Chapter 19 Miguel
NINETEEN
MIGUEL
By the time we push through the gym doors, the night air hits us like a blessing, it’s cool, salty, and a little damp off the bay. The noise of the game fades behind us, replaced by the softer sounds of cars and people laughing.
Caleb’s quiet.
Too quiet.
We walk side by side across the lot, not touching, the overhead lights turning the asphalt that weird pale gray.
My hands itch to reach for him, but I give him the space and let him set the pace.
Passing a couple of his teammates, one lifts his chin in that bro-nod way.
Another mutters a low, “Nice three, Burton,” before heading to his car.
Nobody says shit about the scene in the lobby, but I can feel the looks.
Let them look.
When we finally get to the truck, I unlock it with a chirp. Caleb reaches for the passenger handle, then freezes. His shoulders tense, I can see the tremor run through him even in the shitty parking lot light.
“Caleb?” I ask softly. “You good, baby?”
He turns around so fast I barely have time to register it before he’s on me—fisting the front of my hoodie, dragging me down into a kiss that steals whatever air I had left.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s desperate, like he’s trying to climb into my skin.
I stumble back a step, my spine hitting the side of the truck next to us with a dull thunk. Fuck it. My hands go to his waist automatically, then up his back, under his hoodie, grabbing fistfuls of warmed cotton and the heat of him beneath.
He makes a low, broken sound against my mouth and presses closer.
“I love that you protect me,” he mumbles against my lips, the words half-breathed, half-bitten. “God, I need you so much, Miggy.”
Fuck me.
My chest squeezes so hard it borders on painful. I kiss him back, slowly trying to steady him instead of feeding into the frenzy. One hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck, thumb rubbing that soft spot just under his hairline.
“You know I got you,” I murmur between kisses. “I always fucking will.”
We stay like that for a long moment, until his body starts to soften instead of vibrate with anger and hurt.
A car door slams somewhere across the lot. Someone laughs, too loud.
Caleb flinches, just a little. Reality fades back in.
“Come on,” I say gently, brushing my nose against his. “Let’s get out of here before I end up bending you over the hood and fucking you and your coach will have a coronary.”
That earns me a shaky laugh, which is all I was really fishing for.
He pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes a little wild but clearer than they were under those damn gym lights. “You wouldn’t.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, I absolutely would. But we both know you’re too much of a good boy to risk it.”
He huffs, rolling his eyes, but his hands loosen on my hoodie. “You’re so full of shit.”
“You wanna test that theory, hermoso?” I open the passenger door for him. “Get in. I’m taking you for tacos before we go home.”
The taco truck is a few blocks from campus, parked under a flickering streetlight beside a laundromat and a closed-up panadería. The kind of spot that smells like grease, cilantro, and nostalgia. “Order,” I tell him, nodding toward the handwritten menu. “Anything you want.”
He squints up at the board, the neon from the open sign painting his face red. “Al pastor. Three. And a quesabirria. And… horchata.”
“Atta boy.” I order twice what he does, because I’ve seen him decide halfway through one taco that he’s “not really hungry anymore” and then pick off my plate like a raccoon.
We sit at the plastic picnic table under the truck’s awning, the night breeze cutting through the sizzle of the grill and murmur of Spanish from inside.
The food comes out fast—foil-wrapped, onion-slick, and with lime wedges glistening.
Caleb eats in silence for a few minutes, head bent, hair falling into his eyes. He always chews like he’s thinking too hard, jaw tight, even when the food is good.
“You okay?” I ask quietly once he’s halfway through a taco and hasn’t bolted yet.
He shrugs one shoulder. “I am right now.”
Right now.
I’ll take it.
I bite into my own taco, but I barely taste it. My brain is still back in the lobby, replaying Dad’s face, his voice, and the way the words “distraction” and “soft” came out of his mouth.
He loves Caleb. But he keeps trying to love him like a project instead of a person, and it makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
You’re tethering yourself to him like a lifeline.
He’s not wrong.
He doesn’t understand that sometimes the lifeline is the only thing keeping someone from going under.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Caleb mutters suddenly, eyes on his food. “I can hear it.”
I blink, dragged out of my spiral. “Yeah?”
Caleb nods, takes a sip of horchata. “You get this like… vein in your forehead when you’re pissed off.” He reaches out and taps just above my eyebrow with his finger. “Right here.”
I catch his wrist and kiss the inside of it before I let go. “Your dad pisses me off.”
