Page 17 of Disarm
The first thing I notice when I wake up is warmth.
The second is it’s not mine.
It’s Miguel’s arm, heavy across my waist, and the slow, steady drag of his breathing against the back of my neck. He sleeps like he holds on even in his dreams, like if he lets go, I’ll somehow vanish.
The morning light filters weakly through the blinds, cutting lines across the living room and over his forearm. His skin looks golden in it, dust motes floating between us. The TV’s still on, the screen paused somewhere mid-episode.
For a long time, I don’t move. I just lie there and let myself feel.
The way his chest presses against my back when he exhales. The way his thumb twitches every few seconds, like he’s trying to soothe me even in his sleep.
My head’s a mess, but quieter than it was yesterday. Therapy tore me up, and I didn’t realize how much until I walked through that door last night and saw him waiting.
It’s like my body knew what I needed before I could even think.
He made it easy. The food, the shower, the way he washed me like I’d break if he wasn’t careful.
I wanted to hate it and wanted to feel angry that I need that kind of care. But it’s impossible. Every time he touches me, something inside me stops fighting.
Miguel shifts behind me, the arm around my waist tightening just enough that I can feel his breath catch. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning,” I whisper back.
He presses a kiss behind my ear, then rolls back, stretching until his joints pop. “What time’s practice?”
“Not till nine.”
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “You’ve got time to eat first. Still sucks you have practice on a Saturday, though. I’d rather keep you here on this couch with me.”
I hum, not sure I can stomach anything yet. But I’ll try—for him.
He hoists himself up from behind me and barrels over the back of the couch, all warm skin and lazy strength, padding barefoot to the bathroom. The sound of water running fills the apartment, the low rush of his morning routine grounding me in the quiet.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s a text from him, even though he’s only ten feet away.
Miguel
Miss you already.
I huff a small, shaky laugh with a smile that makes my eyes squint and text back.
Caleb
You’re ridiculous.
Miguel
Yeah. But you smiled.
He’s right. I did.
By the timeI drag myself off the couch and into the kitchen, he’s got the coffee machine going, hair wet, his bare chest all muscle and ink tempting me. He looks up when I walk in, eyes soft.
“Coffee’s almost done.”
“Thanks.”
He nods toward the counter where he’s set out toast and fruit, pretending not to watch if I’ll actually eat. I grab a slice and take a bite, just to see his shoulders drop in relief.
