She nods like that tracks. “Good. Smart man.” She slides an egg onto a plate and sets it in front of me. “Eat. Then you can go wake up yournovio.”
“Ma,” I groan.
Her eyes soften. “What?” She taps my chest lightly. “I am proud of you, Miguel. For loving him. For getting help. For letting us see you.”
The words land somewhere deep, in the same messy place Luis has been poking at.
“Thanks,” I say, voice rough.
“De nada,” she says. “Now eat before it gets cold. And remember—tonight, if you two make too much noise, I will throw holy water at your door.”
That makes me choke on my coffee.
She laughs, pats my back, and hums to herself while she cracks another egg.
THIRTY-THREE
CALEB
Iknow I’m not in my dorm before I even open my eyes. The mattress is way too good.My old mattress.The one Mom picked out“so you’ll feel safe, mijo.”It’s softer than Miguel’s bed at the condo, broken in exactly where my body always used to land when I flopped down after practices.
For a second, I hover in that floaty space between sleep and awake. The room is gray-blue with early light. My brain catalogues familiar shadows, the dresser, the crooked poster in the corner, and the closet where Miguel first kissed me.
Miguel.
My hand reaches out automatically, searching for his chest.
All I get are empty sheets and cool air instead.
My heart drops until my nose catches up. Coffee. Warm tortillas. Something sizzling in a pan. I exhale, the tension unwinding a little. Of course he’s up. Miguel is physically incapable of sleeping past eight in this house. Mom bakes this into the walls or something.
I soak in not having to get up early for practice or classes. I roll onto my back and wince, the two of us sleeping in this bed together is rough. I peel myself out of bed, grab clean sweatsand underwear from the duffel, and shuffle to the tiny bathroom between our old rooms. Take a quick, scalding shower, just long enough to rinse off, clear my head, and talk myself out of a full-blown overthinking spiral.
It’s fine. It’s good. You survived dinner. Your dad did okay. Mom was a little fucking extra… but still Mom.
You’re okay.
By the time I’m pulling my hoodie on over still-damp skin, my stomach is growling loud enough to be its own character. The hallway is cool on my bare feet as I pad down toward the kitchen.
I’m two steps from the doorway when I hear them.
“…no puedes cargar todo tú solo, mijo,”Mom says, voice low but firm.“Eso ya lo hiciste de niño.”
I freeze, then shift back so I’m out of sight but close enough to hear. But my name hovers under everything in this house, and when they switch to Spanish, I always have that itch that says, “Time to pay attention.”
Miguel sighs.“Ya sé,”he says. “I know. Luis said the same thing. I’m trying. It’s just… hard to shut it off. Feels like if I stop watching him for one second,algo malo va a pasar.”
“You’re not his only net anymore,” she says.“Tienes que creer eso. Dr. Kaur, tú, Ashton, yo… no estás solo.”
There’s a clink of ceramic—a coffee mug, probably. I picture him leaning against the counter, hair a mess, eyes still tired.
He makes a small, frustrated sound.“Lo sé,”he says. “I know it here.” A pause.“But aquí…”He taps something—I imagine his chest.“A veces siento que si lo suelto poquito, lo voy a perder.”
My heart squeezes and Mom’s quiet for a beat. When she speaks again, her voice is softer.“Y tú, mijo,”she asks,“¿qué quieres? No solo para cuidarlo. Para ti.”
There’s a pause long enough that I almost step away to give him privacy.
Then Miguel says, quieter than I’ve ever heard him,“Quiero… que un día él se sienta tan seguro conmigo que pueda pensar en futuro. De verdad.”
