The words sit heavy and warm in my chest. For a second, I picture the after. This same counter. Miguel’s hand on my knee. Celeste squeezing the air out of me. Dr. Kaur’s office. Luis’s quiet questions. More than just me and Miguel braced against the flood.
The image is terrifying.
It’s also… less terrifying than the idea of being alone with it.
“I hate that we have to think about all this,” I mutter.
“Me too,” Miguel says. “But I’d rather think about it at this counter with coffee than at midnight when your brain’s doing an interpretive dance with worst-case scenarios.”
A reluctant laugh slips out of me. “Interpretive dance.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine.
I do.
I pick up my fork again and force another bite of eggs. They’ve gone lukewarm, but they’re still decent. Miguel takes a sip of his coffee and watches me.
“You’re doing good,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t even cry. Dr. Kaur’s gonna be disappointed.”
“Give it ten minutes,” he says. “We’ll get you there.”
“Asshole.”
“I’m your asshole,hermoso,” he says again, easy. “You’re stuck with me.”
“The only person I’d want to be stuck with is you,” I say, before my brain can slap a joke on it.
His mouth softens and for a second, the whole world narrows down to his eyes and the thumb rubbing absently against my throat.
We let the conversation drift after that—into safer waters. Practice schedule. Whether my coach is actually possessed by a demon or just really needs a vacation. Miguel’s latest encounter with a particularly cursed breaker panel.
But the list sits between us on the counter, a tiny monument to the fact that we’re not just reacting anymore. We’re planning.
When I finally pull my phone over and read it again, I add one last line at the bottom, my thumbs hovering for a second before I type.
Non-negotiable:
– We don’t sacrifice ourselves to keep him comfortable.
Miguel reads it over my shoulder. His breath warms my ear. “I like that one,” he says quietly. “Keep that one at the top of your brain.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
Later,when I’m walking across campus with my headphones in and my backpack slung over one shoulder, the old fear creeps back in. What if the plan doesn’t matter? What if he still blows everything up?
But then my phone buzzes.
Miguel
Alive?
I snort, thumbs flying.
Caleb
Alive.
