Chapter 4 Miguel
FOUR
MIGUEL
Steam curls up from the bath, fogging the mirror and wrapping the bathroom in soft, golden warmth.
The faint scent of cedar and vanilla drifts through the air, the candles I lit earlier are now flickering on the counter.
Caleb sits at the edge of the tub, skin flushed, the marks I left on him darkening by the minute. He looks… wrecked.
Beautifully and utterly wrecked.
And mine.
But when his eyes flick up to meet mine, I see the exhaustion behind the glow. The tremor still in his hands. He gave me everything tonight, and I don’t take that lightly.
“Want me to make it hotter?” I ask quietly, testing the water with my hand. “Or maybe you want to be alone for a bit?”
Caleb shakes his head immediately, his voice low and hoarse. “No. Please stay with me.”
Those words hit somewhere deep in my chest. I wait for him to get settled, then climb in behind him and lean against the porcelain as the water laps at our skin.
He sinks back between my legs, head resting against my shoulder, and exhales like he’s been holding it in all night.
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close.
For a few minutes, we just breathe. No words. Just the sound of the fire crackling in the next room and the soft drip of the faucet.
Reaching for the washcloth, I soak it and drag it gently across his chest. He lets out a small sound, halfway between a sigh and a hum.
I move slowly, washing the lube and sweat and cum from his body, careful around the marks on his wrists.
The tinsel left faint red lines, and guilt tightens in my throat.
“You okay, baby?” I murmur, kissing the curve of his neck.
He nods. “Yeah. Just tired. That was…” He laughs softly, his voice still a little shaky. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah,” I agree, rinsing the cloth and gliding it lower, over his stomach, his hips. “We probably should’ve used something less sharp than tinsel.”
He snorts. “Christmas hazard.”
“Guess I’m getting coal this year.”
He turns his head just enough to grin at me. “If you do, I’ll just share my gifts with you.”
“I—” Lost for words, I clear my throat. “Still, I want to make sure you’re okay. Not just your body, your head, too.”
Caleb’s smile falters, just a little. I feel it in the shift of his body. I keep my touch gentle and patient. “I’ve been thinking…” I start, letting my fingers trace lazy circles over his skin. “We should have a safe word. Just in case something ever feels like it’s too much.”
He’s quiet for a moment, the only sound is the faint movement of water.
“I know you’d never hurt me,” he says finally, barely above a whisper.
“I wouldn’t,” I say, kissing the side of his head.
“But it’s not just about that, Caleb. It’s not always the physical stuff that hurts first. Sometimes it’s here,” I press my hand over his chest, right above his heart.
“And if you ever need to stop because something feels wrong or too much, you can. No questions. No judgment. Ever.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, thinking. Processing. I let him have the silence.
Then, softly. “You really care about me, don’t you?”
I smile against the back of his neck, lips brushing his damp skin. “You have no idea how much I care about you.”
Caleb tilts his head back until it rests against my shoulder again, his wet hair brushing my jaw. “I don’t think anyone’s ever… talked to me like that before,” he murmurs. “Not about sex, at least. Not like it’s...”
“Something worth protecting?” I offer quietly.
He nods, eyes closing. “Yeah. I mean, granted, I’ve never really talked about sex with anyone other than friends, but it’s always something that jokes are cracked at. Where guys talk about how emotions don’t matter.”
I wrap my arms tighter around him, my chin resting on the crown of his head. “Emotions absolutely matter. Sex is full of them, especially when you’re doing it with the right person. It’s never a joke with me. Unless you want it to be, ya know.”
He exhales, a sound that shivers through him, and I feel it against my chest. His body relaxes, the last bit of tension melting away into the warm water.
I reach for the washcloth again, running it down his thighs, careful, slow.
He’s letting me touch him without any of the frantic energy from earlier. No edge, no brattiness. Just trust.
That’s the part that hits hardest.
When I finish, I drop the cloth and reach for the shampoo. He makes a noise of protest when I nudge him forward. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice still soft, but I can hear the shy note in it.
“I want to.” I pour a little into my palm, working it into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. He hums under my touch, it’s a small contented sound that makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Feels nice,” he mumbles.
