Page 201 of Disarm
“Noted,” I say, giving him a mock salute.
We eat at the table, bowls warm between our hands. Caleb’s shoulders un-hunch with each bite. By the time he’s scraping the bottom, the tension around his mouth has loosened.
“How’s the brain now?” I ask.
Tilting his head to the side. “Solid six,” he says. “The pozole knocked it down a notch.”
“Pozole is powerful,” I say. “Might put Dr. K out of business.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he says. “She’ll make us do some fucking worksheet about it.”
“Hot,” I deadpan.
He snorts, then yawns, stretching his arms above his head. His hoodie rides up, revealing a strip of stomach and the waistband of his sweats.
My brain, ever helpful: so horny.
Later.
First, we do the dishes, and then we share the feelings.
Then maybe if things go well… we can get some ass.
We endup on the couch with some mindless movie playing, Caleb’s feet tangled with mine, his head on my shoulder. About halfway through, his phone buzzes on the coffee table.
He stiffens.
“Want me to check?” I ask.
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Please.”
I reach for it, thumb hovering, then flip it over.
Dad
No rush on lunch. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you. Let me know if there’s a day that feels good for you. If not this weekend, we can find another time.
I show him the screen.
His jaw tenses, but he reads it twice, then exhales. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s… not bad.”
“No,” I agree. “That’s him… trying to mend this in the only way he knows how.”
Caleb nods slowly. “I still don’t want to respond tonight,” he says. “My head’s… too crowded.”
“Then don’t,” I say. “Future Caleb can decide. Present Caleb is busy being a weighted blanket.”
That comment makes him smile and nuzzle closer. “I am very good at that,” he says.
“I know,” I murmur, kissing the top of his head.
By the time the credits roll, his weight has gone heavy against me, breathing slow and soft. I nudge him gently. “Come on,” I say. “Bed. Your spine will hate you if you sleep like this.”
Groaning like the stubborn man he is, he let me steer him down the hall.
In the bedroom, he flops face-first onto the mattress, then rolls over and grabs my wrist as I turn toward the dresser.
“Stay,” he says.
