Caleb hesitates, then shakes his head. “No. I think… I need to do this part by myself. Plus, I’m sure you need to get to work way before that.”
My gut doesn’t like that, but my brain understands. Therapy is his work. I’m support, not the main event. But he’s wrong. I requested the day off while he was sleeping, just so I could be here for him.
“Okay,” I say. “I took the day off and I’ll be home, and when you’re done, I want you there. Text me when you’re on your way, and I’ll have food ready. We’ll nap. Do nothing.”
A flicker of something crosses his face—relief, maybe. Hope.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’ll come over after.”
He rolls out of bed, moving slowly, and starts pulling on clothes. I watch him in the dim light, the way his shoulders curl inward, the way he hesitates in front of the mirror like he’s not sure who he’s looking at.
I stand, stretch my sore back, and step close enough to press a kiss to his temple.
“You’re doing good,” I tell him quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Caleb lets out a shaky laugh. “Feels like I’m barely holding it together.”
“Sometimes that is doing good,” I say. “Sometimes not giving up is the win.”
Nodding, he swallows hard and grabs his backpack from his chair.
“I’ll text you after,” he says, voice quiet but steady.
“I’ll be waiting,” I promise.
Watching him walk down the hall and out of sight makes my chest ache. And that ache doesn’t go away, even on the drive back to the condo. Once I get inside the house, I’ve already got a checklist in my head: clean sheets. Caldo on the stove. His favorite hoodie of mine, laid out and waiting. Netflix queued up with something stupid and comforting.
The love of my life is cracking.
I can see it—I feel it in my bones.
And yeah, it feels like pieces of me are cracking too. Like I’m holding him together with my bare hands, ignoring the way I’m starting to fray. If that’s what it takes to keep him safe, to make sure he knows he’s loved, then I’ll take the damage.
SEVENTEEN
CALEB
Dr. Kaur’s office always smells the same.
Lavender-scented cleaner, printer ink, and that faint underlying tang of strong coffee. The waiting room is quiet when I check in, it’s just me and some faded motivational poster about “growth not being linear,” and somehow that feels like a personal attack.
Dana at the desk smiles when she sees me. “Hey, Caleb. You’re right on time. You can head on back, she’s ready for you.”
Great.No time to bail.
I knock once on the half-open door.
“Come in,” Dr. Kaur calls.
She’s in her usual chair, notebook in her lap, pen at the ready. Soft lighting, a bookshelf, and a plant in the corner that’s somehow still alive. It’s all very safe. Very gentle. The kind of place where normal people say normal therapy things.
I lower myself onto the couch, backpack on the floor at my feet. My leg’s already bouncing.
“Morning, Caleb,” she says. “Rough day yesterday?”
I huff out a half-laugh. “You could say that.”
She nods like she expected this. “You asked Dana to mark it as urgent.”
