Page 224 of Disarm

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I send another.

Miguel

Also, thanks for telling me. Even if it’s just “ugh.” That counts.

I hit send before I can start wordsmithing it to death. The urge to follow up with “Are you safe?” claws at my throat. I sit with it.

He promised he’d text one of us if the volume hit the danger zone.

“Trust the plan,” I tell myself.

Trust him.

The reply comes a minute later.

Caleb

Movie marathon and carbs sound perfect. I’m okay. Just tired. Long psych day. Love you.

My shoulders drop a fraction.

Miguel

Love you more. Text me if the volume gets past 7, okay?

The little dots appear.

Caleb

You got it, babe.

I tuck the phone back into my pocket, unpeel the sandwich wrapper, and take a bite that tastes like sawdust. If this were six months ago, I would’ve called him immediately.

Now, I’m trying to give us both room to breathe.

Room to be… normal.

Whatever the fuck that means.

The duplexon Mission is exactly what it sounds like, old, badly wired, and full of people who think “burning smell” is a personality trait their house grew overnight.

By the time I find the melted wire nut hiding in the bathroom light box, my shirt is sticking to my back and my brain keeps replaying Caleb’s text.

Do you ever wish you could just… pause?

Yeah, baby.

All the fucking time.

I fix the wiring, lecture the tenant about not overloading outlets, and assure them their house is not, in fact, seconds away from becoming a bonfire. In the truck on the way back to the shop, I thumb my phone at a red light. No new messages from him. Group chat has devolved into arguing about which fast food fries are superior.

Out of habit, I tap our thread open again.

Caleb

I’m okay. Just tired.

He answered. He used the word okay.

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