Because it feels like a countdown. Like every calm text is one step closer to whatever the hell his final verdict on us is.
I shrug, my face hot. “It makes it real,” I say. “Like the meeting’s actually gonna happen. It’s not just this hypothetical boss fight I can avoid by not pressing start.”
Miguel’s hand slides up into my hair, fingers scratching lightly against my scalp. “You remember what Dr. Kaur said?” he asks. “About planning for it. Ground rules. Not walking in blind?”
I make a face. “You two are in cahoots and I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, she called me on my secret therapist hotline and we arranged an intervention,” he deadpans. “Caleb, baby. This is exactly the kind of thing we can do homework on. Together. So your brain has something to hold on to besides ‘impending doom.’”
The phrase “homework” makes my stomach twist and relax at the same time. Therapy homework, not midterm homework. Somehow worse and better.
“I don’t know where to start,” I admit.
“We don’t have to start now,” he says. “We can eat first. Shower. I can bribe you with eggs.”
I groan into his chest. “Dr. Kaur would say you’re using food as a coping mechanism.”
“Dr. Kaur is not invited to breakfast,” he says. “C’mon. Coffee first, emotional labor second. That’s the rule.”
He rolls out from under me, taking the blanket with him. The cold air hits my back and I flop face-down on the mattress, groaning. “Rude.”
“Get out of bed, loser,” he says over his shoulder, shoving his legs into sweats.
“I hate you,” I mumble.
“No, you don’t.” He laughs, leans over long enough to press a kiss to the back of my head, then pads out toward the kitchen. The smell of coffee starts up a minute later, filling the condo with something warm and bitter and grounding.
I lie there for a few more breaths, letting the fact that he’s here, he’s still joking, and he’s still feeding me sink in. The hamsters in my brain slow just enough for me to swing my legs out of bed.
By the time I stumble into the kitchen, he’s already got two mugs on the counter and a pan heating on the stove. His hoodie is hanging off one shoulder, his hair is a mess, and there’s something obscenely domestic about the way he cracks eggs like he’s been doing this for a decade.
“Sit,” he says, nodding at a stool.
I obey, wrapping my hands around the coffee mug like it’s a space heater. The first sip burns my tongue and somehow that feels appropriate.
Miguel moves around the kitchen with this easy efficiency.
“So,” he says, not looking at me as he nudges the eggs around with a spatula. “Tell me what your brain’s doing when you think about your dad and this call. No censor. Just the raw version.”
“I hate it here,” I mutter.
Lifting a brow. “That’s not an emotion, that’s a meme.”
“Fine.” I blow on my coffee and stare at the dark surface. “My brain is… trying to run all the outcomes at once. Best case, worst case, medium case.”
He plates the eggs and turns off the burner. “Give me the headlines.”
“Best case,” I say reluctantly, “he actually means what he said. He listens. He’s uncomfortable but trying. He doesn’t love it, but he doesn’t disown me. Or you. Maybe he even… accepts it, eventually.”
Miguel slides a plate in front of me and leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed. “Okay,” he says. “Now gimme the worst case?”
“Worst case, he thinks about it for a week and then calls back and says, ‘Actually, no, this is wrong. You’re sick, he corruptedyou, fix it or we’re done.’” I spit out. “And then I have to choose, and whatever I choose ruins something and it’s my fault.”
He nods like that’s reasonable instead of horrific. “Is there a median case?”
“Uh… I guess the median case would be he doesn’t cut me off,” I say, picking up my fork, “but he treats you like a problem to manage. We get to keep him, but only if he can pretend we’re just stepbrothers with… extra steps. And I spend the rest of my life code-switching between ‘what he can handle’ and what’s actually true.”
The eggs smell good but my stomach protests as I chew.
