to my body. I’m exhausted from carrying yesterday’s therapy session in my chest like a brick.
The memory of Dr. Kaur’s office lingers in the corners of my mind—the cold kitchen, the hunger, the fear—and even though I survived it yesterday, today it makes everything heavier.
The gym smells like varnish, sweat, and old sneakers. The squeak of shoes on polished wood cuts too sharply, making my pulse hitch. I step onto the court, already feeling like I don’t belong, like the world expects more from me than I can give.
Coach is yelling, but I’m only half-listening. My legs move because my body knows the drills, but my brain floats somewhere else. Off to somewhere gray, somewhere with the ocean fading behind fog, somewhere with Miguel waiting.
Anderson throws me a ball. I catch it, but my grip is off, and it slips through my fingers.
“You okay, Burton?” he asks, subtle enough that no one else notices.
“Yeah,” I mutter, though my voice sounds hollow even to me.
He shrugs and dribbles past, giving me a small, understanding nod.
No lectures. No push. Just a quiet acknowledgment that sometimes you show up, even when you feel like you can’t.
I move through the drills mechanically, the bouncing ball under my hand louder than my heartbeat, the squeak of shoes echoing like a reminder that I’m alive, even if I feel ghosted.
Dribble, shoot, all net.
Repeat.
Again and again, like I’m on autopilot.
By the time we finish, my hoodie is soaked through with sweat, and my legs are trembling from the sprints. I grab my towel and collapse on the bleachers, hiding my face behind it.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
Miguel
Come home, baby. I want to take you to lunch.
I freeze. The words are simple. Nothing dramatic.
Something a normal couple would do.
But we aren’t a couple, are we?
I lean back, eyes closed, letting the warmth of that little message seep into my chest. The weight on my ribs loosens just a fraction. I type back quickly, thumb shaking.
Caleb
I’ll be there soon.
The drive to the boardwalk is short. Miguel’s truck engine hums beneath me, familiar and grounding. The gray sky presses down, but I don’t mind the chill.
My fingers brush against the dash as if holding on to something real, something solid, and Miguel glances at me from the driver’s seat, giving me a small smile that’s soft, patient, and knowing all at once.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks quietly, hand brushing mine for a second before he lets go.
“Nothing really, just stuff,” I lie. But it’s softer this time, not the hollow lie I usually give. There’s truth in it somewhere, maybe not completely okay, but… surviving.
He doesn’t push. He just nods and lets the silence stretch comfortably between us.
When we pull into the boardwalk parking lot, the wind hits, sharp and briny. Seagulls circle overhead, shrieking, and the faint smell of fried food mingles with salt. My hoodie does little to keep me warm, but I don’t care. I can feel Miguel close, feel the space we share, and it’s enough for now.
We grab a couple of sandwiches, fries, and sodas from a small stand.
The food is simple, greasy, and perfect.
The kind of normal I’ve been craving. We sit on a bench facing the ocean, gray waves rolling in, wind tugging at our clothes and hair.
Miguel wraps one arm around my shoulders, the heat of him seeping through the layers of fabric.
“You’re too quiet,” he says, voice low so no one around can hear.
“Just thinking,” I murmur. My fingers curl around my soda can, knuckles white. I can’t let myself overthink too much or I’ll spiral again.
He nods. “Talk to me. How was practice? Has your three-pointer improved any?” he asks.
I can hear the sincerity in his voice. The waves crash and the wind whips around us while he waits for me to respond.
“Yeah… no.” I chuckle, motioning a shot. “All air… every time still.”
After a few minutes, I finally look up at him. The corners of his mouth lift in a small, teasing smirk.
“You were doing some serious brooding,” he says. “You might give me a heart attack if you keep this up.”
I snort, the first real sound of laughter all morning. “Better you than me.”
We finish our food in quiet comfort, letting the world carry on around us while we exist in our little bubble.
Then Miguel suggests a walk along the beach.
I kick off my shoes, letting the sand squish between my toes.
The cold bites, but it’s grounding. Each step feels like a tiny reclaiming of myself.
This feels good.
Being here with him.
Miguel stays close—close enough that I can feel him without being forced to acknowledge it. We talk in quiet tones, his presence a constant reassurance. We talk about my classes. Nothing too heavy. Nothing about last night or therapy—just walking, talking, and being.
It’s almost painfully normal, and that’s exactly what I need.
We loop back to the truck, sand sticking to our socks and shoes. Miguel turns to me, a faint smile on his face, eyes searching mine.
“Can I…?” His voice trails, hesitant, soft. “Can I kiss you?”
I smirk. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He leans in slowly, giving me the choice with every inch. Our lips meet, tentative at first, soft. The kiss deepens, with quiet urgency beneath it, until it’s no longer just a kiss but a tether, a lifeline.
I breathe him in, pressing closer, heart thundering in my chest. My arms move on instinct, wrapping around his neck. “I…” I trail off, breath hitching.
My hands find his chest, holding on.
“I need you… inside me,” I whisper against his ear, words shaking, raw with want and desperation.
His fingers tighten on my hips. When he speaks, his voice is steady, warm, and grounded. “Then let’s go home,” he murmurs, a reassurance that makes the world shrink to just us.