Here we go.
I stare at his chest. The words get stuck somewhere between my lungs and my tongue.
If I say it out loud, it becomes real-real. Not just a weird, surreal phone call in a stairwell.
“It’s… family stuff,” I say. “Dad called. It was… a lot. I’m still sorting it.”
His jaw tightens. “He didn’t… say something shitty again, did he?”
My laugh comes out thin. “Not exactly,” I say. “He was just… himself in a very concentrated dose.”
Miguel hums like he doesn’t buy it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I will. I just… need it not to be the main character for five minutes.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods. “Okay,” he says. “We can… not talk. We can just… be.”
It’s unfair, probably, how relieved I feel.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… be.”
He makes us heat up the leftover soup. Keeps it simple. Puts my bowl in front of me and raises an eyebrow until I eat. It tastes like nothing and everything at once. We watch something stupid on TV. He makes snarky comments about the characters until I actually laugh, real laughter that cracks some of the ice in my chest.
For a little while, the volume drops to an eight.
It’s still too loud.
Eventually, though, the noise in my head hits that pitch where it’s either scream or short-circuit. The thoughts are looping faster.
You’re broken.
You’re too much.
They’re going to leave eventually.
I need out.
I need… less brain.
Miguel’s hand is on my thigh, thumb drawing slow circles. I look at him, really look at him, his tired eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the way he’s watching me like I’m both precious and volatile.
I swing a leg over his lap and straddle him, hands sliding up under his shirt. “Touch me,” I say.
He blinks, surprised, then huffs out a soft laugh. “Hola,” he murmurs, hands finding my hips. “Hi there. You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice sounds too sharp and too fast, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he files it under “Caleb being intense,” which is… not wrong. “Please.”
He studies me for a second. “Is this a distraction request?” he asks quietly.
Yes.
“No,” I lie. “I just… want you.”
Both things are true. One is more true than the other.
He kisses me slowly at first, trying to set the pace. I don’t let him. I deepen it, chasing his mouth like I can crawl inside. My hands are greedy, dragging his shirt up, nails scraping down his sides.
“Caleb,” he murmurs against my lips, “breathe.”
