Page 123 of Disarm
We stay on the floor for a while longer, foreheads touching, our breathing falling into sync. Eventually, the jitter in his muscles fades, leaving behind the bone-deep exhaustion of someone who’s done too much emotional heavy lifting in one day.
I haul us both up, steer him toward the bedroom, and shove an old band tee into his hands. He changes, moving on autopilot, then collapses onto the bed. I switch off the light, slide in beside him, and pull the weighted blanket up over us both.
He immediately rolls into me, tucking his face into my neck, with one leg thrown over my hip.
“Hey, Miguel?” Mumbling, voice already thick with sleep.
“Yeah, baby?”
“If he flips on us,” he says, letting out a drawn-out breath, “I’m gonna need you to say the ‘fuck him’ thing again. Like, a lot.”
I huff a quiet laugh, my hand spreading over his back.
“You got it,” I whisper. “As many times as you need me to.”
TWENTY-FIVE
CALEB
Iwake up with my face smashed into Miguel’s chest and my leg halfway over his hip, like I’m trying to pin him to the mattress. The weighted blanket’s a solid, familiar pressure across my back. His hoodie is bunched under my cheek and smells like him. His heartbeat thumps, slow and steady, under my ear.
For three whole seconds, I let myself just… float.
No Dad. No “experimental attachment.”
No future, no past.
Just Miggy’s chest rising and falling and his hand on the back of my neck.
Then my brain remembers what day it is—Tuesday—and slaps me with a calendar notification: class at ten, therapy at two, practice at four.
And Dad knows about us.
I groan into his skin. “I vote we stay like this forever,” I mumble. “We can DoorDash everything and pretend the outside world died.”
Miguel’s chest rumbles with a sleepy laugh. “Morning to you too, drama queen,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “What time is it?”
I tilt my head, squinting at the clock on his nightstand. “Eight-thirty.”
He sighs. “We gotta move.”
“I reject your reality and substitute my own,” I say, tightening my hold on him.
He drags his hand down my back, fingers tracing my spine. “As much as I’d love to keep you plastered to me like a heat-seeking barnacle, some of us have to go make sure people’s outlets stop trying to murder them.”
“Rude.” I finally peel myself off him and flop onto my back. The blanket settles over both of us like a lead cloud. “Just tell them the grid collapsed. Or that you’re gay now and can’t possibly fix a breaker.”
He snorts. “That’s not how that works and you know it.” He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand so he can look at me. His hair’s a mess, dark waves falling into his eyes. “How’s your head?”
“Still attached,” I say. “Currently home to about six thousand hamsters sprinting in six thousand directions.”
His mouth quirks. “Emotionally?”
“Ah, yes. The fun part.” I stare at the ceiling for a second, picking words like splinters. “I feel like I ripped my chest open and showed my dad the mess, and instead of stabbing me, he just… stared at it and said, ‘I’ll get back to you.’”
“Ouch,” Miguel says, wince-soft.
“Also,” I add, turning my head to look at him, “you were right. I didn’t die. You’re still here and he didn’t disown me over the phone.”
