Chapter 30
THIRTY
CALEB
Aweek goes by without anything catastrophic happening. Which feels… weirdly suspicious. Like the universe is saving up some boss-level shit for me later, but for now?
For now, I’m floating.
The last two games of the season were both solid.
A nineteen-point night at home and a fifteen-eight-five stat line on the road.
Coach high-fived me so hard after the last game that my hand stung.
The scout from Oregon emailed Coach, telling him there’s some “continued interest” for next season. And I didn’t spiral once.
Miguel and I have a little routine going now, one that feels embarrassingly domestic for two men in their early twenties who spend half their days either sweating or panicking.
He picks me up from practice three nights a week and I stay at the condo.
We cook together—badly—and pretend we’re meal prepping when really it’s just rice, chicken, and Miguel burning onions.
He has drawers set up for my clothes and space in the closet, and he even bought and put together a small desk for me, so I don’t have to sit on the couch or at the table.
Jokes on him though, because my favorite spot tends to be his bed…
or our bed. Midterms are coming up, which means my stress threshold is slowly creeping toward the red zone, but nothing’s overflowing yet.
I’m tired and stretched thin. But in a manageable way.
Tonight, I’m lying across our bed, face smushed into his pillow, highlighters scattered everywhere like vomited Skittles. My hoodie is tugged halfway off one shoulder. My laptop glows beside me, open to my statistics notes. I am exactly four problems away from throwing myself out the window.
Miguel walks into the room with two steaming mugs.
One is mine, a brown sugar cinnamon latte from his stupid expensive machine.
The other is his, straight black coffee that could burn holes in cement.
He sets mine on the nightstand and kisses the side of my head.
“Drink,” he says. “You look like you’re trying to astral-project out of this midterm. ”
“I am,” I mutter into the pillow. “I’ve decided I’d like to reincarnate as someone who’s good at statistics.”
He laughs, leans over me, and takes my laptop out of my hands. “Break time,” he declares. “Ten minutes.”
“But—”
Miguel climbs onto the bed, nudges my hips until I roll over, then settles with his back against the headboard and pats his thigh.
I blink. “You want me to…?”
“Yep.” He taps again. “C’mere.”
I crawl into his lap, straddling one thigh, my arms draping automatically around his shoulders. The moment I settle, his hands slide up my back and under my hoodie, warm and sure.
“How’s your brain?” He murmurs, kissing the corner of my jaw.
“Fried,” I whisper. “Crunchy. Like burnt toast.”
“Delicious,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over my neck. “I love burnt toast.”
I shouldn’t be turned on during midterm week.
But Miguel always smells like cedar and clean laundry and heat, and I’m only human.
“Thought you wanted to help me study,” I mumble, even though I’m already rolling my hips, barely a grind, just enough pressure to make my breath catch.
“I am helping,” he says, sliding his hands down to my waist. “A relaxed brain learns better.”
“That is not a real scientific fact.”
“Yes, it is,” he deadpans.
I snort—then gasp when he guides my hips forward, slowly, over the thick muscle of his thigh.
Oh.
This is what we’re doing.
I drop my forehead to his shoulder, fingers tightening on his upper arms. “Miggy…”
“Easy,” he says against my ear. “Slow. Just feel me.”
God, I do.
My sweats drag over his bare thigh—he’s wearing sleep shorts, damn him—and the friction is warm and steady. His hands move with me, holding me, guiding me. Not fast.
Just… intimate.
“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice dangerously low.
“You’re evil,” I whisper.
“Mm.” His smile ghosts against my neck. “And you’re needy. So we’re even.”
I lift my head and glare at him, except I can’t glare because the second I look at him, his mouth, his eyes, the faint smirk, I want to kiss him until my lips bruise.
I kiss him hard, open-mouthed and messy. My tongue slips between his lips, his hand fists the back of my hoodie, and I roll my hips again, needier this time.
Miguel groans into my mouth. “Caleb.”
“Ten-minute break, huh?” I mutter against his lips.
“Educational,” he says, smirking. “We’re engaging multiple learning styles.”
“Talk nerdy to me, baby.” I moan into his mouth as his thigh flexes under me—on purpose—and I bite back another sound.
I rest my forehead against his again, breath shaking. “I should not be this easy for you.”
“You should,” he says, sliding a hand up my spine. “You’re supposed to be. Only for me.”
A full-body shiver rolls through me.
“Okay,” he says suddenly, his voice dropping into that playful, curious thing he does. “Question time.”
“Question time?”
“Mm.” His fingers toy with the waistband of my sweats. “You ask me something. Then I ask you something. We go back and forth. But it has to be honest, or the game doesn’t work.”
“What game?”
