“I think…” I exhale. “That it doesn’t undo what happened or the way he made me feel. But it’s… something. It’s him moving his feet instead of staying planted.”
Miguel nods. “Do you want me to respond?”
I think about it. About my safety plan. About not setting myself on fire to keep someone else warm.
“Maybe… tomorrow,” I shrug. “Only if you want to.”
“Okay,” he says, taking his phone back. “We don’t owe him a response. You know that, right?”
I nod, sinking back into the pillows.
“Alright,” he grabs my laptop, closes it and sets it on the desk. “That’s enough for tonight. I can practically smell your hair burning from thinking so hard.” He flicks off the light and slides into bed behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me in until my back is snug against his chest.
“Rude.” I chuckle, snuggling into him. “But also… facts.”
“Good day,” he murmurs into my hair. “Hard. But good.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Soft landing.”
“Soft landing,” he echoes.
My brain is still scared and still humming with what-ifs and future storms. But there’s a safety plan in my notebook, a coach who believes in me, a dad trying to move his feet, and a man holding me whose heartbeat I could find in a blackout.
And me.
Still here. Still trying.
THIRTY-SIX
MIGUEL
The first thing I notice is that the coffee disappears faster. Not that Caleb is drinking more of it, exactly. It’s the way he drains the travel mug before we even hit the main road, then stares at the empty lid like it betrayed him.
“Brain fuel,” he mutters, fidgeting with the stainless-steel rim. “Midterms are done, but apparently professors decided ‘post-midterm period’ is Latin for ‘assign every project ever.’”
“That’s not what Latin is for,” I say, easing the truck into traffic. “Latin is for tattoos people regret and priests yelling at you.”
He snorts, but his knee is bouncing so fast the keychain on his backpack rattles. “Wait, don’t you have some tattoos that are in Latin?”
“Exactly.” I smirk. “Regret and religious trauma. I got the two-for-one special.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I just need to power through the next few weeks. Then summer. Then… death.”
“Wow,” I say. “Love the incremental goals, baby.”
Caleb flashes me a quick grin, and it almost reaches his eyes. “You love my brain,” he says. “Don’t lie.”
“I love your brain more when it’s sleeping occasionally,” I say, turning onto the hill toward campus. “What time did you actually fall asleep last night?”
He looks out the window like the answer might be written on the eucalyptus trees. “Uh… two-ish?”
“Caleb.” I groan. “You got in bed with your laptop at eleven.”
“Yeah, but then I remembered I hadn’t responded to the discussion post for psych, and then I fell down a research rabbit hole and then?—”
“And then your frontal cortex committed a crime,” I finish. “Did the safety plan mention ‘no laptop in bed unless porn or cartoons,’ or was that just my copy?”
He smirks. “Pretty sure that was an addendum you snuck in.”
