Page 200 of Disarm
I huff out a laugh. “Accurate.”
“And then my dad texted again at lunch,” Caleb continues. “Asking about weekend plans. Asking if I’d thought aboutlunch.” He rubs his eyes. “I know he’s trying. I know he is. But every time his name shows up on my screen, my body thinks the message is going to say, ‘I changed my mind, you’re a mistake, fix it.’”
My hands curl on the comforter. “Did you respond?”
“Not yet,” he says. “I’m… not in the right headspace. I don’t want to answer from a place of panic and then regret it.”
I nod. “That’s good,” I say. “That’s… really good, actually.”
He snorts. “Look at me exercising boundaries like a functioning human.”
“Dr. K would be proud,” I say. “So am I.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling. “I’m just tired, Miggy,” he says. “Of everything feeling like a test I can fail. School, ball, my dad, my brain, us. Like if I don’t handle every interaction perfectly, I’m going to lose something I can’t get back.”
Protective anger flares in my chest. Not at him. At everything that taught him love was conditional and safety was a trick.
I stretch out beside him, propping myself on one elbow. “Hey,” I say, touching his jaw. “We’re not a test.”
Caleb opens his eyes, unfocused, like he’s halfway down the undertow already.
“Say it back to me,” I ask. “So your brain hears it in your voice, too.”
Swallowing, he takes a deep breath and does. “We’re… not a test,” he repeats, hesitant. “We’re just… us.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Messy and horny and traumatized and obnoxiously in love. But not an exam. No curve, no grading rubric. Just… life.”
A tiny smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “You’re very poetic for an electrician,” he says.
“What can I say? Call me Shakespeare,” I reply. “Now, the safety plan says when the radio hits seven, we don’t just lie here marinating in static. So… what would help right now?Food, shower, walk, cuddles, stupid movie, yelling about the Warriors… blow job… what’s accessible?”
His eyebrow quirks up and thinks for a long moment. “As tempting as a blow job is, I should eat,” he admits. “I had the sandwich at lunch and then a granola bar at, like… four. My stomach is half coffee.”
“Okay,” I say. “Pozole?”
Eyes flick to mine. “Ma’s?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She made too much. You know how she gets.”
His throat works. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Pozole sounds… good.”
“Cool,” I say, patting his chest once. “Come help me heat it so you don’t fall back into your mattress coma.”
He groans dramatically but lets me tug him upright. He shuffles after me in his socks, hoodie sleeves half-covering his hands. In the kitchen, I set the pot on the stove and he leans against the counter, watching, eyes half-lidded.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says suddenly.
I blink. “What thing?”
“Watching me like I’m a circuit you’re waiting to fail,” he says. No accusation. Just weary observation.
I wince. “Sorry,” I say automatically.
“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing spoons from the drawer. “It’s… part of the deal. I just… don’t want to make you feel like you have to be on high alert 24/7.”
“I don’t have to,” I say. “I choose to pay attention because I know what the stakes are.” I stir the soup, watching the surface bubble. “But you’re right. I need to watch with curiosity, not like I’m waiting for you to explode.”
He bumps my hip with his. “Curiosity is allowed,” he says. “Panic monitoring… less helpful.”
