Page 70 of Disarm
I look at Miguel, at the way his thumb rubs absent circles on my ankle, so unconsciously tender it hurts.
How could he ever be better off without this?
And yet the thought slinks in anyway.
He took the day off from work. He’s cooking, cleaning, and planning around my storms. Sitting up with me when I can’t sleep. Nothing steadies me better than the way he shields me from ghosts that aren’t even there.
Miguel deserves someone who doesn’t break this easily. My dad says Miguel drags me down. The reality feels backwards.
His attention drifts from the TV to me. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
I force a smile. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous hobby,” he says lightly. “Want me to make it stop?”
“Can you?” I ask, half joking, half serious.
“Come here,” he says, then pulls me closer, guiding me until I’m stretched over his chest instead of across his lap. My ear presses against his heartbeat, steady and solid.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs, like last night. “In… and out.”
I do.
My body calms. My brain does not.
What if this is all I am? A weight he keeps shouldering. A job he never signed up for but refuses to quit.
He kisses the top of my head. “You’re doing good, pretty boy,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”
My eyes sting. I swallow hard.
“Why?” I mumble into his shirt.
“Because you’re still here,” he says simply. “Because you went to therapy. Because you ate. Because you texted me instead of disappearing into your head. That’s enough.”
Is it?
It doesn’t feel like enough.
Miguel starts to drift off first, body relaxing under me, breaths lengthening. At some point, he reaches over me to turn the TV off, plunging the room into darkness.
“Stay,” he mumbles, half asleep. “Don’t go back tonight. Just stay.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I knew the moment I walked in the door tonight I wasn’t going back to the dorms.
We shuffle to the bedroom, moving like we’ve done this a thousand times because we have. I brush my teeth with one of the spare toothbrushes he keeps here for me. He strips down to boxers and a worn t-shirt, I keep the hoodie on, pulling the sleeves over my hands. Crawling into bed, he pulls me against him immediately—chest to my back, arm heavy around my waist, leg thrown over mine.
Caged and safe all at once.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Go to sleep, Miggy.”
“Love you,” he breathes.
The words settle over my skin like a weight.
