Chapter 36 Miguel #2
“How long have you been communing with the mattress?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing his hair back from his forehead.
Squinting at the clock. “Uh… an hour?”
“What was the plan for this hour?” I ask. “Nap, dissociate, or pretend to study?”
“Yes,” he says.
I chuckle, then really look at him.
The shadows under his eyes are deeper, and his lips are chapped. There’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there last week.
“Brain radio check,” I say quietly. “Volume?”
He groans into the pillow. “Seven,” he mumbles. “Maybe seven-point-five.”
“Did something happen?” I ask. “Or just… accumulation of bullshit?”
Rolling onto his back with a sigh, staring at the ceiling, he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Got an email from the scout again,” he says. “He wants to know if I’d be open to going to some summer camp thing. Exposure, drills, whatever.”
“That’s good,” I say carefully.
“I know,” he says quickly. “It is. It’s just—” He makes a helpless gesture. “It’s like every time a new path opens up, my anxiety goes, ‘ah yes, more square footage to ruin.’”
I huff out a laugh. “Accurate.”
“And then my dad texted again at lunch,” Caleb continues.
“Asking about weekend plans. Asking if I’d thought about lunch.
” He rubs his eyes. “I know he’s trying.
I know he is. But every time his name shows up on my screen, my body thinks the message is going to say, ‘I changed my mind, you’re a mistake, fix it. ’”
My hands curl on the comforter. “Did you respond?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’m… not in the right headspace. I don’t want to answer from a place of panic and then regret it.”
I nod. “That’s good,” I say. “That’s… really good, actually.”
He snorts. “Look at me exercising boundaries like a functioning human.”
“Dr. K would be proud,” I say. “So am I.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling. “I’m just tired, Miggy,” he says. “Of everything feeling like a test I can fail. School, ball, my dad, my brain, us. Like if I don’t handle every interaction perfectly, I’m going to lose something I can’t get back.”
Protective anger flares in my chest. Not at him. At everything that taught him love was conditional and safety was a trick.
I stretch out beside him, propping myself on one elbow. “Hey,” I say, touching his jaw. “We’re not a test.”
Caleb opens his eyes, unfocused, like he’s halfway down the undertow already.
“Say it back to me,” I ask. “So your brain hears it in your voice, too.”
Swallowing, he takes a deep breath and does. “We’re… not a test,” he repeats, hesitant. “We’re just… us.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Messy and horny and traumatized and obnoxiously in love. But not an exam. No curve, no grading rubric. Just… life.”
A tiny smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “You’re very poetic for an electrician,” he says.
“What can I say? Call me Shakespeare,” I reply. “Now, the safety plan says when the radio hits seven, we don’t just lie here marinating in static. So… what would help right now? Food, shower, walk, cuddles, stupid movie, yelling about the Warriors… blow job… what’s accessible?”
His eyebrow quirks up and thinks for a long moment. “As tempting as a blow job is, I should eat,” he admits. “I had the sandwich at lunch and then a granola bar at, like… four. My stomach is half coffee.”
“Okay,” I say. “Pozole?”
Eyes flick to mine. “Ma’s?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She made too much. You know how she gets.”
His throat works. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Pozole sounds… good.”
“Cool,” I say, patting his chest once. “Come help me heat it so you don’t fall back into your mattress coma.”
He groans dramatically but lets me tug him upright. He shuffles after me in his socks, hoodie sleeves half-covering his hands. In the kitchen, I set the pot on the stove and he leans against the counter, watching, eyes half-lidded.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What thing?”
“Watching me like I’m a circuit you’re waiting to fail,” he says. No accusation. Just weary observation.
I wince. “Sorry,” I say automatically.
“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing spoons from the drawer. “It’s… part of the deal. I just… don’t want to make you feel like you have to be on high alert 24/7.”