“Good.” I lean down and kiss the shell of his ear. “You deserve nice things.”
He laughs quietly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” he says, turning slightly so I can see the curve of his smile. “That’s what makes it worse.”
“Worse?”
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s that soft honesty again. “Because it makes me want to fall for you even more than I already have.”
My hands go still in his hair for a second. He doesn’t look away when he says it, and something about that, about how open he’s being even when he’s scared, undoes me.
I rinse his hair gently, letting the suds slip away into the water. “Then fall,” I whisper against his skin. “I’ll catch you.”
He’s quiet again, but this time it’s a good quiet.
When we’re both clean, I reach over and pull the plug, watching the water swirl down the drain.
Caleb stays where he is, back pressed against me, until the water level drops low enough that the cold starts to creep in.
I nudge him forward and climb out, grabbing a towel, and then help him up, wrapping him in one before I take another for myself.
He looks small like this—barefoot, damp, eyes soft and glassy. I can see the faint bruises already forming along his neck and hips, the constellation of everything we did written on his skin. I cup his face in my hands and tilt his chin up. “You sure you’re okay?”
He nods, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Better than okay. Just… tired. But the good kind.”
Changing into our pajamas, me in my black joggers and a matching thermal and Caleb in his festive red and green flannel pants and a white thermal.
I dry his hair before leading him out of the bathroom.
Going to bed with wet hair in this climate is just asking to get sick.
The air outside the door feels cooler, the fire in the living room still glowing low and orange.
We settle back onto the couch, wrapped together in the same blanket from earlier.
Caleb tucks himself against me, his head over my heart. His fingers trace absent patterns on my chest, slow and lazy.
“Do you ever think,” he says after a while, voice muffled, “that maybe this, us, it’s too good to last?”
I brush my fingers through his hair, keeping my voice steady even when my chest tightens.
“Not that it’s too good to last. But maybe more along the lines of something happens and we grow apart.
Or that it might get really hard, but then I remember good things don’t come easy, you have to work for them.
I’m not letting go of you just because it might get hard. ”
He tilts his head up, eyes glassy in the firelight. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
For a while, neither of us speaks. The snow outside falls heavier, coating the windows in white. The world feels small, just the fire, the blanket, and the steady rhythm of his breathing against me.
Then Caleb breaks the silence, voice thick with sleep. “You know what tomorrow is, right?”
“Christmas Eve.”
He hums. “I’m gonna miss Mom’s cinnamon rolls.”
I chuckle, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You and your food. There’s always next year.”
I stare into the fire, my hand tracing slow circles on his back, and think—yeah. Maybe this is too good to last. But for tonight, I’ll let myself believe it can.
“I’m gonna go get the bed ready. Be right back.
” and I plant a kiss on his head, then head back upstairs.
The loft still smells faintly of sex and sweat, of us, and I grimace at the sight of the tangled sheets.
Caleb deserves to sleep in something clean, not the wreckage of what we just did to each other.
The bed’s a mess. Pillows thrown halfway to the floor, the duvet twisted like we’d tried to strangle it, and tinsel pieces everywhere.
I strip everything off and grab the spare set from the cedar chest under the window.
It takes me a minute to make it right, hospital corners, smooth sheets, duvet fluffed.
My hands are steady even though my head’s still buzzing from earlier.
I should be tired. But I’m not. I’m restless, wired from too much want and too many feelings I can’t shut off.
By the time I make it downstairs, the fire’s burned low. The cabin’s drenched in that soft, flickering glow—all gold and shadow. And there he is, curled up on the couch under one of the throw blankets, sound asleep.
He’s on his side, one arm tucked under his cheek, mouth slightly open. His hair is starting to wave a little, his face flushed from the heat of the room. He looks peaceful.
God, he’s beautiful. Not in the obvious, perfect way. It’s in the way he breathes, the way his lashes twitch when he dreams, and the faint scar along his jaw that only shows up under firelight. Every part of him makes me ache.
I crouch next to him and brush a strand of hair back from his forehead. He doesn’t stir. Just lets out a little sigh that sounds way too much like trust.
That’s what kills me.
Because I’d burn down the entire world before I ever let anyone ever hurt him.