“This one.” His thigh shifts again, and I gasp. “The one where I help you stop overthinking everything in the universe.”
I exhale shakily. “Okay. Fine. First question.”
“Shoot, hermoso.”
I chew my lip. “Do you… regret coming to Oregon?”
He blinks, surprised. “To your game?”
“To the dinner,” I whisper.
Miguel cups my jaw gently. “Caleb. No. I’ll show up for you even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
He kisses me, slow and earnest.
“My turn,” he murmurs against my lips. “What’s something you’re proud of this week? And don’t say ‘nothing.’”
I swallow and think while I roll my hips once, slowly, just to stay grounded. “I… didn’t panic once in the last two games,” I say. “I felt it starting once, but I used the grounding things Dr. Kaur taught me. And it actually worked.”
Miguel’s face softens in a way that makes my chest hurt. “That’s good,” he says quietly. “I’m proud of you.” He kisses my temple. “Your turn.”
The pressure of his thigh under me makes it hard to think straight.
“Fuck,” I inhale. “Do you ever worry you’re gonna wake up and decide this—us—is too hard?”
Miguel’s fingers curl at my waist, firm. “No,” he says without hesitation. “I worry you’ll decide life is too much. But I never doubt us.”
His thumb strokes my hipbone.
I appreciate that he is being real with me.
“My turn,” he whispers, voice dipping again. “What do you want right now?”
The friction hits me hard as I shift, hitting just the right spot on the underside of my dick.
A low sound escapes me. “I want you,” I whisper.
“Not… like… not full-on sex, because I won’t be able to focus after.
But… I want your hands on me. I want…” My face heats.
“I want you to make me come on your thigh.”
Miguel makes a sound deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
Strong hands guide my hips again, slow and controlled. My breath stutters as heat coils low in my stomach.
“My turn,” I gasp. “Why… why do you like watching me like this?”
Miguel’s eyes darken, pupils blown. “Because you look alive,” he murmurs. “You let go with me and watching you fall apart is the closest thing I have to religion.”
“Jesus,” I breathe.
“No,” he says softly, “just me, baby.” He brushes his nose along my jaw. “My question. What do you need to hear right now?”
I press my forehead to his, breath shaking, hips rolling in slow, desperate circles. “That I’m okay,” I whisper. “That last week didn’t ruin anything between us. That I’m not too much.”
Miguel’s hands slide up my back, pulling me closer, holding me steady.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs into my mouth. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re not too much.”
His thigh presses up just right and I gasp.
“You are exactly the weight I want on me, Caleb.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost come right there. “My turn,” I choke out, voice cracking. “What do you want from me?”
Miguel exhales softly, kissing me once, then again. “Honesty,” he says. “Even when it scares you. Even when it scares me. I want you to talk to me the way you did at dinner. The way you did in bed after.”
Those brown eyes of his soften, warm and unbearably tender. “And I want your hands on me right now.”
I slide my hands under his shirt, palms gliding across the ridges of his stomach and chest. His breath stutters and his thigh tenses.
“My question,” he whispers. “What do you want me to say while you come for me?”
Heat explodes behind my ribs.
I bury my face in his neck. “Spanish,” I gasp. “Say something in Spanish. Anything.”
Miguel groans softly.
“Mmm,” he whispers. “I can do that.”
His grip tightens on my hips, guiding my rhythm, deep and slow and devastating.
“Caleb…”
His voice is almost a growl.
“Así… mi amor. Eso. Qué rico te mueves… te ves tan hermoso cuando te pierdes.”
I break.
The orgasm hits fast and sharp, rolling through me in waves. I cling to him, shaking, breath catching on every exhale. Miguel holds me through all of it, steady and warm, murmuring Spanish against my neck until I slump against him.
He kisses my hair. “You okay?”
I nod against his shoulder, spent and a little floaty. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, I’m… good.”
“Good.” He strokes my back. “My turn for a question.”
I groan. “Haven’t I been interrogated enough for one night?”
“One more,” he says, smiling against my cheek. “It’s an easy one.”
I lift my head.
He looks at me with that soft, stupid, dangerous love he doesn’t always realize he’s wearing. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?” he asks.
It’s so simple.
So steady.
So everything.
I kiss him, slow and grateful. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I always want to sleep here.”
Miguel tugs my hoodie back into place, kisses my forehead like I’m something precious, then pulls the blankets over us.
My laptop is abandoned, and my notes are half-done. Midterms loom, but I couldn’t care less. Miguel’s chest is warm under my cheek, his arms around me secure and loose at once, his breath steady against my hair.
I’m safe.
I’m loved.
So I fall asleep like this, wrapped in him, wrapped in the softest truth I’ve ever held.