Page 176 of Disarm
Caleb tips his head back to look at me in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. His eyes are huge and soft. “You were good,” he says. “Answering his questions. Talking about your therapist. I know that’s… not easy. Especially when he’s the one who made ‘handle everything’ your job.”
I shrug a shoulder, careful not to jostle him. “I promised you I was going to do the work,” I say. “That includes letting your dad know he’s not the only one babysitting your brain anymore.”
He snorts. “We need to unionize.”
“Caleb’s Mental Health Local 831,” I deadpan.
That makes him chuckle, then sigh, long and quiet. “Thank you,” he says, softly. “For being here. For… all of it.”
“Always,” I say, stretching a bit. “Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
His hand slides up and curls around the back of my neck, thumb rubbing that spot that always makes me soften. “You know,” he murmurs, “if we were being really respectful, we wouldn’t be in the same bed right now.”
“We are being respectful,” I say. “We’re just… cuddling aggressively.”
He huffs. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Cuddling. Very PG. Extremely innocent.”
“You’re full of shit.” Soft kisses on the corner of my mouth, almost daring to push things further.
“Language,” I whisper. “You’ll scare your father.”
He shoves my shoulder, laughing into my neck. “You’re the worst.”
“You love me,” I remind him, bringing my hand up to cup his cheek.
“Yeah,” he says, but he snuggles closer, one leg hooking over mine. “Okay, if this is cuddling, it’s my favorite kind.”
“Good,” I say. “Because that’s all you’re getting with my mom three doors down and your dad pretending not to hear us breathing.”
“It’s enough,” he whispers.
We talk a little more—about nothing, about everything. The stupid kids we grew up with on this street. The time we tried to skateboard down the hill and ate shit at the corner. Little anchors to other versions of us that existed before this particular storm.
Eventually, his words taper off and his breathing slows. His hand goes slack on my chest. I lie there in the dark listening to the house settle. Mom’s footsteps. The TV turning off. Dad’s low voice in the other room, indistinct.
Then just quiet.
I press a kiss on Caleb’s forehead. “Sleep,hermoso,” I whisper. “You’re safe.”
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
In the morning,the house feels different. Caleb’s still snoring into my shoulder when I slide carefully out from under him. The sun is just starting to push past the curtains, painting the room in gray-blue light. His hair is a mess, his mouth is open, and one foot is hanging off the side of the bed.
I stand there for a second, watching, heart stupidly full. Then I tuck the blanket back over his bare shoulder and slip out. The hallway smells like coffee and tortillas, just like it used to when we lived here full-time, and I follow it to the kitchen on autopilot.
Mom’s already at the stove, hair twisted up, wearing one of those old T-shirts from some retreat ten years ago. She’s flipping tortillas over the burner with her bare fingers like they’re not lava.
“Buenos días,”I say, rubbing the back of my neck.
She glances over, eyes sweeping me from head to toe in one practiced flick.“Buenos días,”she says. “You slept?”
“Some,” I say. “Enough.”
Mom nods like I passed some test. “Coffee’s ready. Ashton went to the office for a few hours. Some emergency with a filing. He said he’d be back for lunch.”
