Page 14 of Disarm
Caleb
Uh… can I stay with you tonight?
I don’t hesitate.
Miguel
You never have to ask. I want it to be your home too. You have a set of keys for a reason, baby.
I stare at those words after sending them, my chest heavy. He doesn’t see what I see when I look at him. He doesn’t see how strong he is, how brave. He just sees the mess. I see the fight underneath.
The rest of the day drags.
Every outlet I wire, every breaker I reset, I’m thinking about him. The way his voice goes small when he’s tired. How he tries to make himself smaller when he’s hurting. I hate it—hate that there’s nothing I can do to erase whatever’s been done to him.
But I can give him a safe place now. That’s something.
Right?
By the time I’m packing up my tools, the sun’s dropping behind the hills. I text him once more before I get in the truck.
Miguel
Headed home. Drive safe after practice.
He just sends a thumbs-up emoji, which for him means I’m trying.
I get homeand head straight to the bedroom to change before getting things ready for him being here. The sheets still smell like him, like his skin and the faint trace of my cologne. I strip the bed anyway, tossing the old ones in the hamper and pulling out a clean set. The motion helps.Doing something helps the nervousness.It’s the only way to keep from overthinking.
Something I find myself doing often now that we’ve started this… relationship.
By the time the bed’s made, I’m making a pot of albóndigas. The smell fills the kitchen, tomato and cilantro mixing with steam. I taste the broth, add a pinch of salt, and smile to myself. My mother taught me to make it when I was a kid so I can happily say this is something I have perfected. She always said caldo can fix anything, that feeding someone is just another way to love them.
Today is just the day for caldo too. Mi Vida needs that extra dose of love that only soup brings.
I text my mother a photo.
Miguel
Mamá, your recipe still hits like magic.
She sends back a heart emoji and a message.
Mamá
Keep him fed, mijo.
I don’t even have to ask who she means. Mamá always knows.
While the soup simmers, I straighten up the living room. Throw blankets. Pillows. Netflix queued. I even light one of those overpriced candles Caleb likes, the one that smells like cedar and rain. It makes the place feel less like an empty condo and more like… us.
By the time I finish, the front door unlocks.
Caleb steps in quietly, backpack slung low, hoodie up. His hair’s damp with sweat from practice, cheeks flushed. He looks exhausted—like he’s been running from his own thoughts all day and they’re finally catching up.
“Hey,” I say, voice low.
His eyes lift to mine, and the tension in his shoulders softens just enough for me to see him. Not the mask he puts on for everyone else.Him.
