Page 18 of Disarm
It makes my heart ache with how much he cares for me.
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have even thought he would care if I existed, but he cares.So fucking much.
Halloween made it clear and our Christmas getaway solidified it.
He steps close enough to kiss the top of my head before heading toward the door, grabbing his tool bag and keys. “I only have a small job to get done and I should be back before your practice is over. Text me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will.”
“Promise.”
I glance up and meet his eyes. “Promise.”
He gives me that small, crooked smile—the one that makes everything inside me go still. “Good. I’ll see you after. We’ll get lunch.”
Then he’s gone.
The condo feels bigger without him in it, quieter, but not empty. His smell lingers everywhere: soap, citrus, and the faint hint of weed that I know he keeps in the cedar box I got him for Christmas in the living room.
This place screams Miguel.
I take another bite of toast, sip the coffee, and try to breathe around the ache in my chest. Because even though the memories still cling to me, the feeling of his hands washing the fear off my skin is stronger.
Maybe healing doesn’t have to hurt forever.
The morning airhits like a cold slap when I finally drag myself out of the condo and onto campus. My hoodie feels heavier than usual, clinging to me like a second skin I don’t want to wear. Fog’s still rolling in off the coast, soft and pale, curling around the quad and muffling the usual chatter.
My gym bag digs into my shoulder, but I barely notice. Everything feels unreal, like my thoughts are a pane between me and the world.
Basketball practice is early. It's too early for my brain to catch up to my body. I’m exhausted from carrying yesterday’s therapy session in my chest like a brick.
The memory of Dr. Kaur’s office lingers in the corners of my mind—the cold kitchen, the hunger, the fear—and even though I survived it yesterday, today it makes everything heavier.
The gym smells like varnish, sweat, and old sneakers. The squeak of shoes on polished wood cuts too sharply, making my pulse hitch. I step onto the court, already feeling like I don’t belong, like the world expects more from me than I can give.
Coach is yelling, but I’m only half-listening. My legs move because my body knows the drills, but my brain floats somewhere else. Off to somewhere gray, somewhere with the ocean fading behind fog, somewhere with Miguel waiting.
Anderson throws me a ball. I catch it, but my grip is off, and it slips through my fingers.
“You okay, Burton?” he asks, subtle enough that no one else notices.
“Yeah,” I mutter, though my voice sounds hollow even to me.
He shrugs and dribbles past, giving me a small, understanding nod.
No lectures. No push. Just a quiet acknowledgment that sometimes you show up, even when you feel like you can’t.
I move through the drills mechanically, the bouncing ball under my hand louder than my heartbeat, the squeak of shoes echoing like a reminder that I’m alive, even if I feel ghosted.
Dribble, shoot, all net.
Repeat.
Again and again, like I’m on autopilot.
By the time we finish, my hoodie is soaked through with sweat, and my legs are trembling from the sprints. I grab my towel and collapse on the bleachers, hiding my face behind it.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
