“Don’t jinx it,” he warns, then leans over to kiss me. It’s soft and warm and tastes like basil. My brain, exhausted and humming, quiets down another notch.
I look over his shoulder at the stove. There’s a big pan of something that looks suspiciously like actual food. On the counter are all the add-ins for the bowls. Lettuce, two different salsas, crema and queso fresco.
“You cooked all this?” I ask, impressed and a little suspicious.
He lifts his chin, smug. “With minimal supervision from YouTube for the chicken recipe…”
“Wow,” I say. “The internet can be used for good.”
Miguel flicks a bit of water at me. “Go wash your hands. Then you can prep cheese and tell me about therapy.”
“Wow, putting me to work when it’s supposed to be you cooking,” I mutter, but I do as I’m told.
Dinner is… good. Like, not just “no one died,” but actually good. We eat at the tiny table like real adults, my notebook with the safety plan tucked safely in my backpack by the couch.
Miguel asks, “How’d it go with Dr. K?” and I tell him. Not every detail, but enough. The part about being proud, I left the dinner and the undertow metaphor. The safety plan.
“She wants me to tell you there’s a version of that plan that includes you,” I say, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork. “Like… if I get into the danger zone, one of the steps is ‘tell Miguel the truth instead of lying and saying you’re fine.’”
He nods, taking that in seriously. “Okay,” he says. “What does ‘danger zone’ look like, so I know what I’m watching for?”
I tell him. The signs we wrote down. The ones he’s already seen in different combinations. The skipping meals and the not getting out of bed and the way my jokes get meaner about myself, like I’m trying to preemptively agree with the worst thing anyone could say about me.
His jaw clenches a little, but he just says, “Got it,” and reaches across the table to squeeze my wrist.
“This isn’t just your job,” I say quickly. “She was very clear about that. You’re not my full-time crisis manager.”
“I know,” he says. “But I do want to be on the team. Not just watching from the stands.”
My throat gets tight. “Okay,” I whisper.
After dinner,Miguel insists on doing the dishes. I lean against the counter, watching him, music still playing low in the background. Some slow, swaying song now, all warm vocals and lazy drums.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, and the grin that’s spreading across my face isn’t about to help what I’m about to say. “You’re just… hot and competent. It’s unsettling.”
He snorts. “I’ll add that to my resume.”
Miguel rinses the last plate, sets it in the rack, and turns to me, drying his hands on the dish towel. For a second, he just… looks at me. Like he’s taking inventory. Counting bones.
“You okay?” he asks, softer than before.
I shrug, stepping closer until my chest brushes his. “Tired,” I say. “But… yeah. Okay.”
His hands find my hips and drag me closer to him. “Dance with me.”
I blink. “There’s no one else here.”
“Exactly,” he says. “We can be disgustingly cute without witnesses.”
Rolling my eyes, my heart does that weird, fluttery thing behind my ribs and I give in. “I don’t really… dance-dance.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “Just do what you do on the court, but to the left and slower.”
“That’s not how basketball works,” I protest, already letting him pull me in.
He slides one hand around my waist, the other catching my hand, and starts to sway us, small and gentle, right there in the narrow space between the counter and the table.
