DISARM

  WHAT WE DON’T SAY

  BOOK 3

  IZZY RAVAS

  BLURB

  Caleb:

  I’ve spent most of my life hiding. Hiding the fear, the pain, the memories that scream in the dark. Every day is a performance—perfect student, perfect basketball player, just perfect—but inside, I’m falling apart. Nobody sees me. Except him.

  Miguel. My stepbrother. My anchor. The one person who doesn’t flinch when he sees me break.

  Miguel:

  I’ve loved Caleb from the start, even when he refused to love himself. Every scar, every shadow, every trembling edge of him is mine to hold, to protect, to soothe.

  I know the road to him is tangled with fear and doubt—but I’ll follow him anywhere.

  I’ll fight for him.

  I’ll wait for him.

  Love like this comes with consequences, with boundaries to test, with walls to break down. And as we navigate desire, trust, and the past that refuses to let go, one thing is certain: we are each other’s only way forward.

  Copyright © 2026 by Izzy Ravas

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. Any similarity to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author's exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to "train" generative artificial intelligence (Al) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative Al training and development of machine learning language models.

  Cover Design: Izzy Ravas

  Interior Formatting: Izzy Ravas

  Editing: Fortuna Lux

  First Edition

  Formatted with Vellum

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Reader’s Discretion is Advised:

  Disarm is a contemporary romance that follows the novellas, Trick of the Flesh and Sin of the Season. Please take into consideration the content warning below, as this book will dive deep into very uncomfortable themes such as depression, childhood trauma, self worth struggles and suicidal ideations.

  Disarm will have a happily ever after—it will just take a lot of work to get there.

  Your Mental Health Matters.

  Disarm contains the following:

  Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, fear play, mask play, degradation and praise, rope play, primal play, breath play, spitting, gagging, profanity, panic attacks, anxiety, self depreciating talk, depression, sex as a coping mechanism, C-PTSD, flashbacks of child abuse and neglect, domestic violence, self-harm, passive and active suicidal ideations, attempted suicide, obsessive and possessive MMC, oral sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of death of a parent by suicide, brief mentions of mild homophobia, marijuana use, alcohol consumption, trauma recovery and extensive aftercare.

  A NOTE BEFORE YOU CONTINUE

  YOU ARE NOT ALONE

  Disarm goes into very heavy places. It includes mental health crisis, trauma responses, and scenes that may be emotionally intense for readers. If you are not in the headspace for that right now, please choose yourself first.

  Step away. Skip ahead. Put the book down.

  You do not have to push through.

  If you or someone you love is struggling or feeling unsafe:

  If there’s immediate danger, call emergency services (911 in the U.S) or go to the nearest ER

  U.S. support:

  988 (call/text/chat) Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

  Text HOME to 741741 (Crisis Text Line)

  The Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386 /text START to 678678

  Outside the U.S.:

  findhelpline.com can connect you to local options.

  You deserve support. You deserve to stay.

  You are so loved, wanted and important.

  PLAYLIST

  Miguel’s Song for Caleb

  Particles (Piano Version) - Nothing But Thieves

  Caleb’s Song for Miguel

  Sleepyhead - Jutes

  For anyone who’s ever been broken, just know that healing isn’t linear and you are doing amazing.

  I promise.

  This book is also for the person who made is safe for us to be whole again, those who have taught us how to love us—even when we thought we were unloveable.

  CONTENTS

  1. Caleb

  2. Miguel

  3. Caleb

  4. Miguel

  5. Caleb

  6. Miguel

  7. Caleb

  8. Miguel

  9. Caleb

  10. Caleb

  11. Miguel

  12. Miguel

  13. Caleb

  14. Miguel

  15. Caleb

  16. Miguel

  17. Caleb

  18. Caleb

  19. Miguel

  20. Miguel

  21. Caleb

  22. Miguel

  23. Caleb

  24. Miguel

  25. Caleb

  26. Miguel

  27. Caleb

  28. Caleb

  29. Miguel

  30. Caleb

  31. Caleb

  32. Miguel

  33. Caleb

  34. Miguel

  35. Caleb

  36. Miguel

  37. Caleb

  38. Miguel

  39. Caleb

  40. Miguel

  41. Caleb

  42. Miguel

  43. Caleb

  44. Miguel

  45. Caleb

  46. Miguel

  47. Caleb

  48. Miguel

  49. Caleb

  50. Miguel

  One Year After

  Two and a Half Years After

  Wedding Day

  Wedding Night

  Thank You!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Izzy Ravas

  ONE

  CALEB

  Do you know how hard it is to wake up every morning and pretend you have the perfect life and just go about it like the pain you carry inside doesn’t exist?

  No?

  I do. That’s my daily grind.

  Wake up. Skip breakfast. Shower. Go to class. Basketball practice. Rinse. Repeat.

