Chapter 9 Caleb
NINE
CALEB
Iwake up with a pounding headache that feels like guilt made solid. It’s barely eight. My dorm room’s still dark, it’s overcast outside, and it makes the world look soft and far away.
Much like my thoughts.
The sheets are twisted around my legs, and my phone’s on the pillow beside me, the screen lit up with the last messages I sent at two in the morning.
I love you, too.
I should feel better after sending it. But I don’t.
It just makes my stomach twist tighter.
Miguel hasn’t replied, which is fair. I don’t deserve a reply yet. Not after bolting out of his place like that.
I scrub a hand over my face and stare at the ceiling, trying to untangle the mess in my head. The look on his face when I left—it’s burned there, right behind my eyelids. Hurt. Confused.
All because I couldn’t breathe the second he said husband.
The word hit me like a loaded gun. Not because I don’t want him. I do.
God, I do.
But forever? I can’t even picture next month without something breaking.
Still… he didn’t mean it like pressure. He meant it like faith. Like he believes there’s a version of me that could handle that kind of love someday.
And that thought terrifies me almost more than losing him. Because how? How can he want me to be his forever when I can’t even make plans to go on a vacation with him? The thought of a few months from now feels like a fantasy?
I finally convince myself to get out of bed and start the day like a ghost.
Shower. Coffee. Pretend to study. Avoid the mirror.
My one class today isn’t until one forty, so I’m trying to keep myself busy. The game tomorrow already has me stressed. It doesn’t help that I’ve already gotten three texts from my dad about it.
Dad
See you tomorrow, Bud. I’ll be sitting as close as I can.
Can’t wait to see you sink that three-pointer you’ve been working on.
Hopefully, the coach gives you enough court time.
I don’t respond to them. Doesn’t stop me from checking my phone every few minutes to see if Miguel has texted back. Even though I know he’s probably working. The messages sit there like an open wound.
At noon, I give up on pretending and walk down to the cliffs.
I emailed my professor about needing a mental health break, and thankfully, she was more than accommodating.
The ocean’s a sheet of gray glass before me, and the wind bites.
I sit in the damp grass, hoodie pulled tight, and try to breathe through the noise, hoping it quiets the thoughts in my head.
For years, I’ve had this rule. Never let anyone stay long enough to notice when I’m starting to break—safer that way. People leave… I just never give them the opportunity to get there first.
But Miguel’s different. He doesn’t flinch when I pull back. He just waits. Like he knows I’ll circle back when the fear burns out.
That’s what kills me.
He’s patient. Too patient.
Part of me worries I’m using that patience like a crutch. That I’ll never be able to be what he wants, even though he constantly tells me I’m everything to him.
By three, the guilt gets too heavy to sit with. I grab my phone and open Miguel’s and my messages again.
Caleb
You home?
Nothing.
A minute later—
Miguel
Yeah. Job ended a little early today.
My chest loosens just a little.
Caleb
Can I come by?
There’s a pause.
Miguel
You never have to ask that, baby.
Even if I’m not home. It’s your home too. Eat, sleep, do whatever you want.
Three dots dance across the screen for a moment, then…
Miguel
Just don’t watch Vikings without me.
We need to finish that show, by the way.
I smirk at the screen, but it’s that one word—baby—that’s enough to make my throat close. I pull my heavier coat on, grab my keys, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
The drive feels longer than usual, the Monday traffic thick near downtown. By the time I park outside his condo, the light’s gone gold and heavy. I sit there for a minute, engine ticking, palms damp against the steering wheel.
I almost texted him that I changed my mind.
Instead, I force myself to get out.
He opens the door before I can knock, like he was standing there waiting.
He probably was.
Miguel looks tired—eyes shadowed, hair messy, like he just took the hair tie out, and a band T-shirt soft with age. But when he sees me, something in his expression breaks open, raw and quiet.
“Hey,” I say, voice hoarse. “Can I come in?”
“Seriously?”
I step past him, into the same living room where everything fell apart last night. It smells faintly like lime Fabuloso and coffee. The sink’s empty. The counter’s clean.
Stress cleaning is a thing he does. I’m pretty sure that coping mechanism came from his mom. Whenever she was stressed when we were kids, the house would end up deep cleaned, smelling of lavender Fabuloso and the furniture rearranged.
It drove my dad nuts.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says softly, and I hear the door click shut.
“I wasn’t sure I would.” I let out a small, tired laugh. “Almost texted you from the car to cancel.”
He nods like he gets it. “You hungry? There’s still some tinga left.”
I almost laugh because, of course, that’s what he’d offer first. Food before feelings.
But I shake my head. “No. I just wanted to see you.”
He leans against the back of the couch, arms crossed, waiting.
Not demanding.
Not angry.
Just there. Waiting for me to get whatever it is I need to say off my chest.
“I panicked,” I finally choke out. “That’s what happened. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I kinda figured,” he says quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Still doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“I know.” I take a breath. “When you said that thing—about being your partner, about maybe one day—my brain just… shut down. I couldn’t picture it. Not because I don’t want it, but because I don’t think I know how to want something like that yet.”
He studies me for a long time, then nods once. “You don’t owe me forever, Caleb. I just wanted you to know that I see one with you. That’s all.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And that’s what scared me.”
He pushes off the couch, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but not quite touching. “And now?”
“Now I’m still scared,” I admit. “But I don’t want that fear to be the thing that keeps me from you.”
His hand lifts, slow, giving me every chance to move. When I don’t, he cups the side of my neck and rests his forehead against mine.
It’s the same way we breathed together yesterday, only now it feels heavier like a confession and forgiveness all tangled together.
“I got your text,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.” My voice cracks. “You believe me?”
He nods. “Yeah, baby. I believe you.”
Something in me unclenches. I breathe out, and the space between us disappears. And when he leans into me, the kiss is quiet, barely there, tasting like coffee and exhaustion and relief.
When he pulls back, I can feel my heartbeat in my throat.
He doesn’t ask me to stay. He just takes my hand and leads me to the couch.
We sit there for a long time. Not talking. Just holding on.
Later, after the sun’s gone and the room’s gone blue with dusk, I turn toward him.
“I want to go,” I say.
He frowns. “Go where?”
“The redwoods. The treehouse thing. I want to go with you.”
He blinks, like he’s not sure he heard me right. “You sure?”
“No.” I laugh softly. “But I think that’s the point, right? Something to push myself towards.”
“Okay,” he squeezes my hand. “Then we’ll go.”
Something in the air shifts—it’s small but certain.
Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not some grand, “Look, I’m cured” moment. It feels more like a choice to keep showing up, even when things are hard. When the future looks so vague, but you push yourself to keep moving forward.
I end up staying for dinner, anyway. It started raining pretty hard, and I wasn’t ready to leave him. We eat leftovers after he takes a shower, and I stay. We watch the same half-finished horror movie from last night, our legs tangled under the fuzzy blanket.
He doesn’t say, “I love you,” again, and I don’t, either.
We don’t need to.
I just hold his hand, my fingers laced between his.
When I finally head back to the dorms, the rain’s stopped, but the streets still shine with it. The air smells clean, like Mother Nature trying to reset the balance of everything.
Halfway home, my phone buzzes in the console.
Miguel
Drive safe. Text me when you get in.
I hit the voice-to-text button.
Caleb
I will.
Then, after a pause—
Caleb
I love you
Miguel
I know, baby. I love you too. Keep breathing for me.