Chapter 8 Miguel
EIGHT
MIGUEL
The kitchen smells like cilantro and slow-simmering tomatillos, just like when we were growing up. Caleb’s standing at the counter barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, chopping onion with quiet focus, and the sight makes my chest ache.
“Mom would have a fit seeing you in the kitchen barefoot, you know.” Tsking at him.
I’m supposed to be prepping the chicken for the tinga, but mostly I’m watching him. The way he hums under his breath, the way he presses his lips together when he’s trying not to cry from the onions.
“You’re one to talk. I've seen you way too many times barefoot, shirtless with wet hair walking around.” Brandishing the knife and pointing it at me. “So hush!”
He’s still learning how to cook, my mom’s been trying to teach him since before Christmas, but he’s better than he thinks. He always follows directions like a rulebook, measuring everything and double-checking every spice.
“Not so much salt,” I say, nodding toward the shaker.
He glances up, smirking. “You say that every time.”
“And every time, I’m right. You’ve gotta remember that the caldo de pollo or tomate has salt in it.”
He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “You sound like your mom.”
I laugh because it’s true. “And she’s usually right, too.”
He rolls his eyes but keeps stirring, and for a while, it’s easy—quiet music playing from my phone, sunlight sliding through the window, and his shoulder brushing mine every so often as we move around each other.
These are the moments that undo me.
Not the sex. Not the adrenaline or the forbidden thrill of wanting what I shouldn’t.
It’s Caleb, barefoot in my kitchen, looking alive and finally, finally at peace.
When the tinga’s done, he dips a piece of tostada shell right from the pot, yelping when the sauce burns his tongue. I flick water at him from the sink, and he lunges, laughing, catching my wrist before I can dodge.
“You’re an ass,” he says, but he’s smiling, inching me toward the island.
His hand lingers on mine. The laughter fades. The room goes quiet.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already halfway in love with me.”
I take a step closer, my voice low. “Halfway? That’s cute.”
He goes still like he’s not sure if he wants to pull me closer or bolt for the door.
Then he lets out a breath, soft and shaky. “You’re impossible.”
I slide my hand around the back of his neck and kiss him.
It’s slow and warm, tasting faintly of spice and steam. One that’s more about being close than getting lost in each other.
When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make me forget I’m not supposed to feel like this.”
My thumb traces his jaw. “Maybe you’re supposed to.”
He doesn’t answer. He just presses his forehead against mine, and we breathe together until the moment steadies again.
Later, after we’ve packed all the meals up, we eat on the couch, the TV flickering some mindless horror movie that neither of us are paying attention to. He sits with his legs draped over mine, his hair still damp from the shower, his skin smelling faintly like my body wash.
I can’t stop touching him—small, tender, barely there brushes. My fingers on his knee. My palm against his ribs. Just enough to keep him anchored, to always remind him he’s safe.
“Hey,” I say, breaking the silence. “You ever been up to the redwoods past Big Sur?”
He shakes his head, eyes half-closed. “No. Why?”
“I was thinking we could go up there. There’s this place, a treehouse Airbnb kind of thing. Big deck, hot tub, ocean view.”
He opens one eye. “That sounds expensive.”
“Already looked. Not bad if we split it.”
He smiles faintly. “You mean if you pay and I pretend to.”
“Exactly.”
Caleb chuckles under his breath, then quiets. “You really think we could get away with that? Just… disappear for a few days?”
“I think we deserve to. That you deserve to relax.”
I pause, tracing slow circles on his thigh. “I could bring the mask.”
He tilts his head, and I see the flicker of something dark and hungry in his expression. “You think I could handle that again?”
“I think you could handle anything with me there.”
He blushes, voice quiet. “You’re too sure of me.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anyone.”
He looks at me then—really looks—and everything else fades. The couch, the plates with the remnants of the tostadas on the coffee table, the low hum of the heater kicking on.
“Miggy…” he starts, voice small.
“Hmm?”
He swallows hard. “What… what are we, really?”
The question lands between us like a live wire.
My heart thuds in my chest. This is not where I saw today heading, but fuck it. “We’re us,” I say. “Whatever that looks like.”
He frowns, not satisfied. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”
And I don’t plan this next part, it just slips out, heavy and way too fucking honest.
“I see you as my partner, Caleb. You’re it for me. Maybe one day you’ll feel safe enough to think about being my husband.”
Silence.
His face goes blank—no anger, no joy, just shock.
Fuck.
“Hey—” I start, but he’s already standing, brushing his hands on his sweats like he can wipe the moment off him.
“I should go,” he says. “It’s getting late. You’ve got work in the morning and I’ve got class…”
“Caleb…”
“I’m fine,” he cuts in, but his voice cracks. “I just… need some air.”
He grabs his backpack and the cooler bag with the meals we made and heads for the door before I can get up.
The door shuts softly behind him. The silence that follows hits hard.
For a long time, I just sit there staring at the half-eaten plates on the coffee table.
The smell of food, the warmth in the room—it all feels wrong now. Too still.
I run a hand over my face and exhale hard.
“Nice going, pendejo,” I mutter to myself.
I didn’t mean to scare him. I just… meant it.
Every fucking word.
But I should’ve known better. Caleb’s still learning what safe even feels like. And I threw him the idea of forever like it wouldn’t break him.
I wash the dishes in silence, towel-dry the counter, and do anything to keep from thinking. The apartment feels bigger when he’s not here. Colder.
By the time I crawl into bed, burying my face in the sheets, inhaling his scent. I close my eyes and pretend he’s still there, his weight against me, his quiet breathing.
Then my phone buzzes.
It’s instinct to grab it.
Nothing from him. Just a random text from work about tomorrow’s job.
So I type instead.
Miguel
I’m sorry if I pushed too hard tonight. I didn’t mean to freak you out.
I just love you, Caleb. That’s all. No expectations. Just that.
Text me when you’re back safe, yeah?
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the “send” button on the last message. Then I hit it before I can second-guess myself.
The message stays unread.
I set the phone on the nightstand and lay back, staring at the ceiling. Every part of me aches to go after him, to make it right, but that’s not what he needs. He needs space. Time.
The clock ticks. The world goes still.
And just when I think he won’t answer, my phone lights up.
Caleb
I made it back.
You didn’t push too hard.
You just scared me a little.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run.
I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?
I read the texts three times before I let myself breathe. My chest loosens, slow and painful, and I stare at the phone until the screen goes dark again.
Miguel
Okay. Get some sleep, baby. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Caleb
Goodnight, baby.
I roll onto my side, facing the empty space where he should be, and fall asleep to the sound of the light rain that starts to fall outside the window—steady, endless, waiting.
Caleb 2:03 AM
I know I don’t say it. But I love you, too. Sometimes I don’t feel worthy of your love and it scares me that you’re so sure about me.
But I do love you, Miguel. So fucking much.
Just thought you should know that.