Caleb
Okay. I’ll bring snacks so you can trauma dump in style.
I snort, tuck the phone away, and start the engine. On the drive back, I keep catching myself reaching for old thoughts.
You’re being dramatic. You don’t need this. This is overkill.
Then I see Caleb’s face when he opened the door last night—eyes blown wide, shoulders up around his ears. Clinging to me like someone might rip us apart. My own heart trying to pound out of my chest because his dad could take him away with a word.
I grip the wheel tighter.
If I want to keep loving him the way I say I do—for a long time, not just until the next crisis—I need more than instincts and anger and willpower. I need structure. Tools. Other hands on the net.
It’s not just for him.
It’s for me.
The condo smellslike coffee and Caleb’s body wash when I walk in. The lamp in the living room is on, casting everything in that soft gold light Caleb always says makes the place feel like a safe house.
He’s already here.
Curled up on the couch, one knee up, my sweatpants on, his hair damp at the ends like he showered right before coming over. There’s a bag of chips and a box of those chocolate-covered pretzels he likes on the coffee table. The TV’s paused on the streaming menu. He looks up the second he hears the door unlock, his eyes scanning my face.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey, pretty boy,” I say.
Getting up, he crosses the room in about three steps and wraps his arms around my middle. Not as desperate as last night. Just making sure. I fold him up, nose in his hair, breathing him in. The tight, buzzing energy I carried out of the appointment loosens a little.
“How’d it go?” he asks, voice muffled in my shirt. “You don’t have to… like, report. I just… wanna know if you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “He didn’t bite.”
“Lame,” he says. “It’s not a real therapy session if you don’t feel chewed up and spit back out afterward.”
I huff a laugh and steer him backward until we hit the couch. We sit, his knee touching mine, the weight of his thigh a quiet anchor.
“You want the long version or the ‘It’s fine’-length version?” I ask.
“Give me the medium version,” he says. “We can work up to the long one.”
I nod, reaching over and picking up his hand. “His name’s Luis,” I say. “Dr. Ortega. He’s chill. Asked about you, about Reno, about why I drove to campus like a lunatic instead of waiting for you to text.”
Caleb winces. “Sorry.”
“Not the point,” I say, bumping his shoulder. “He kept coming back to me. To how I’m… treating myself like your full-time security system. How I go to the worst-case scenario every time your phone hiccups.”
“That’s… accurate,” Caleb says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “He said I’m allowed to not do that. That I’m not the only line between you and the dark. And that if I keep acting like I am, I’m gonna burn out.”
Caleb’s throat works. “He’s not wrong,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Hate that he’s not wrong, but yeah.”
We sit in that for a second.
“He asked me who I am if I’m not the handler,” I add.