“I don’t have to,” I say. “I choose to pay attention because I know what the stakes are.” I stir the soup, watching the surface bubble. “But you’re right. I need to watch with curiosity, not like I’m waiting for you to explode.”
He bumps my hip with his. “Curiosity is allowed,” he says. “Panic monitoring… less helpful.”
“Noted,” I say, giving him a mock salute.
We eat at the table, bowls warm between our hands. Caleb’s shoulders un-hunch with each bite. By the time he’s scraping the bottom, the tension around his mouth has loosened.
“How’s the brain now?” I ask.
Tilting his head to the side. “Solid six,” he says. “The pozole knocked it down a notch.”
“Pozole is powerful,” I say. “Might put Dr. K out of business.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he says. “She’ll make us do some fucking worksheet about it.”
“Hot,” I deadpan.
He snorts, then yawns, stretching his arms above his head. His hoodie rides up, revealing a strip of stomach and the waistband of his sweats.
My brain, ever helpful: so horny.
Later.
First, we do the dishes, and then we share the feelings.
Then maybe if things go well… we can get some ass.
We end up on the couch with some mindless movie playing, Caleb’s feet tangled with mine, his head on my shoulder. About halfway through, his phone buzzes on the coffee table.
He stiffens.
“Want me to check?” I ask.
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Please.”
I reach for it, thumb hovering, then flip it over.
Dad
No rush on lunch. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you. Let me know if there’s a day that feels good for you. If not this weekend, we can find another time.
I show him the screen.
His jaw tenses, but he reads it twice, then exhales. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s… not bad.”
“No,” I agree. “That’s him… trying to mend this in the only way he knows how.”
Caleb nods slowly. “I still don’t want to respond tonight,” he says. “My head’s… too crowded.”
“Then don’t,” I say. “Future Caleb can decide. Present Caleb is busy being a weighted blanket.”
That comment makes him smile and nuzzle closer. “I am very good at that,” he says.
“I know,” I murmur, kissing the top of his head.
By the time the credits roll, his weight has gone heavy against me, breathing slow and soft. I nudge him gently. “Come on,” I say. “Bed. Your spine will hate you if you sleep like this.”
Groaning like the stubborn man he is, he let me steer him down the hall.
In the bedroom, he flops face-first onto the mattress, then rolls over and grabs my wrist as I turn toward the dresser.
“Stay,” he says.
“I was just going to—”
“Stay,” he repeats, softer, tugging me down.
I cave immediately.
Call me a sucker.
We end up tangled under the comforter, his back against my chest, my arm around his waist. The room is dark except for the sliver of streetlight slipping past the blinds.
“Bedtime check-in,” I murmur, nose in his hair.
“Five,” he whispers. “You’re… good white noise.”
“Rude,” I say. “I am very interesting.”
“You’re my favorite static,” he corrects, half-asleep.
I smile into his mess of hair. “That’s better.”
Lying there listening to the quiet, my own thoughts try to creep in, worry about the scout that’s hunting Caleb, about my next session with Dr. Ortega, and about whether I’m doing enough or too much or all the wrong things in all the right ways.
I let them pass.
For now, there’s this, his heartbeat under my palm, the warmth of his back on my chest, and the fact that we made it through midterms, spring break, and a fancy dinner and came out the other side still choosing each other.
The undertow is still there. I can feel it humming under the surface.
But so are we.
“Hey, Miggy?” He mumbles, almost gone.
“Mm?”
“If I do… move in full-time,” he says, words slurring with sleep, “we’re getting a bigger bed. My bones can’t handle being twenty-two on a full.”
I snort softly. “We’ll get you a throne, hermoso,” I whisper. “King-size for my king.”
He hums, pleased. “Okay,” he sighs. “One day at a time.”
“One day at a time,” I echo.
I press a kiss to his shoulder, close my eyes, and let my own brain radio fade down to a manageable volume. Tomorrow will come with its own noise.
Tonight, the only station I care about is the sound of him breathing.