I swallow hard. “My dad said the same thing. Only with… notes.”
He hums quietly. “Yeah. Sounds like him.”
I look down at my shoes. “I know he means well. It’s just—he’s never really known what to do with me when I’m not perfect.”
Miguel’s hand finds mine, thumb brushing slowly over my knuckles. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. Or for anyone.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
We stand there for a moment, just breathing. The lot’s almost empty now. A few players walk by, giving me quick nods, pretending not to notice the guy holding my hand. With the exception of Anderson, who pretends to dry heave.
Swear to God he’s a fucking child.
Ignore him.
Focus on Miggy.
“I thought you might not come tonight,” I admit.
He grins a little, then looks over my shoulder, raising his brow. “And miss watching my pretty boy play? Not a chance.”
The words hit low in my chest. I look up at him, the sting behind my eyes sharp and sudden. “You shouldn’t call me that here.”
He shrugs. “Then tell me not to.”
I don’t.
Instead, I step closer until I can feel the heat radiating off him.
He smells like rain, weed, and citrus… and him. And for a second, everything goes still. The loss, the noise, the expectations—they all blur out.
“It’s weird,” I say quietly. “When I’m with you, I actually believe I could be more than what he sees.”
Miguel leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s because you already are.”
I close my eyes. “You really think so?”
“I don’t think, baby. Iknow.”
I feel… warm inside. Like everything is going to be okay.
Untilhisvoice breaks through and ruins it.
“Bro, come on! We don’t need to see you queers making out.”
I let out a breath, and that’s when I feel Miguel’s demeanor shift from partner to protector.
“The fuck did he just say?”
Oh, shit.
ELEVEN
MIGUEL
Putting him in the truck, I make sure Caleb’s buckled in before I’m remotely calm enough to look at him face-to-face. Our eyes connect for a split second.
