He sat in a room and talked about how hard it is to love you.
The blanket goes from comforting to suffocating in half a second. My fingers clench in the soft cotton of his shirt. I try to inhale quietly so I don’t wake him.
One, two, three, four.
The digits of Dr. Kaur’s voice count along in my head.
Hold two, three, four.
Exhale, two, three, four, five, six.
It helps. A little.
Miguel shifts under me, a low sound rumbling in his chest. “You’re thinking loud,” he mutters.
“Sorry.” My voice comes out muffled against his skin.
His hand moves on my back, his big palm dragging slowly between my shoulder blades. “You okay?” he asks.
The reflexive answer—fine—skitters up my throat and hits a wall. I picture Dr. Kaur’s face. Is that what he actually said?
“No,” I hear myself say instead. “Yes. Kind of. Brain’s being… brainy.”
He huffs a sleepy laugh. “That’s a technical term, you know.” His hand slows at the back of my neck, thumb tracing the little notch at my spine. “Wanna tell me, or do you want to just absorb my body heat until it shuts up?”
“He poked at your wiring yesterday,” I mumble. “My brain keeps trying to convince me you’re gonna look at it and go, ‘Wow, this is a fire hazard, better move out.’”
There’s a beat of silence where I immediately regret being honest.
Then Miguel’s chest shakes under my cheek, his deep, rumbly laugh filling the bedroom. “You think highly of my taste if you think I only noticed the wiring yesterday,” he says, his tone teasing but threaded with seriousness. “Baby, I’ve been staring at that electrical panel since we were teenagers.”
“Hot,” I mutter.
“Extremely,” he says. “What brought that up? Did I say something yesterday that sounded like ‘fire hazard, I’m out’?”
“No,” I admit. “That’s the problem. You were all calm and… responsible and using words like ‘boundaries.’ That’s not my brand. My brand is ‘if you look too close, you’ll leave.’”
His hand stills for a second and I think I’ve said too much.
Then he shifts, rolling onto his back and dragging me with him so I’m half sprawled across his chest, my leg still hooked over his hip. He tilts my chin up with his knuckles until I have to meet his eyes.
“I went,” he says quietly, “because I want to be here longer. Not because I found the off switch.”
My throat tightens. “What if therapy makes you realize I’m… too much?” I ask, voice small. “What if he sits there and goes, ‘Wow, this is codependent and unhealthy. Have you tried dumping your stepbrother?’”
Miguel’s mouth twists. “He literally said dumping you is not on the menu,” he says. “And if he changes his mind, I’ll throw one of those big-ass books he has on his shelf at him.”
I snort, then wince. “Please don’t assault your therapist with literature.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll throw metaphors at him instead. The point is that’s not why I’m there. I’m there so that when your dad pulls his inevitable lawyer bullshit, I don’t set myself on fire trying to shield you from every spark.”
My chest does a weird achy thing at the phrase “your dad.” “He texted again last night,” I say before I can stop myself.
Miguel’s eyebrows go up. “Yeah?”
“Just… repeating that he wants to talk,” I say. “That he means the ‘no rush.’ That he wants to listen to you. It shouldn’t freak me out more every time he says it, but it kind of does.”
“Why?” Miguel asks. Pure curiosity, no judgement.
