“Hey,” he says, voice rough.
I close the distance in two strides and pull him into my chest. His body folds into mine like muscle memory. His arms slide around my waist, fingers gripping the back of my shirt. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I can feel the tremor in his breath, the way it shudders out like letting go takes effort.
“Dinner’s ready,” I murmur against his hair. “Albóndigas. Thought you might want something warm.”
He nods against me but doesn’t move yet. I let him stay there, let him breathe me in. I don’t rush him. I never do.
Never will.
Finally, he looks up, eyes glassy. “Thanks, Miggy.”
“Always.”
We eat at the counter. He doesn’t talk much, but I don’t push. I just make sure his bowl stays full and that he actually eats it this time. He finishes it all, slow but steady. When he’s done, I brush my thumb over the corner of his mouth and smile softly.
“Shower or couch?” I ask.
He glances toward the living room, then back to me. “Shower.”
“Come on then.”
The bathroom fills with steam,the water just the temperature he likes—scalding. He stands there under the light, head bowed as if waiting for permission to exist. I tug his sweatshirt over his head, then his shirt, then the rest, gently and unhurried. His skin is cool, still marked by goosebumps from the chill outside.
He doesn’t meet my eyes, and that’s okay. He doesn’t need to.
I step in behind him, pulling him under the spray, warm water cascading down his shoulders. He exhales, quiet and shaky, like the heat is loosening something he’s been holding too tightly.
Hopefully, the heat loosens whatever he’s carrying.
I pour shampoo into my hands and run my fingers through his hair. Slow. Careful. His eyes flutter closed as I massage his scalp, and his breathing evens out a little. I rinse it, then start on his shoulders, tracing the tension there with my thumbs.
He leans back against me, not saying a word. The steam wraps around us, heavy and soft.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper against his ear. “Let it all go, Caleb. I won’t let you go.”
He nods once, barely moving.
I take my time washing him, starting with his arms, back, then chest. Nothing rushed, nothing that could be mistaken for lust. Just care.
Reverent, quiet care.
When I finish, I turn him around and meet his gaze. His eyes are red but steady.
“Better?”
He nods again. “Yeah.”
We towel off, the silence between us easy now. I hand him one of my shirts, one that’s plain gray and soft from years of wear. It hangs on him, the collar slipping low on his shoulder. He looks small and safe in it.
“You forgot a clean one again, huh?” I tease lightly.
He shrugs, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe on purpose.”
That smile is everything.
We end up on the couch with a blanket draped over us, Netflix idling on some random show neither of us are really watching. His head rests against my shoulder, his body heavy against mine in that way that says,“I trust you enough to stop fighting sleep.”
My arm is around him, fingers tracing idle circles on his forearm. His skin is warm. His breathing has that uneven rhythm it gets when he’s trying not to fall apart.
