Chapter 16 Miguel
SIXTEEN
MIGUEL
The second the text sends—“I’m on my way”—I’m already grabbing my keys.
I don’t even remember locking the front door. All I know is one second I’m standing in my kitchen, boots barely off, thinking about whether I have the energy to shower and crash… and the next I’m in my truck, engine rumbling, seatbelt half across my chest.
All because of three words.
I. Need. You.
Caleb doesn’t say that lightly. Half the time, he won’t even admit he wants a hug, let alone admit that he needs someone. He fights it every time.
The streets to the college are mostly empty, but I still have to force myself not to floor it.
The last thing either of us needs is me getting pulled over or wrapped around a guardrail.
I keep one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel and the other loose in my lap, fingers flexing like I could already feel him under my palm.
I love my stepfather, but he never knows when to stop pushing. The road starts to blur, Caleb’s message urging me faster.
Please don’t let him be too far gone.
I should’ve texted him sooner. The job ran late, one screwup bleeding into the rest of the day. I told myself I’d reach out after I cleaned up. After I ate.
But he needed me long before that.
Guilt weighs in my gut. I know I can’t be everywhere, can’t catch every spiral… but I still wish I could. I’d cut myself into pieces and leave part with him.
“You’re okay, baby,” I mutter to no one, eyes on the road. “I’m coming. Just hold on a little longer.”
Halfway there, I swing through a drive-thru that’s still open. Two breakfast burritos, some hash browns, and orange juice. It’s not my mom’s cooking, but it’s warm and filling, and that’s what he needs—a full stomach, something solid in him besides panic and caffeine.
By the time I pull into the campus lot near his dorm, my shoulders are tight and my jaw aches from clenching. The building’s mostly dark, with a few windows glowing. I kill the engine and sit there for a beat, listening to the tick of cooling metal.
Then I grab the paper bag, tuck the drinks under my arm, and head in.
I text him once I’m in the stairwell, then at his door.
Miguel
I’m here, baby. Outside your door.
No answer.
My pulse kicks up. I force myself to wait thirty seconds, then another thirty. Still nothing.
Fuck it. I knock.
“Caleb?”
There’s a pause. Then I hear movement inside, the shuffle of feet, and the click of the lock.
The door opens a crack, then wider.
He looks… beat to hell.
Eyes red-rimmed, lashes clumped from crying. Hair a mess. His crewneck was hanging off one shoulder like he put it on without really noticing. The room behind him looks mostly the same, but something feels off.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Can I come in?”
Caleb steps aside without a word. That alone tells me how bad it is. Normally he’d throw some joke at me, a sarcastic “Took you long enough” or a smug “Miss me?”
Tonight, he just shuts the door and stands there, arms dangling at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
I set the food on his desk, then turn back to him.
“Look at me, hermoso.”
His gaze lifts slowly, like it weighs something. The moment our eyes meet, his bottom lip trembles.
And that’s it.
Closing the distance, I pull him into my chest and he doesn’t fight it, his hands fisting in my shirt, face burying into my neck. The first sob hits me so hard it shakes both of us.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around him, one hand on the back of his head, the other on the small of his back. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
He doesn’t answer, just cries, the sound raw and broken. It’s not loud—Caleb never is—but it sounds like it’s tearing something inside him apart.
I sway us a little, like I used to when he was younger and scared after a nightmare on the couch, before I knew how deep the fear went.
“Breathe with me,” I whisper against his hair. “In… and out. Match me, baby. In… and out.”
It takes a while. His breaths come in stutters at first, hitching on the exhale. But slowly, very slowly, they start to line up with mine. His grip on my shirt loosens just a fraction.
“There you go,” I say. “That’s my pretty boy.”
Eventually, he let me guide him over to the bed. We sit on the edge, side by side, our shoulders touching, and I watch him drag his sleeve across his face, sniffing hard.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m being… dramatic.”
“Don’t start,” I say quietly. “You asked for help. That’s not drama. That’s brave.”
He swallows, eyes fixed on the floor. “Everything just… piled up. My dad. Classes. I realized I hadn’t eaten. I couldn’t think, and then I couldn’t stop thinking. It feels like I’m crawling out of my skin, Miggy.”
I nod. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Tapping his knee gently, his eyes meet mine. “I brought food. You think you can manage a few bites for me?”
He hesitates for a moment, then gives a tiny nod.
