“Call me when you wake up tomorrow. Or text. I don’t care. Just… check in, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “Wait… don’t hang up.”
“Okay, I won’t,” he promises.
I take the phone with me to the bathroom and set it on the bathroom counter while the shower heats, propping him against the mirror so I can see him as I step under the spray. We talk nonsense while I rinse off—about how ugly the hotel curtains are and about how he’s definitely coming to the next away game even if he has to bribe his crew to cover him.
By the time I’m clean and dried off, my buzz has mellowed into a warm hum instead of a spin. I pull on a pair of soft shorts and then reach for the hoodie draped over the chair.
Miguel’s.
I bury my face in the inside of it for a second before I pull it on. It smells faintly like his cologne and home.
Weighted blanket next. I flip it back, crawl under, and let it fall over me like a shield. The pressure settles over my shoulders and chest, grounding me in a way even the alcohol couldn’t.
I grab the phone and Miguel’s still there, watching me, eyes half-lidded but awake.
“Comfy?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, voice already thick with sleep. “I’m… good.”
“You did amazing today,” he says softly. “On the court. With the team. I’m proud of you, Caleb.”
I blink slowly. The ceiling blurs around the edges.
“Stay?” I mumble.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Screen might go dark if you fall asleep, but I’ll be here.”
My hand curls around the phone like it’s his, like if I just squeeze hard enough, he’ll materialize in this ugly hotel room.
“Night, Miggy,” I whisper.
“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers.
The last thing I feel before sleep drags me under is the weight of the blanket, the warmth of his hoodie, and his voice in my ear.
The darkness doesn’t feel like a threat tonight.
Tonight it just feels like rest.
TWENTY-TWO
MIGUEL
My phone is the first thing I see when I wake up. Not the light coming through the blinds. Not the mess on the dresser I swore I’d clean yesterday. Just the black rectangle on my chest, like it spent the night guarding my heartbeat.
There’s dried drool on my cheek.
Attractive.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and tap the screen awake. The FaceTime call ended hours ago, the last thing on display a blurry freeze-frame of Caleb’s ceiling. Battery at twenty percent.
It’s six, and I’m still up before my alarm for work. A text waits under the stream of notifications.
Caleb
Alive.
