Chapter 12
TWELVE
MIGUEL
The condo’s quiet, except for the low hum of the heater and the occasional patter of rain against the windows. Caleb’s bag is still by the door where he dropped it earlier, half-open, his hoodie spilling out. The smell of him lingers—soap, sweat, cedar, and the faint trace of sex.
God, if I could bottle it up, I would have the place smelling like this all the time.
He’s in the shower now, humming something low under his breath, probably some indie band he found on Spotify at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep.
I’m in the kitchen, in low-slung grey joggers and socks, stirring the pot of arroz con leche as the steam curls up into my face.
I turn the heat down and grab the bowls, setting them on the counter.
I don’t care what anyone says. Arroz con leche is best off the stove, when the pasas are hot and burst with sugar in your mouth.
By the time he walks out, hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, he’s wearing one of my shirts again. The gray one that hangs halfway down his thighs. I don’t think he even tries to look cute in it—it just happens.
“You’re making the good stuff,” he says, rubbing a towel over his hair.
“I figured you could use it,” I answer, turning off the burner. “Rough game. Your ass took a pounding.”
He smiles faintly. “You could say that again.”
I hand him a bowl and motion toward the couch. “Come on. We’ll eat in here.”
He settles on the couch, tucking his legs under him. I sit beside him, close enough that our knees touch. The TV flickers on and I scroll the Netflix menu, stopping on Vikings. I give him my best puppy-dog eyes.
“Fine, it’s gonna be your fault if I say Ragnar’s name in my sleep again, though. No getting mad at me.”
I chuckle, starting the episode. “We’ll see about that.”
“Can’t blame me… That man looks too good.”
“God, you’re such a good cook,” he moans around a spoonful. I glance at him, amused. “You say that every time.”
“Yeah, because it surprises me every time.”
When we finish, he sets the empty bowl down on the coffee table and leans back, rubbing his stomach. “That was really good. Don’t tell mom this but… I think this was even better than hers.”
“You take that back.” I slap a hand to my bare chest. “Mi Mamá will always make the best arroz con leche.”
“She likes to serve it cold. You know I like it best when it’s hot.”
“You only do because that’s how I eat it.”
I watch him from the corner of my eye, the soft exhaustion written all over him. He’s beautiful when he’s like this—unguarded. The world isn’t demanding anything from him here. I reach over, brushing my thumb over the small scar on his wrist, the one he always tries to hide.
I remember the summer he kept it bandaged. Nobody else noticed but me.
He was hurting so badly.
Caleb’s still hurting.
“You tired?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “Not really. Just… content.”
I smile. “I’ll take content.”
For a while, we just sit there, watching the episode, curling up with each other. Then, on impulse, I get up and grab my laptop from the counter and settle it between us. “I want to show you something.”
He tilts his head, eyes clearly tired. “Hmm.”
I have like five minutes before he’s asleep and I have to carry him back to bed. So I pull up the Airbnb listing, the screen glowing soft and golden. “It’s the treehouse cabin. Right on the edge of the redwoods, overlooking the coast.” His eyes widen a little. “Holy shit, that’s beautiful.”
“Right?” I grin. “We could drive up for a long weekend. Disconnect from everything. No phones. No noise. Just us. Maybe Memorial Day weekend?”
He leans closer, studying the pictures. “That sounds… perfect, actually.”
“I thought so.” I scroll a little more, showing him the nearby hikes, the trails, and the hidden coves. “We could go to Pfeiffer Beach. Surf, if the water’s not too cold. Build a fire, read. Just breathe.”
He lets out a long exhale. “It would be nice to just… stop for a while. Turn my brain off.”
“That’s all I want for you,” I say softly.
He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he hears everything I don’t say out loud, the fear, the guilt, and the hope that I can give him some semblance of peace.
He nudges me with his knee. “And maybe we bring the mask? You know, for some exercise?”
That smirk. The one that starts low and slow, curling at the corner of his mouth.
I raise a brow. “Oh, so you’re thinking about that, huh?”
He laughs quietly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, huh?” I lean in a little, my voice dropping. “I was thinking we could play with it up there. Somewhere wild. No walls. No noise. Just you and me and the trees. Like Halloween.” My lips kiss the side of his neck. “Like Christmas.”
His breath catches. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The air between us hums again—soft, charged, not quite sexual, but full of something deeper. Connection.
I close the laptop, set it aside, and let the silence stretch. His hand finds mine, fingers tracing over the calluses on my palm. The little things I never notice until he touches me.
“You ever think about the future?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He looks up, cautious. “No. Not really.”
“Really, baby? Why not?”
He stares at our joined hands for a long moment, thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist like he’s memorizing the beat of my pulse. The TV hums in the background, the rain patters softly against the window, and I can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes.
“Because every time I did,” he says quietly, “it felt like I was asking for too much.”
My chest tightens. “Caleb…”
He shakes his head and gives me a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s easier not to picture things. That way, when it all goes to shit, it doesn’t hurt as bad.”
How honest. I squeeze his hand, firm but gentle, grounding him. “You’re allowed to picture it now.”
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, meaning every word. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He blinks at me, startled, and then looks away, trying to hide the emotion that’s already slipping through the cracks. I can’t stop myself, reaching up and brushing a damp lock of hair off his forehead. I want to pull him into my arms and kiss away all the pain, but I don’t.
“You can believe in forever, Caleb. And if that’s too hard for you right now, I’ll do it for you. Because whatever has happened in your life that has made you this way… whatever was said or done to you, it doesn’t need to define you.”
He lets out a shaky breath and leans in, pressing his forehead to mine. “I really want to believe that.”