Just don’t watch Vikings without me.
We need to finish that show, by the way.
I smirk at the screen, but it’s that one word—baby—that’s enough to make my throat close. I pull my heavier coat on, grab my keys, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
The drive feels longer than usual, the Monday traffic thick near downtown. By the time I park outside his condo, the light’s gone gold and heavy. I sit there for a minute, engine ticking, palms damp against the steering wheel.
I almost texted him that I changed my mind.
Instead, I force myself to get out.
He opens the door before I can knock, like he was standing there waiting.
He probably was.
Miguel looks tired—eyes shadowed, hair messy, like he just took the hair tie out, and a band T-shirt soft with age. But when he sees me, something in his expression breaks open, raw and quiet.
“Hey,” I say, voice hoarse. “Can I come in?”
“Seriously?”
I step past him, into the same living room where everything fell apart last night. It smells faintly like lime Fabuloso and coffee. The sink’s empty. The counter’s clean.
Stress cleaning is a thing he does. I’m pretty sure that coping mechanism came from his mom. Whenever she was stressed when we were kids, the house would end up deep cleaned, smelling of lavender Fabuloso and the furniture rearranged.
It drove my dad nuts.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he says softly, and I hear the door click shut.
“I wasn’t sure I would.” I let out a small, tired laugh. “Almost texted you from the car to cancel.”
He nods like he gets it. “You hungry? There’s still some tinga left.”
I almost laugh because, of course, that’s what he’d offer first. Food before feelings.
But I shake my head. “No. I just wanted to see you.”
He leans against the back of the couch, arms crossed, waiting.
Not demanding.
Not angry.
Just there. Waiting for me to get whatever it is I need to say off my chest.
“I panicked,” I finally choke out. “That’s what happened. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I kinda figured,” he says quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Still doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
“I know.” I take a breath. “When you said that thing—about being your partner, about maybe one day—my brain just… shut down. I couldn’t picture it. Not because I don’t want it, but because I don’t think I know how to want something like that yet.”
He studies me for a long time, then nods once. “You don’t owe me forever, Caleb. I just wanted you to know that I see one with you. That’s all.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And that’s what scared me.”
He pushes off the couch, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but not quite touching. “And now?”
“Now I’m still scared,” I admit. “But I don’t want that fear to be the thing that keeps me from you.”
