Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
CALEB
Iwake up sticky.
Not metaphorically.
Literally sticky.
There’s this tacky, uncomfortable drag when I shift my hips, and for three blissfully blank seconds I think, “Weird dream,” before last night hits me like a truck.
Miguel’s thigh under me.
His hands on my hips.
His voice in my ear, low and rough.
Spanish that felt like a prayer and a command at the same time.
Me coming in my sweatpants like a teenager the first time someone touched him through his jeans.
I try to stay perfectly still, like maybe if I don’t move the embarrassment won’t notice me, but the mess is drying and everything feels gross and my body’s like, “Congratulations, you’re marinating in your own shame. ”
Beside me, Miguel shifts. His arm is heavy across my waist, his face buried in my hair, and his breath warm at the back of my neck. He makes this low, sleepy sound, halfway between a sigh and a hum.
“You’re thinking loud,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
Of course I am.
“I, um…” My voice cracks. Kill me now. “I need to shower.”
His hand opens against my stomach, pulling me closer. “Why?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because I, uh, we… last night… and your thigh, and my—” My brain throws up its hands and quits. “You know why.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then he huffs out a laugh against my neck. “Baby,” he says, lips ghosting over my skin, “you came so hard I thought I’d have to call you an ambulance.”
I groan and drag the blanket over my head. “Miggy, I will actually die. You will be dating a ghost.”
“I would never date anyone as emotionally constipated as a ghost,” he says calmly. He tugs the blanket back down just enough to see my face. “You being this easy for me is, like, one of the top three joys of my life. Not a single molecule of me is grossed out.”
“I’m a grown man who came in his sweatpants from grinding on your thigh.”
“You’re a grown man who trusted me enough to let go,” he corrects. “Also, for the record, top-tier performance. Ten out of ten, would love to watch again.”
I swat at his chest, mortified. “Stop talking.”
Miguel grins and kisses my forehead. “Go shower, hermoso. I’ll start coffee. Then you can tell me all about your scary, terrifying midterm schedule.”
“Can we not make this about my midterms before I’ve even had my caffeine?”
“Fine,” he says. “We’ll make it about how hard you shook on my thigh.”
“MIGUEL.”
He laughs, full and bright, and it’s impossible not to smile.
Under the hot water, the mortification slowly washes off with the mess. I lean my forehead against the tile and let myself have thirty whole seconds of admitting the truth.
I like being this easy for him.
I like being wanted this much.
I like that my body trusts him even when my brain is full of worst-case scenarios.
Then I turn the water hotter, because I still have to show my face in the kitchen.
By the time I shuffle out in clean sweats and a fresh hoodie, my hair damp, the condo smells like coffee and whatever Miguel has decided counts as breakfast. He’s at the stove in a worn T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, spatula in hand, humming off-key to something only he can hear.
Two mugs sit on the counter, one black and one latte-colored with a dusting of cinnamon.
He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, eyes flicking down my body and back up in a one-second scan.
“Hey, pretty boy,” he says. “How’s the crime scene?”
“Do you want me to ever look you in the eye again?”
A smirk creeps across his face. “Thought that’s what I’m for—ruining you so thoroughly you can’t make eye contact.”
I shuffle closer, bump his hip with mine, and steal the latte. “You’re deeply unwell.”
“Ah yes, lovesick,” he says, flipping an egg. “And yet, here you are… stealing my clothes and loving me despite it all.”
I take my first sip of coffee and moan. “Unfortunately.”
He leans down and kisses the side of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Seriously,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, and—shockingly—I am. Embarrassed, sure. “Kinda floaty. In a good way.”
Nudging my mug up, I take another sip. “Good floaty is allowed.”
I hop up onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him move around the kitchen.
“Big day today,” he says lightly. “Practice, then…” He lifts his brows. “Dr. Kaur?”
I groan. “Ugh… why’d you have to remind me?”
“It’s a good thing, baby,” he says. “She’s the one who keeps your brain from trying to kill you.”
“Fair.”
“And tomorrow,” he adds, sliding eggs and toast onto plates, “I see Dr. Ortega again.”
“How are you… feeling about that?” I ask, wrapping my hands around the mug.
He shrugs one shoulder, sets a plate beside me, and leans on the counter. “Honestly? Less like I’m walking into a firing squad and more like I’m taking my wiring panel into the shop.”
“That’s… progress?” I say.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I’m still not used to talking about myself for forty-five minutes. But he’s good. He calls me out on my shit.”
“Rude of him,” I say. “Only I’m allowed to do that.”
