12. Miguel
TWELVE
MIGUEL
The door creaks open just past midnight, the sound that feels too loud in a house that’s already fallen asleep.
Caleb slips in first, the hood of his sweatshirt half up, hair sticking out at odd angles.
His cheeks are flushed pink from all the beer, his steps a little clumsy, but his eyes are too sharp, too restless.
I expect him to bolt straight upstairs. Hide. Pretend tonight never happened. That’s what he does best—bury everything until it suffocates him.
But halfway down the hall, he turns.
And then he’s on me.
His hands fist in my shirt, shoving me against the wall, and his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s reckless, messy, and full of heat and desperation, but it’s him.
Caleb. Kissing me. Taking. For a beat, I’m frozen.
Then instinct takes over, and I kiss him back just as hard.
My hands lock around his waist, hauling him closer, swallowing his ragged breath.
“Fuck, Miggy… I need you.”
“Caleb—” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish. He presses harder, his mouth frantic, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he slows down.
I’m not going anywhere.
The taste of him—sweat, sugar, cheap beer—burns through me. The years I’ve spent wanting him, watching him fold himself small, and watching him suffer in silence all break loose in this one brutal kiss.
And then—
“?Miguel? ?Caleb?”
My mother’s voice.
We rip apart like we’ve been struck by lightning.
“Shit,” Caleb gasps, his eyes wide, wild. He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, breath coming too fast. Then he bolts. Stumbling up the stairs, footsteps loud in the silence, until his bedroom door slams shut.
The echo rattles through my ribs. I turn—and there she is.
My mother. Standing at the end of the hall with her robe belted tight and a mug in her hand, steam still curling from it. Her eyes are steady on me, sharp as glass.
Fuck.
I don’t breathe.
She sets the mug down on the mail table with a soft clink. “Miguel.”
“Mamá.” I try to avoid her eyes. It’s like I’m five years old again, getting caught taking a sweet from my Abuelita’s candy dish.
Her gaze flicks toward the stairs, then back. “?Qué fue eso?”
My mouth is dry. “Nada.”
Her eyebrow arches. “No me mientas.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing my voice even. “It’s complicated.”
Her eyes soften, but her voice doesn’t. “?Son pareja?”
I shake my head too fast. “No. We’re not—”
“?Entonces qué?” She folds her arms. “Porque no me digas que vi mal. No soy ciega.”
Shit. What the fuck were we thinking?
The floor feels unsteady beneath me. I look away, stare at the stairs like maybe I can call Caleb back down, make him share this weight. But he’s gone.
Her sigh is soft but heavy with years of watching without being told. “Ese nino…” She shakes her head. “Ha cargado tanto dolor. Lo esconde, pero yo lo veo.”
I clench my fists.
She steps closer, her voice lowering. “Cuídalo, hijo. Ha sufrido demasiado. Necesita amor.”
Her words gut me. They’re not condemnation. Not disgust—they’re a command. My mother doesn’t care that we’re doing what we’re doing. She just wants me to take care of him and his heart.
“Mamá—” My throat tightens. I want to ask what she knows, what Caleb has told her in whispered confessions when I wasn’t around. But something in her expression warns me not to. Not tonight.
Instead, she touches my cheek, her thumb brushing once across my jaw like she used to when I was a boy. “él confía en ti. No lo hagas arrepentirse.”
I swallow hard. “I won’t.”
She searches my face one last time, then nods. “Anda. Go. He needs you more than I do right now.”
I nod, then climb the stairs, each step weighted with the truth she left me. His door isn’t locked, but I hear the uneven rasp of his breathing before I even push it open.
The room is dim, lit only by a thin slice of streetlight through the blinds. Caleb’s on the bed, curled tight on his side, hoodie still on. His knees are pulled to his chest, his fists twisting the hem of the fabric like he’s trying to tear it apart. His breath comes too fast, shallow, and broken.
“Caleb,” I murmur.
He jerks but doesn’t turn. His shoulders shake. The air feels heavy and charged, and I know what this is—I’ve seen it before. Panic clawing through him, pulling him under.
I won’t let him spiral.
Stripping down to my briefs, I slip under the covers and press myself to his back. He stiffens at first, a sharp inhale that sounds like it hurts.
“Hey.” I wrap my arm around his waist, pulling him against me, anchoring him. “It’s just me.”
His chest heaves. “I—I can’t—” His words break, jagged and raw.
“Shh,” I murmur, pressing my mouth to the side of his head. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He shakes harder. His fingers scrabble at mine, clutching like a lifeline.
“Listen to me,” I whisper against his hair. “Breathe with me. In…” I exaggerate the rise of my chest, my hand spreading across his stomach so he can feel it. “And out. Slow. Just follow me, baby. You can do this.”
It takes time. His breaths stutter and catch until finally they start to match mine. Still shaky, but slowing, grounding.
“There you go,” I whisper, kissing the nape of his neck. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”
His voice comes out small, broken. “She knows?”
I don’t answer.
“She’s gonna tell my dad and… and then—”
The confession shreds my heart to pieces—I tighten my hold and nuzzle into his hair. “Sleep, Caleb. If he finds out, then we deal with it. Together.”
His breath hitches once more, then he sags into me, the tremors easing as exhaustion finally pulls him under.
I stay awake long after, my mother’s words echoing in my head, staring into the dark.
Because my mother’s words won’t leave me.
Because Caleb deserves more than ruin. He deserves love.
And whether or not she meant to, she just told me to give it to him.
“Take care of him. He needs love.”
I press a kiss to the back of his head and I realize I already do, but I need to love him the way he needs me to.