“I know.” He pokes at his quesabirria, tearing off a corner of tortilla. “You were right to say what you did.”
I snort. “He doesn’t think so.”
“He’ll get over it,” Caleb says, voice soft but sure. “He always does. You just… gave him something to think about. Even if he spends the next year pretending you didn’t.”
The fact that he’s defending me to myself almost makes me laugh.
“I’m not sorry I said it,” I admit. “I just… hate that you were standing in the middle of it. I know you didn’t need that on top of everything else.”
He looks up, eyes finding mine across the table. There’s exhaustion there, yeah. But there’s something steadier, too. “I needed someone to say it,” he says quietly. “I just couldn’t be the one.”
Fuck.
I swallow hard and look away before my own eyes start burning. “Anytime,” I say. “I’ll say it as many times as you need.”
Then he smiles, small and sad and sweet. “I know.”
We finish the food, and by the time we’re back in the truck, he’s calmer. Less jagged around the edges.
But as I drive us toward the condo, his hand sneaks over the middle seat, fingers threading with mine. His thumb runs back and forth over my knuckles like he’s grounding himself.
Or me.
Maybe both.
Home smells like a combination of fresh laundry, weed, and so much like Caleb.
As soon as we’re inside, Caleb toes his shoes off, drops his bag, and heads straight for the couch like it’s muscle memory.
I lock the door behind me, setting my keys in the little dish by the entrance, and watch him for a second.
There’s a looseness to him now that I haven’t seen all day—shoulders a little lower, jaw unclenched, expression softer. The game’s still in his body, though. I can see it in the way he moves.
Caleb turns when he feels my eyes on him. “What?” he asks, a little self-conscious.
“Just looking,” I say. “Trying to decide if I should feed you again or throw you in the shower first.”
His mouth tilts up. “I just ate, Miggy.”
“You say that like I don’t know you’ll be hungry again in an hour.” I step closer, fingers finding the hem of his hoodie, playing with the fabric. “How’s your head?”
“Loud. But not… screaming.” His fingers catch mine, holding them there. “Quieter when I’m here.”
Good.
This is why I wish he didn’t have to leave.
I close the space between us and press my mouth to his, gentle and unhurried. Just lips against lips, a gentle press, a question more than a demand.
He answers with a soft sound, hands sliding up my chest, bunching in my shirt. When we part, his pupils are a little blown, but his breathing’s steady.
“Shower?” I ask. “You smell like sweat.”
“Mmm, so do you,” he shoots back.
“Yeah, but I’m hot enough to pull it off.”
He snorts. “Jackass.”
“You love this jackass.” I tug at his hoodie. “You still want this jackass to get naked with you?”
His ears go a little pink. “Maybe.”
I jerk my head toward the hallway. “Come on, hermoso. Let’s rinse today off you.”
Steam curls around us in the bathroom, fogging the mirror and turning the light soft.
I twist the knob until the water is hot enough to soothe but not enough to scald, testing it with my wrist. Behind me, Caleb strips without hesitation.
Just quiet efficiency, shirt off, sweats down, socks kicked into the corner.
He’s closer, clingier, his fingers skating over my back, my sides.
“You getting in or just gonna stand there and watch me?” He asks, voice a little rough but laced with a whole lot of teasing.
“Don’t tempt me,” I murmur, but I peel my own clothes off and step into the shower with him. The water beats down on our shoulders, rivulets sliding over ink and scar and muscle. “You know I’d watch whatever show you’d put on for me.”
Now normally, I’d take over, washing his hair and his back, making it a slow ritual. Tonight, he turns first, palms flattening against my chest, pressing me lightly against the tile. His usually bright blue eyes are dark and intent. “Let me take care of you,” he says quietly.
Something in my chest stutters. “Caleb—”
“I know you’re worried about me,” he cuts in, thumbs rubbing small circles just under my collarbones. “I know you’re still replaying that fight with my dad in your head. But I’m not… glass right now. I’m here. With you. Please let me.”
His hands slide up to my shoulders, kneading at the tension there. He leans in and kisses along my jaw and my throat, slow and deliberate. There’s heat in it, yeah, but there’s something else too… something new.
I rest my hands lightly at his hips, torn between dragging him closer and stopping this before it becomes a way for him to disappear into me.
“Caleb,” I say again, softer this time. “Listen to me for a second.”
He stills, breath warm against my neck. “Okay.”