I grab the bag, pull out a burrito, unwrap it halfway, and press it into his hands. He stares at it for a second like it’s a test he might fail. “Just a bite,” I say. “No pressure. You don’t have to finish it. I just need something in you.”
That must be enough, because he takes a small bite and chews slowly. The tension in my chest loosens a little.
“Good,” I murmur. “Again.”
We repeat that dance, me coaxing, him eating, until half the burrito’s gone. I sneak in a few hash browns and some orange juice. Little by little, the color comes back into his face.
“Better?” I ask.
Caleb shrugs one shoulder. “Less like I’m gonna explode. Still… fucked.”
“Fucked is okay,” I say. “Fucked we can work with.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth.
Leaning back against the wall, his eyes closing for a second. The overhead light throws shadows under his eyes, making him look even more exhausted.
“When do you see Dr. Kaur?” I ask.
“Tomorrow at ten.”
“Good,” I say, meaning it. “That’s good.”
I watch as his fingers pick at a loose thread on his joggers. “I hate that I keep needing… this much.”
“This much what?”
“Care.” He says it like a dirty word. “Like I’m a full-time fucking job.”
I exhale, and the old ache settles deep behind my ribs. “You’re not a job, Caleb.”
He snorts softly. “Feels like it.”
I reach out, catch his hand, and still his picking fingers. “Look at me.”
Beautiful blue eyes bore into mine and practically beg me to fix every shattered piece of him. “I’m not sacrificing anything I’m not gladly putting on the altar,” I say. “You get that? I want to be the one you call when shit gets bad. You hear me?”
Tears fill those eyes, making them shine again. “Even when I’m like this?”
“Especially when you’re like this.” My thumb rubs over his knuckles. “Anyone can love you on the good days, baby. I’m here for all of it. The panic, the tears—that’s part of the deal.”
A shuddering breath leaves his lips as he forces the next few words out. “You’re gonna burn yourself out on me.”
“Let me worry about that. Right now, we focus on three things: a shower, sleep, and you making it to that appointment in the morning. That’s it. That’s all you have to think about.”
Caleb stares at me for a long moment, and I see it—the tiny flicker of relief, like I’ve taken a few bricks off his shoulders.
“Shower sounds… good,” he admits quietly. “I feel gross.”
“Okay,” I say, standing. “Come on.”
Following me into the small shared bathroom, I make sure the door for the other roommate is locked.
Nothing like my condo’s bathroom, but I’m not going to complain right now.
Having Caleb home with me is another day’s problem.
I turn the water on, adjust the temperature until it’s hot but not scalding, and steam billows out around us.
“You want me in there with you, or do you just want me to sit and talk?” I ask.
Hesitation makes his lip twitch, eyes flicking between me and the shower. “Can you… stay? Not inside, just… here.”
“Of course,” I say.
He undresses slowly, not in a sexual way at all, just a tired man peeling off the armor he uses to mask himself from the world. Bruises bloom faintly on his hips from last night, and I feel a pang of guilt and something darker twist inside me.
I look away. Not now.
We’ll unpack that later.
Caleb steps under the spray, head bowed and I sit on the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, and talk to fill the space.
“Mom called me earlier,” I say. “She made tamales and was sad you weren’t there to ‘taste test.’”
That elicits a small laugh. “She knows I’d have eaten the whole pot if I had been there.”
“I told her that. She said she made extra just for you. Jalapenos and cheese, your favorite.”
He’s quiet for a bit, with the only sound filling the silence being the water hitting tile and his slow breathing.
“Did Dad talk to you?” he asks eventually, voice muffled by the curtain.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Well, kind of. He texted. Asked if you seemed okay. Said he thinks you’re regressing.”
Caleb’s shoulders hunch.
“I told him he doesn’t get to use words he doesn’t understand,” I say. “And that he should be more careful throwing them at his son.”
No response. But I watch as he wipes at his face like he’s not sure if it’s water or tears.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Come here a sec.”
He peeks past the curtain, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes big and tired. I stand, grab the shampoo from the ledge, and step in just enough to reach his head, my clothes getting misted at the edges.
“Turn around,” I murmur.
No fight at all, he does. I work the shampoo into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp, slow and steady. The little exhales he makes and shoulders lowering just a little make my heart feel a little better.
“There you go,” I soothe. “Wash the day off. Let it go down the drain.”
“Wish it were that easy,” he mutters.
