15. Caleb
FIFTEEN
CALEB
I don’t wake up so much as surface, like I’ve been floating in dark water and finally let myself breathe.
Every part of me aches. My throat, my wrists, my thighs—every nerve still humming with the memory of rope, of Miguel’s hands steadying me, of his voice slipping between filth and praise until I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
For a moment, I tell myself it had to be a dream. Nobody could do those things to me—not here, not under the same roof as my parents.
But the marks on my skin say otherwise.
The faint rope burns circling my wrists. The bruises where his teeth caught my jaw. The ache when I shift on the mattress, remembering the stretch of him inside me.
I touch my own skin like I’m checking if it’s real. It is. Every bit of it.
And the worst part?
I wanted it.
God help me, I wanted all of it.
Is that really the worst? Wanting someone who makes you feel alive?
Maybe it’s not.
I pull on the first hoodie I find, tugging the sleeves down to cover my wrists.
When I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself.
Eyes too bright, lips swollen, hair a mess from Miguel’s fingers.
I look—ruined. Marked. And yet my chest tightens with something that doesn’t feel like shame.
I’m wanted.
Cared about.
For the first time in my life, it feels like someone cares if I wake up in the morning. Who would have thought that it would have been my stepbrother?
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. Celeste’s humming as she flips the omelets, Dad buried in the paper. It’s the same Sunday morning I’ve known my whole life. Safe. Familiar.
And then there’s Miguel.
Already at the table, shoulders filling out his t-shirt, coffee in his hand like he owns the whole room. When his gaze lifts and snags on me, something inside me stumbles. His mouth tilts, just slightly—not the cruel smirk I’m used to, but something softer. Something secret.
Our secret.
Heat floods my face. I drop into the chair across from him, praying my parents can’t see the evidence carved all over me.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Dad says cheerfully. “Really taking advantage of being home to sleep in.”
Miguel doesn’t miss a beat, chiming in. “He needed the rest.”
Just that. No teasing, no edge. But the way he says it—gentle, warm—makes my chest ache worse than if he’d shoved me under the table.
Celeste sets down a plate in front of me, fussing. “Eat. You didn’t have much last night.”
I mutter thanks, cutting into the omelet, groaning at how good it is.
I miss her cooking. My whole body is jittery, like my skin remembers too much.
Under the table, Miguel’s foot brushes mine.
Light. Testing. My pulse jumps. I flick my gaze up at him—he only raises his mug, sipping slowly, like he hasn’t just set me on fire again.
I nearly choke on my orange juice when his mom asks, “Sleep okay, honey? You have some serious bags under your eyes.” She grabs my face and turns it back and forth in her gentle grasp. “I have some little ice packs that go here,” pointing to the area. “They will help.”
“Thanks,” I croak. “I’ll do that. Gracias, Mama.” She smiles at that, leaning down to kiss my cheek.
Miguel’s eyes stay on me a beat longer, and there’s nothing mocking in them. Only that same unreadable heat.
The rest of breakfast is a blur. Dad goes to fix something in the shed. Celeste disappears with a basket of laundry, and suddenly it’s just me and Miguel at the table. The silence hums between us. He leans back in his chair, arms folding over his chest. “You’re quiet this morning.”
My fingers tighten on my coffee mug. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not.” His voice is even, not sharp. “I just want to know where your head’s at.”
The question throws me more than any filthy whisper he used last night. My laugh comes out shaky. “Where my head’s at? You really want me to spell that out?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I do.”
I stare at him, throat dry. I want to say I’m fine. That it was a mistake. That I’ll forget all about it when I’m back at school. But my body can’t tell that lie—heat crawling up my neck, my hands shaking against the mug.
Miguel watches, patient. Waiting.
Finally I blurt, “I don’t know how to feel.”
Something eases in his expression, like that was the only answer he needed. “That’s honest. We’ll make it work, Caleb.”
The words hit me harder than any dirty name he’s ever called me.
I sink back in my chair, trying to breathe. “You shouldn’t—” My voice cracks. “We shouldn’t—”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t deny it. He just studies me like he’s memorizing my face. Then, quieter, “But I meant what I said last night.”
My chest squeezes. My ears burn. I want to ask what exactly he meant—the praise, the tenderness, or the slip of Spanish that he thinks I didn’t hear. I’m not brave enough to push him, though.
Instead I whisper, “You’re dangerous.”
Miguel smiles, not cruelly but achingly. “Yeah. But I’ll never hurt you.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I look away.
The rest of the day slides by in snapshots—helping Celeste put away the decorations, Dad snoring through a movie, and candy passed around while the wind rattles the windows.
Miguel is always there, close enough that our shoulders brush, his hand brushing mine when we reach for the popcorn.
Not demanding of public affection. Not pushing.
Just… there. Like he belongs in my space, like he’s already settled into me.
By the time I’m packing my bag for campus, my chest feels hollow. Not empty, not broken. Just full of something I don’t have words for. I pause at my bedroom window, looking out at the sagging pumpkins on the porch, the yard stripped of Halloween lights. The world looks the same. It feels the same.
Except, I don’t.
My reflection in the glass is different now. More secrets, only this time the secret is one that makes me feel alive.
And wanted.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel Miguel’s hands steadying me, his voice whispering praise, and the way his arms wrapped around me after, like he couldn’t let go. I know then, as sure as I know my own name—whatever this is, I’ll come back.
Maybe that’s the scariest part.
Or maybe it’s the sweetest.