Page 195 of Disarm
The music wraps around us like a blanket, the kitchen light is too bright, the sink is full of drying dishes, and there’s a grocery list half-written on the whiteboard by the fridge.
I rest my head on his shoulder, breathing in laundry detergent and the faint hint of whatever strain of weed he’s currently been enjoying when I’m not around. His heartbeat thumps steadily against my chest.
“This is embarrassing,” mumbling into his shirt.
“No,” he says. “This is healing. Shut up and sway.”
I snort, but I do it. One-two, one-two, weight shifting from foot to foot. His fingers trace little circles at the small of my back, not asking for anything, just… there.
My brain, which has been running simulations all day, finally… stops. Not permanently. Not magically. But long enough that all I can think about is the warmth of his hands, the way his cheek feels against my hair, and the faint vibration of his chest when he hums along to the song.
“I talked to Dr. Kaur about the future,” I say quietly, surprising myself. “About how it feels like… dangerous territory. To want things.”
He hums, encouraging.
“I told her about the scout,” I add. “About how part of me wants to be excited and another part is like, ‘Nope, too risky. You’re not allowed to be happy about anything, remember?’”
His hand tightens, just a little. “What did she say?”
“That I don’t have to make any big decisions right now,” I say. “That I’m allowed to let it be a good thing without turning it into a referendum on my worth.”
“Smart woman,” he murmurs.
“I also…” My voice gets smaller. “I kind of told her about… our safety plan. The one with you in it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes warm. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “She seemed… glad. That I’m not trying to white-knuckle everything alone.”
“You’re not,” he says, simple as oxygen. “Not anymore.”
We stand there for another song or two and time stretches weird in the kitchen. It feels like being suspended in amber. Eventually, my feet start to ache and my brain remembers I’m allegedly still a student.
“I should… at least pretend to do homework,” I mumble, reluctantly stepping back.
Smirking, then pressing a kiss to the side of my head. “You did therapy and boundaries and emotional labor today,” he says. “You’re allowed to half-ass some psych reading.”
“Wow, look at you advocating for my work-life balance,” I say.
“Your boyfriend is a saint,” he says. “Spread the word.”
I kiss him once more, quick and soft, then grab my backpack off the couch.
Later, when I’m curled up in bed with my laptop open and exactly zero words being written, Miguel comes in, phone in hand.
“Dad texted me,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.
My stomach does an instinctive drop. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He hands me his phone.
Dad
Miguel, I’ve been thinking about how things went at the dinner. I’m sorry for how I handled it. I put my discomfort ahead of Caleb’s feelings. That wasn’t fair. I’m still struggling, but I don’t want to make either of you feel like you have to disappear when I’m in the room. I’m trying to do better. Thank you for calling me out, even if I didn’t like hearing it.
I read it twice.
“What do you think?” Miguel asks.
