Page 45 of Disarm
I smile. “I’ll take content.”
For a while, we just sit there, watching the episode, curling up with each other. Then, on impulse, I get up and grab my laptop from the counter and settle it between us. “I want to show you something.”
He tilts his head, eyes clearly tired. “Hmm.”
I have like five minutes before he’s asleep and I have to carry him back to bed. So I pull up the Airbnb listing, the screen glowing soft and golden. “It’s the treehouse cabin. Right on the edge of the redwoods, overlooking the coast.” His eyes widen a little. “Holy shit, that’s beautiful.”
“Right?” I grin. “We could drive up for a long weekend. Disconnect from everything. No phones. No noise. Just us. Maybe Memorial Day weekend?”
He leans closer, studying the pictures. “That sounds… perfect, actually.”
“I thought so.” I scroll a little more, showing him the nearby hikes, the trails, and the hidden coves. “We could go to Pfeiffer Beach. Surf, if the water’s not too cold. Build a fire, read. Just breathe.”
He lets out a long exhale. “It would be nice to just… stop for a while. Turn my brain off.”
“That’s all I want for you,” I say softly.
He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he hears everything I don’t say out loud, the fear, the guilt, and the hope that I can give him some semblance of peace.
He nudges me with his knee. “And maybe we bring the mask? You know, for some exercise?”
That smirk. The one that starts low and slow, curling at the corner of his mouth.
I raise a brow. “Oh, so you’re thinking about that, huh?”
He laughs quietly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, huh?” I lean in a little, my voice dropping. “I was thinking we could play with it up there. Somewhere wild. No walls. No noise. Just you and me and the trees. Like Halloween.” My lips kiss the side of his neck. “Like Christmas.”
His breath catches. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
The air between us hums again—soft, charged, not quite sexual, but full of something deeper. Connection.
I close the laptop, set it aside, and let the silence stretch. His hand finds mine, fingers tracing over the calluses on my palm. The little things I never notice until he touches me.
“You ever think about the future?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He looks up, cautious. “No. Not really.”
“Really, baby? Why not?”
He stares at our joined hands for a long moment, thumb brushing over the inside of my wrist like he’s memorizing the beat of my pulse. The TV hums in the background, the rain patters softly against the window, and I can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes.
“Because every time I did,” he says quietly, “it felt like I was asking for too much.”
My chest tightens. “Caleb…”
He shakes his head and gives me a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s easier not to picture things. That way, when it all goes to shit, it doesn’t hurt as bad.”
How honest. I squeeze his hand, firm but gentle, grounding him. “You’re allowed to picture it now.”
“Yeah?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, meaning every word. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
He blinks at me, startled, and then looks away, trying to hide the emotion that’s already slipping through the cracks. I can’t stop myself, reaching up and brushing a damp lock of hair off his forehead. I want to pull him into my arms and kiss away all the pain, but I don’t.
“You can believe in forever, Caleb. And if that’s too hard for you right now, I’ll do it for you. Because whatever has happened in your life that has made you this way… whatever was said or done to you, it doesn’t need to define you.”