Miguel snorts. “You have priority, baby.”
We eat, plates balanced on our knees on the couch, some random sports show mumbling in the background. When my phone vibrates on the coffee table, I glance at it and freeze.
Dad
So spring break, are you and Miguel still planning to come up Saturday? Your stepmom is already planning menus. It’s like she’s preparing to feed an army.
Miguel glances at the screen, then at me, a question in his eyes.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” he says, reaching for my knee. “Eat first. Panic second.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I swear it’s like you and Dr. Kaur collaborating.”
He grins. “She is my favorite co-conspirator.”
I stare at the text for another beat, then type, fingers only shaking a little.
Caleb
Yeah. We’re still coming. I’ll let you know what time.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Dad
Sounds good. Looking forward to having you both at home.
Both.
The word used to feel casual and now feels like someone trying to thread a needle in the dark.
Miguel squeezes my knee gently. “You okay?”
“I’m…” I pull in a breath. “I’m bracing.”
He nods, not arguing, not minimizing. “Talk to Dr. Kaur about it,” he says. “Get some extra armor.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’ll add ‘emotional kevlar’ to my to-do list between ‘ace stats midterm’ and ‘don’t have breakdown at family dinner.’”
Miguel leans over and kisses the back of my head. “You’re gonna be okay, Caleb.”
“I’m trying to believe you,” I admit.
“Good,” he says. “Start there.”
By the time I’m sitting in Dr. Kaur’s office that afternoon, my brain has had several hours to run possible spring break scenarios like a disaster movie marathon.
Dad yelling.
Dad crying.
Dad not saying anything at all and just going… cold.
Miguel stuck in the crossfire.
I sink into my usual spot on the couch, the cushion familiar under my thighs. Dr. Kaur sits across from me, notebook on her lap, pen poised but not threatening, her expression calm and open.
“How are you doing today?” she asks.
I let my head thunk back against the wall. “Define ‘doing.’”
Her mouth twitches. “Existing?”
“Barely.” I blow out a breath. “It’s… a lot. But also not a lot. Which is somehow worse?”
“Let’s unpack the ‘lot’ first,” she says. “What’s at the top of the list?”
“Spring break,” I say immediately. “Dad texted this morning. He wants us—me and Miguel—to come up on Saturday. ‘Looking forward to having you both home.’”
Her brows lift slightly. “How did that land?”
“Like someone just said, ‘Welcome to the shark tank’ in a really polite voice,” I mutter. “I know he’s… trying. But my brain keeps going, What if this is when he decides he actually can’t handle it?”
She nods slowly. “What does ‘can’t handle it’ look like in your mind?”
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Worst case? He sits me down and says he’s been thinking, and actually, no, this is too much, I’m too much, and I need to break up with Miguel or lose him.
Medium case? He’s… civil. Polite. But everything feels off.
Like he’s holding his breath the whole time.
Best case?” I shrug. “He’s awkward but… open. Like in Oregon.”
“And where,” she asks, “on that spectrum did dinner in Oregon actually land?”
I glare at her. “I hate when you use logic.”
“I know,” she says mildly. “Answer anyway.”
I sigh. “Somewhere between medium and best,” I admit.
“He said some… rough things. The whole ‘are you sure this isn’t a phase’ and ‘what about children’ bit.
” My stomach twists, remembering. “But he also said he’s proud of me.
Twice. And he didn’t threaten to cut me off.
He listened when I said I’m bi. He listened when Miguel said he’s not going anywhere. ”
“How did you feel afterward?” she asks.
“Like I’d run a marathon emotionally,” I say. “But also… not shattered. I kept waiting for the crash and it didn’t hit as hard as I thought.”
“How much of that,” she asks, “do you think was because Miguel was there?”
The question hits somewhere deep and raw. “A lot,” I say quietly. “He held my hand under the table the whole time. He backed me up. He… translated when my brain got stuck.”
She nods. “So going home for a week where you’ll all be under the same roof feels like… what?”
“Like we’re taking that dinner and stretching it out over seven days,” I say. “With no guarantee there’s a private boys-in-the-hotel-room debrief at the end.”
“Ah,” she says softly. “No separate safe space.”
“Except my old room,” I mutter. “Which is also… loaded, in its own way.”
“What’s the story your anxiety is telling you about this trip?” she asks.
“That I’m walking him into a situation where he could decide he’s out,” I say. “That if he spends enough time looking at us together in his house, he’ll call it and I’ll be… left choosing between my dad and my… person.”
“And what does the part of you that isn’t panic say?” she prompts gently.