Page 62 of Disarm
“Breathe with me,” I whisper against his hair. “In… and out. Match me, baby. In… and out.”
It takes a while. His breaths come in stutters at first, hitching on the exhale. But slowly, very slowly, they start to line up with mine. His grip on my shirt loosens just a fraction.
“There you go,” I say. “That’s my pretty boy.”
Eventually, he let me guide him over to the bed. We sit on the edge, side by side, our shoulders touching, and I watch him drag his sleeve across his face, sniffing hard.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m being… dramatic.”
“Don’t start,” I say quietly. “You asked for help. That’s not drama. That’s brave.”
He swallows, eyes fixed on the floor. “Everything just… piled up. My dad. Classes. I realized I hadn’t eaten. I couldn’t think, and then I couldn’t stop thinking. It feels like I’m crawling out of my skin, Miggy.”
I nod. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Tapping his knee gently, his eyes meet mine. “I brought food. You think you can manage a few bites for me?”
He hesitates for a moment, then gives a tiny nod.
I grab the bag, pull out a burrito, unwrap it halfway, and press it into his hands. He stares at it for a second like it’s a test he might fail. “Just a bite,” I say. “No pressure. You don’t have to finish it. I just need something in you.”
That must be enough, because he takes a small bite and chews slowly. The tension in my chest loosens a little.
“Good,” I murmur. “Again.”
We repeat that dance, me coaxing, him eating, until half the burrito’s gone. I sneak in a few hash browns and some orange juice. Little by little, the color comes back into his face.
“Better?” I ask.
Caleb shrugs one shoulder. “Less like I’m gonna explode. Still… fucked.”
“Fucked is okay,” I say. “Fucked we can work with.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth.
Leaning back against the wall, his eyes closing for a second. The overhead light throws shadows under his eyes, making him look even more exhausted.
“When do you see Dr. Kaur?” I ask.
“Tomorrow at ten.”
“Good,” I say, meaning it. “That’s good.”
I watch as his fingers pick at a loose thread on his joggers. “I hate that I keep needing… this much.”
“This much what?”
“Care.” He says it like a dirty word. “Like I’m a full-time fucking job.”
I exhale, and the old ache settles deep behind my ribs. “You’re not a job, Caleb.”
He snorts softly. “Feels like it.”
I reach out, catch his hand, and still his picking fingers. “Look at me.”
Beautiful blue eyes bore into mine and practically beg me to fix every shattered piece of him. “I’m not sacrificing anything I’m not gladly putting on the altar,” I say. “You get that? I want to be the one you call when shit gets bad. You hear me?”
Tears fill those eyes, making them shine again. “Even when I’m like this?”
