His hand stills. “Yeah?” he asks softly. “About… your mom”
“Yeah,” I say. “Psych class had a really rough case study, and it kinda opened the floodgates. My subconscious is doing avant-garde theater about it.”
Miguel’s fingers start moving again, slow and comforting. “Thank you for telling me,” he murmurs into my hair as hepresses kisses all over my head. “You want to share details or just… headline level for now?”
“Headline,” I say. “Details later. Maybe. With Dr. K’s emotional first aid kit on standby.”
“Okay,” he says. “Do you want anything from me right now? Different sleeping position, extra blanket, dumb story, distraction?”
I consider it.
“Just… stay,” I say. “If I flail, don’t take it personally.”
“I never do,” he says. “I’ve seen you in a defensive stance in your underwear. It’s never not hot, even when it’s about nightmares.”
I snort, unwillingly amused. “You’re so stupid,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
He falls asleep before I do, his breath evening out, his hand still resting warmly on my spine. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the cracks in the paint starting to look like maps. The hairlines are there.
Not broken. Not yet. But I can feel the pressure building behind the glass.
If I don’t find a way to let some of it out…
Something is going to give.
FORTY
MIGUEL
The first time I almost got fried on the job, I was twenty and stupid. Today, I’m twenty-four and allegedly smarter, and it still nearly happens.
“Kill the breaker,” I yell down from the ladder.
“It’s off!” Benny calls back.
My multimeter disagrees.
The panel in this old Victorian is a nightmare—half-assed add-ons, mislabeled breakers, and aluminum wire some genius thought was a good idea in 1973. I’m reaching in to tighten a lug when the metal of my driver kisses something it shouldn’t.
There’s a bright pop and a flash of white at the edge of my vision. My hand jerks back on reflex, adrenaline hitting so hard my ears ring.
“¡Puta madre!” I bark, shoulders slamming into the attic beams.
“You good?” Benny yells.
My heart is sprinting. Hands tingling. “Yeah,” I call back, my voice way steadier than it has any right to be. “Arc. Panel’s a piece of shit. Don’t come up.”
I sit there on the joist for a second, breathing, sweat cooling under my shirt. That smell—burned dust and singed insulation—takes me right back to being twenty and thinking I was invincible.
How fucking wrong I was.
“You alive?” Benny’s head appears through the hatch anyway because he’s useless.
“Barely,” I mutter. “Breaker’s mislabeled. Neutral’s doing fuck-all. We’re pulling this whole thing.”
He whistles low. “Homeowners are gonna love that bill.”
