His breath hitches, just barely. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry. It sounded dramatic when I read it back.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say. “Drama is allowed. I’m just checking in.”
Caleb picks at a loose thread on my jeans and I want to smack his hand away. “It was just one of those brain days,” he says. “Lecture was rough, exams are rougher, and my nightmares are being assholes. I’m just… tired. In my bones.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing my mouth to his temple. “You been doing a lot. Brain deserves hazard pay.”
He snorts. “Think we can unionize?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Step one, we demand mandatory naps and pizza.”
“See, now you’re just describing my ideal society,” he mumbles.
We sit like that for a while, half-watching some cooking show that autoplayed. A guy is screaming about risotto like it personally offended him. Caleb’s breathing evens out a little, his body slowly unspooling against mine. I keep waiting for him to say something more.
He doesn’t.
He just… melts.
And I’m so fucking tired—physically, emotionally—that when my own eyes start closing, I don’t fight it as hard as I probably should.
“Bed?” I ask eventually, voice rough.
“Yeah,” he says. “If I watch one more guy call mashed potatoes ‘elevated,’ I’m going to commit a crime.”
We brush our teeth side by side, bumping hips in the tiny bathroom. He makes a face in the mirror and nudges under my arm like he’s trying to climb back into my ribcage.
In bed, he doesn’t even pretend to stay on his side. He tucks himself against me, back to my chest, my arm wrapped around his waist. It’s our default now, especially on bad nights. He talks a big game about being the little spoon being “bottom propaganda,” but he sleeps better this way.
“Volume?” I murmur into his hair.
He’s quiet for a second.
“Seven,” he whispers. “But it’s… more like a hum than a scream.”
Something in my spine goes tight. Seven is where the safety plan says we start paying closer attention. No more pretending it’s just exam stress.
“You want to talk more?” I ask. “We can. Or we can just… breathe.”
He takes a long, shaky breath. “I don’t have the words without turning into a whole big thing right now,” he says. “Can we… raincheck? I promise I’ll tell you more when my brain isn’t chewing on itself.”
I hesitate for half a second.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “We can raincheck. I’m holding you to that, though.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I will. I?—”
He cuts himself off, then twists just enough to look back at me. In the faint light bleeding around the curtains, his eyes look huge.
“I love you,” he says.
It sounds almost like an apology.
I cup the back of his neck, thumb stroking the soft hair there. “I love you more,” I say. “Even when your brain is a dick. Especially then.”
That earns me a small smile, barely there, but real. He turns back around, presses my hand flat to his chest like he’s pinning himself in place, and lets out a breath that feels like it empties him.
His heartbeat thuds under my palm. Steady. Present.
