In the kitchen, he moves on autopilot. Coffee, toast, and opening and closing cabinets like he’s checking if gravity still works. His shoulders are tucked up near his ears. When he thinks I’m not looking, his jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscles jump.
“Nightmares?” I ask, leaning against the counter as the coffee maker gurgles.
The way he hesitates is just long enough for me to clock that yes, the answer is yes.
“Yeah,” he says. “Same channel as before. Re-runs. My brain is very into syndication.”
“Did you email Dr. K?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me. “Not yet,” he says. “I have class, and group, and?—”
“And one email,” I cut in. “You can write three lines. She’d rather know now than get the season finale recap in your next session.”
Caleb rolls his eyes, but it’s got no real heat. “Right. Because everybody wants Trauma Weekly in their inbox.”
“I do,” I say. “I subscribe. Premium tier. No ads.”
That earns me a tiny laugh. More exhale than sound. “You’re such an idiot,” he mutters, sliding my travel mug toward me. “Drink. Before you start making more metaphors.”
We sit at the table with our coffee and sad toast. He picks at the crust, tearing it into little pieces he doesn’t eat, then catches me looking and scowls.
“I’m going to eat,” he says. “Stop momming me.”
“I’m not momming you,” I say. “I’m hot-boyfriending you.”
He points his butter knife at me. “That’s not a verb.”
“It is now.”
Taking a slow bite of toast, his eyes on the table. “I have that stats exam review this afternoon,” he says. “And psych. And then I might go to the gym. You have work and Dr. O.” Ticking them off like he’s reassuring himself he knows the itinerary. “We’ll be ships passing in the afternoon, but I’ll be home before seven.”
“If you’re not, I’m calling the Coast Guard,” I say. “Or Martin.”
Chuckling. “He’ll send you a meme and tell you I’m being dramatic.”
“Accurate.” I nudge his foot under the table. “Text me if you need me, okay? Like actual need, not ‘I saw a hot dog that looks like your dick.’”
He chokes on his coffee. “Fuck you,” he wheezes, eyes watering.
“Later,” I say, winking.
The joke lands, but there’s something in the way he smiles that makes my chest itch. It’s like watching someone halfway out the door of his own skull trying to keep up the bit. I want to cancel work. I want to drag him back to bed and sit on his chest and make him explain every thought in his head until I can label them and alphabetize them and decide which ones need killing and which ones can stay.
Instead, I rinse my mug, slide my boots on, and kiss his forehead, then his mouth. His fingers catch in my jacket, like he’s thinking about saying something.
He doesn’t.
“I love you,” he says quietly.
“I love you more,” I answer. “We’ll talk tonight. For real.”
He nods and lets me go.
I tell myself that’s enough.
Dr. Ortega’soffice is on the second floor of a building that used to be a dentist, which is objectively hilarious. Luis has got the whole “slightly rumpled academic” vibe today, a blue button-up, sleeves rolled, glasses he probably doesn’t actually need perched low on his nose. There’s a soccer scarf draped over the back of a chair and a potted plant in the corner.
“How’s the hand?” he asks, after we do the hello, sit, and obligatory “how’s your week” dance.