“Me too, baby,” I chuckle softly. “But we’ll take what we can get, right?”
“Mmhm” is all I get as a response, but I’ll take it over silence.
When he’s done, I hand him a towel and step back out, dripping sleeves and all. He dries off, pulls on a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and we head back to his room.
The bed looks comically small when I eye it with both of us in mind. A twin, pushed against the wall, the cheap mattress already sagging in the middle.
I don’t even hesitate.
“Come on,” I say, patting the side closest to the wall. “You get the corner. I’ll take the drop risk.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re gonna fall off in your sleep.”
“Then you’ll just have to catch me,” I counter.
That makes him smile a little, and he climbs in, curling up on his side, facing the wall. I yank off my wet shirt and slide in behind him, fitting myself to the curve of his body, chest to his back, arm looping around his waist. It’s cramped as hell, my knees bent awkwardly but I won’t move.
Not when I feel how hard he exhales the second I wrap around him.
His hand finds mine where it rests on his stomach. He threads our fingers together, holding on.
“Too tight?” I murmur.
“No,” he whispers. “Perfect.”
We lie there in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of campus: a door closing down the hall, someone laughing outside, and the faint roar of distant traffic.
“Hey, Miggy?” The voice was small and if I hadn’t been paying attention, I’d have missed it.
“Yeah?”
“If I… If I ever get too much, you’ll tell me, right?”
My throat burns. “You’re never going to be too much.” I kiss the top of his head. “You’re just… a lot of love and a lot of hurt in one body. That’s not too much of anything. That’s just who you are and I love you for you, baby.”
He’s quiet for a long time when finally I catch his breathing starting to even out, slow and deep. I stay awake, counting each inhale, each exhale like a prayer.
Whatever it costs—sleep, time, sanity—I’ll pay any price.
What I can’t handle is him going through any of this alone.
I must doze off at some point in the night, because when I open my eyes, gray morning light is leaking around the edge of the blinds. My neck is stiff, my back’s killing me, and my arm’s half numb under his weight.
Worth it.
Caleb’s awake, staring at the ceiling. He looks… emptied out. Not as raw as last night, but distant, like he’s half out of his body. Dissociating. I recognize that look now.
“Morning,” I say softly.
Blinking a few times, he turns his head toward me. “Hey.”
“How you feeling?”
He considers it. “Like I got hit by a bus.” A pause, then a small smirk. “Twice.”
“Sounds about right.” I brush a thumb under his eye, wiping away the faint smudge of sleep. “You still good for Dr. Kaur at ten?”
“Yeah,” he says. His voice is flat but sure. “I need to go.”
“I can drive you,” I offer immediately. “Walk you in. Wait outside. Whatever you want.”
Caleb hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. I think… I need to do this part by myself. Plus, I’m sure you need to get to work way before that.”
My gut doesn’t like that, but my brain understands. Therapy is his work. I’m support, not the main event. But he’s wrong. I requested the day off while he was sleeping, just so I could be here for him.
“Okay,” I say. “I took the day off and I’ll be home, and when you’re done, I want you there. Text me when you’re on your way, and I’ll have food ready. We’ll nap. Do nothing.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—relief, maybe. Hope.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll come over after.”
He rolls out of bed, moving slowly, and starts pulling on clothes. I watch him in the dim light, the way his shoulders curl inward, the way he hesitates in front of the mirror like he’s not sure who he’s looking at.
I stand, stretch my sore back, and step close enough to press a kiss to his temple.
“You’re doing good,” I tell him quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Caleb lets out a shaky laugh. “Feels like I’m barely holding it together.”
“Sometimes that is doing good,” I say. “Sometimes not giving up is the win.”
Nodding, he swallows hard and grabs his backpack from his chair.
“I’ll text you after,” he says, voice quiet but steady.
“I’ll be waiting,” I promise.
Watching him walk down the hall and out of sight makes my chest ache.
And that ache doesn’t go away, even on the drive back to the condo.
Once I get inside the house, I’ve already got a checklist in my head: clean sheets.
Caldo on the stove. His favorite hoodie of mine, laid out and waiting.
Netflix queued up with something stupid and comforting.
The love of my life is cracking.
I can see it—I feel it in my bones.
And yeah, it feels like pieces of me are cracking too. Like I’m holding him together with my bare hands, ignoring the way I’m starting to fray. If that’s what it takes to keep him safe, to make sure he knows he’s loved, then I’ll take the damage.