If he wasn’t, he’d say something else. He promised.
Right?
Traffic moves. I throw the truck into gear and go.
By the timeI get home, my whole body feels like it’s been used as a percussion instrument. Long day, long week. I can feel the headache gathering at the base of my skull. The condo is dim,the only light coming from the kitchen over the sink and the blue wash of the TV in the living room.
Caleb’s on the couch. Legs all crisscrossed, laptop open, but clearly not being used. He’s wearing one of my T-shirts and his own sweatpants, his hair shoved back like he’s been running his hands through it all day.
He looks up when I close the door.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft but not flattened. His eyes are tired. Not empty.
“Hey,hermoso,” I say, kicking my boots off and hanging my keys on the hook. “How’s my favorite exam gremlin?”
Caleb huffs a laugh. “That’s a hate crime,” he says. “I’m suing.”
“You can’t sue me,” I say, dropping my bag. “My lawyer is your dad.”
He makes a face. “Low blow.”
I flop down onto the other end of the couch, stretching my legs out so my feet brush his foot that’s poking out.God, sitting feels good.Existing horizontally feels incredible.
“Long day?” he asks, studying me.
“Almost got turned into a cautionary tale,” I admit. “Panel tried to kiss me. I said no. Consent matters.”
His eyes widen. “What the fuck, Miggy?”
“I’m fine,” I add quickly. “Scary for, like, half a second, then just annoying. Benny and the boss gave me the safety talk. I am now OSHA’s least favorite child.”
He shifts closer, hand sliding up my shin to my knee. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just tired. How’s the noise?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Static-y,” he says. “Five? Six? I kind of lost track during my third cup of coffee.”
I watch his face, the way his mouth twists. He’s joking. He’s not… bright and shiny, but he’s here. He’s making eye contact. He’s touching me.
Not an eight. Not dissociated.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
“Yes, baby,” he mutters. “I had a burrito with Martin after our study session, and a granola bar, and a muffin some girl from our stats study group abandoned in the library.”
My eyebrows go up. “You ate someone’s orphaned muffin?”
“She left a plate of them,” he says defensively. “It was either me or the trash. I rescued it. I’m a hero.”
“Sure,” I say. “Muffin CPS.”
He smiles for real at that, a tired, crooked thing that still hits me right in the sternum.
“Come here,” he says suddenly, closing his laptop and setting it aside. He scoots down until he can push his legs under mine and then climbs half into my lap, tucking himself against my side like I’m the couch and the real couch is optional.
I wrap an arm around him automatically. His weight, his warmth, the smell of his shampoo—it all works better than Advil on the growing pain behind my eye.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, fingers tracing the seam of his T-shirt. “You texted some… existential shit earlier.”
