“Loving you requires a lot of things,” I say. “Turns out, martyrdom isn’t one of them. Who knew?”
He huffs a laugh and tips his head back to look at me. “Dr. Kaur said something today,” he says slowly. “Almost the same. That you getting help is… proof you want to stay. Not proof that I broke you.” He swallows. “I’m trying to make myself believe her.”
“Maybe we can both try,” I say. “You stop thinking you’re toxic. I’ll stop thinking I’m a shitty partner if I ever say, ‘I need help too.’”
Caleb considers that, his lips quirking. “Joint homework,” he says. “Look at us go. Power couple.”
“Don’t ever say ‘power couple’ again,” I groan. “You’ll jinx us. Next thing you know, some Netflix producer will want to make a documentary.”
“Stepbrothers in Love: A Cautionary Tale,”he says in his best announcer voice.
“Absolutely not,” I say, chucking a throw pillow at his face.
He catches it and hugs it to his chest. The laughter fades, leaving behind something softer, quieter.
“I’m proud of you,” he says suddenly. “For going. For talking. For… letting someone tell you you’re allowed to be human.”
The words hit some raw place I didn’t realize was exposed. Between those and Dr. Kaur’s and his dad’s reluctant attempts, I’m starting to feel like someone opened a fire hydrant of “proud of you”s and forgot to shut it off.
“Yeah, well,” I say gruffly. “I’m proud of you first. I said it more. I win.”
He rolls his eyes. “Competitive asshole.”
“You love me,” I say.
“Unfortunately,” he says, but his hand finds mine again, fingers lacing tight. “Yeah. I do.”
We sit there like that for a while, the TV playing some game highlights we’re not really watching, our hands tangled on the couch between us.
We’re not fixed.
We’re not safe from everything coming.
But for the first time in a long time, I feel like we’re not standing alone on the cliff edge, daring the waves to come get us.
I’ve been pretending I can outrun the ocean with sheer stubbornness.
Maybe it’s time to learn how to swim.
TWENTY-SEVEN
CALEB
The moment my eyes open, I know I’m barely holding on, Miguel’s chest warm and familiar under my cheek, his heartbeat a slow, steady thump that doesn’t match the jitter in my own. With a weighted blanket over both of us, his arm heavy across my back, his fingers tucked just inside the waistband of my sweatpants like he fell asleep on the verge of starting something.
For a few seconds, that’s all there is.
His breathing. The faint hum of the fridge down the hall. The smell of his pillow, laundry detergent and his shampoo and something that’s just… all him.
My brain, mercifully, is quiet.
Then it remembers who it belongs to.
Miguel went to therapy yesterday.
Because of you.
And just like that, the hamster wheel starts spinning.
