Miguel
Come home, baby. I want to take you to lunch.
I freeze. The words are simple. Nothing dramatic.
Something a normal couple would do.
But we aren’t a couple, are we?
I lean back, eyes closed, letting the warmth of that little message seep into my chest. The weight on my ribs loosens just a fraction. I type back quickly, thumb shaking.
Caleb
I’ll be there soon.
The driveto the boardwalk is short. Miguel’s truck engine hums beneath me, familiar and grounding. The gray sky presses down, but I don’t mind the chill.
My fingers brush against the dash as if holding on to something real, something solid, and Miguel glances at me from the driver’s seat, giving me a small smile that’s soft, patient, and knowing all at once.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks quietly, hand brushing mine for a second before he lets go.
“Nothing really, just stuff,” I lie. But it’s softer this time, not the hollow lie I usually give. There’s truth in it somewhere, maybe not completely okay, but… surviving.
He doesn’t push. He just nods and lets the silence stretch comfortably between us.
When we pull into the boardwalk parking lot, the wind hits, sharp and briny. Seagulls circle overhead, shrieking, and the faint smell of fried food mingles with salt. My hoodie does little to keep me warm, but I don’t care. I can feel Miguel close, feel the space we share, and it’s enough for now.
We grab a couple of sandwiches, fries, and sodas from a small stand. The food is simple, greasy, and perfect. The kind of normal I’ve been craving. We sit on a bench facing the ocean, gray waves rolling in, wind tugging at our clothes and hair. Miguel wraps one arm around my shoulders, the heat of him seeping through the layers of fabric.
“You’re too quiet,” he says, voice low so no one around can hear.
“Just thinking,” I murmur. My fingers curl around my soda can, knuckles white. I can’t let myself overthink too much or I’ll spiral again.
He nods. “Talk to me. How was practice? Has your three-pointer improved any?” he asks.
I can hear the sincerity in his voice. The waves crash and the wind whips around us while he waits for me to respond.
“Yeah… no.” I chuckle, motioning a shot. “All air… every time still.”
After a few minutes, I finally look up at him. The corners of his mouth lift in a small, teasing smirk.
“You were doing some serious brooding,” he says. “You might give me a heart attack if you keep this up.”
I snort, the first real sound of laughter all morning. “Better you than me.”
We finish our food in quiet comfort, letting the world carry on around us while we exist in our little bubble. Then Miguel suggests a walk along the beach. I kick off my shoes, letting the sand squish between my toes. The cold bites, but it’s grounding. Each step feels like a tiny reclaiming of myself.
This feels good.
Being here with him.
Miguel stays close—close enough that I can feel him without being forced to acknowledge it. We talk in quiet tones, his presence a constant reassurance. We talk about my classes. Nothing too heavy. Nothing about last night or therapy—just walking, talking, and being.
It’s almost painfully normal, and that’s exactly what I need.
We loop back to the truck, sand sticking to our socks and shoes. Miguel turns to me, a faint smile on his face, eyes searching mine.
“Can I…?” His voice trails, hesitant, soft. “Can I kiss you?”
