We lie there for a moment, our bodies entwined, our breaths slowly returning to normal. Miguel presses a soft kiss to my lips. “I love you, Caleb. Nobody will ever hurt you. Not your body or your heart. All you’ll ever have to do is point them out and I’ll take care of them.”
I smile, “I love you too, Miguel.”
My monster, always willing to chase the bad things away.
TWELVE
MIGUEL
The condo’s quiet, except for the low hum of the heater and the occasional patter of rain against the windows. Caleb’s bag is still by the door where he dropped it earlier, half-open, his hoodie spilling out. The smell of him lingers—soap, sweat, cedar, and the faint trace of sex.
God, if I could bottle it up, I would have the place smelling like this all the time.
He’s in the shower now, humming something low under his breath, probably some indie band he found on Spotify at two in the morning when he couldn’t sleep. I’m in the kitchen, in low-slung grey joggers and socks, stirring the pot ofarroz con lecheas the steam curls up into my face. I turn the heat down and grab the bowls, setting them on the counter.
I don’t care what anyone says.Arroz con lecheis best off the stove, when thepasasare hot and burst with sugar in your mouth.
By the time he walks out, hair damp, skin flushed from the heat, he’s wearing one of my shirts again. The gray one that hangs halfway down his thighs. I don’t think he even tries to look cute in it—it just happens.
“You’re making the good stuff,” he says, rubbing a towel over his hair.
“I figured you could use it,” I answer, turning off the burner. “Rough game. Your ass took a pounding.”
He smiles faintly. “You could say that again.”
I hand him a bowl and motion toward the couch. “Come on. We’ll eat in here.”
He settles on the couch, tucking his legs under him. I sit beside him, close enough that our knees touch. The TV flickers on and I scroll the Netflix menu, stopping onVikings. I give him my best puppy-dog eyes.
“Fine, it’s gonna be your fault if I say Ragnar’s name in my sleep again, though. No getting mad at me.”
I chuckle, starting the episode. “We’ll see about that.”
“Can’t blame me… That man looks too good.”
“God, you’re such a good cook,” he moans around a spoonful. I glance at him, amused. “You say that every time.”
“Yeah, because it surprises me every time.”
When we finish, he sets the empty bowl down on the coffee table and leans back, rubbing his stomach. “That was really good. Don’t tell mom this but… I think this was even better than hers.”
“You take that back.” I slap a hand to my bare chest. “Mi Mamáwill always make the bestarroz con leche.”
“She likes to serve it cold. You know I like it best when it’s hot.”
“You only do because that’s how I eat it.”
I watch him from the corner of my eye, the soft exhaustion written all over him. He’s beautiful when he’s like this—unguarded. The world isn’t demanding anything from him here. I reach over, brushing my thumb over the small scar on his wrist, the one he always tries to hide.
I remember the summer he kept it bandaged. Nobody else noticed but me.
He was hurting so badly.
Caleb’s still hurting.
“You tired?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “Not really. Just… content.”