  Keep the mask on. Don’t let them see the cracks.

  Except now, I have someone other than my dad and stepmom on my case about everything.

  Miguel.

  My stepbrother. My everything.

  It is easier to believe I deserved him at the cabin over Christmas—just us, the snow, his hands on me, the world shrunk down to a fire and a bed that smelled like him.

  I can pretend we existed in our own little universe where stepbrothers weren’t a sin, where no one cared who I kissed, and where I wasn’t the guy with a brain held together by duct tape and denial.

  Back here, it’s different. Back here, there’s Dad’s expectations, school emails, coaches watching my stats, and teammates who think they know me. I’m the golden boy with a scholarship, not the guy who got to fall apart in his stepbrother’s arms.

  So I tuck all of that away and tell myself he deserves someone who isn’t a walking red flag, someone who doesn’t have to hide in the shadows with him.

  I wake up to the buzz of my phone and the soft blue glow of his name on the screen. Our late-night conversation is still open, the last messages a lifeline I keep rereading like scripture.

  Caleb

  I’m a fucking mess, like, all the damn time.

  And a lot to handle.

  Miguel

  You’re my mess.

  And I can handle you, Caleb.

  All day.

  Now go to sleep.

  But I can’t fall asleep for another hour after his last text. I lie there and overanalyzed everything—every word, every pause. I tell myself he deserves someone who isn’t broken. Someone who can walk beside him in daylight. Someone who isn’t me.

  The alarm blares again, and I roll out of bed. The dorm’s cold, a chill that bites under your skin even through the thick cotton of my UCSC hoodie. My roommate’s already gone, leaving behind the smell of cheap coffee and the faint thud of the bathroom door down the hall.

  I brush my teeth until my gums ache, splash water on my face, and stare at my reflection. Red-rimmed eyes. Bruised half-moons beneath them. The kind of face that looks like it’s been awake too long.

  “Pull it together,” I whisper.

  The mirror doesn’t answer. It never does.

  By the time I make it to my first class, my chest’s tight enough that I can feel my pulse in my throat. My therapist reminds me it’s anxiety, not a heart attack, but that doesn’t make it feel less real.

  Anxiety is a bitch.

  It’s your brain trying to kill you, but it doesn’t quite cut it. So it just repeats over and over until you do something about it, whether that’s medication, therapy, or straight-up
raw doggin’ it.

  I’ve opted for the second and third options.

  I keep my head down, hood up. Take notes that I won’t remember later. Pretend to laugh when someone cracks a joke behind me. Pretend I’m fine.

  I’m anything but fine.

  Basketball’s supposed to help. Moving until the noise quiets down. But lately it’s been harder to find that sweet spot—the moment where my body takes over and the thoughts fade. Today, my legs feel heavy, every sprint dragging. Coach yells something about keeping my head in the game, but I’m not sure I’ve ever known how.

  After practice, I shower, change, and check my phone again.

  Miguel

  You alive?

  I smile despite myself. He always knows when to ask.

  Caleb

  Barely. Coach killed us today. Sprints are the bane of my existence.

  Miguel

  He can try. You’re still faster than all of them.

  Caleb

  You haven’t seen me lately.

  My brother—the track star—would laugh at how winded I get from fifteen-minute sprints.

  Miguel

  I don’t need to. I know you.

  Three words. I know you.

  Sometimes they terrify me. And sometimes they are the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

  Today is one of those days where falling apart would feel pretty damn good. I know I can’t, though.

  The drive back to the dorm is quiet. Late afternoon fog’s rolling in from the coast, smothering the campus in pale gray. It’s my favorite kind of weather, the kind that makes the world feel smaller, softer, like it’s holding its breath. It’s one reason I chose this school, other than it being super close to my dad and Celeste. I had scholarships to a few schools out of state for basketball, but I wanted to stay close to home.

  I needed to.

  My phone buzzes again before I reach the steps.

  Miguel

  Come over for dinner. Mom came over earlier and brought way too much food.

  It’s an excuse, but I take it anyway.

  Caleb

  Okay.

  I tell myself it’s because I haven’t eaten, but we both know it’s because I need to see him. Need to know the world hasn’t ended since the last time he touched me.

  That we haven’t ended. Because even though I won’t say it out loud, he’s my world.

  Miguel’s condo is fifteen minutes from campus, in an older complex that always smells like sea air and cut grass. His truck’s parked out front, gleaming under the streetlight.

  He opens the door before I can even knock.

  “Hey.”

  His voice is low, steady, and familiar enough to make something unclench in my chest. He looks tired, with grease still on his hands and work boots still on, but he smiles when he sees me.

  “You look like hell.”

  “Love you too,” I say, stepping inside.

  The apartment’s warm. Spanish music hums softly from the kitchen, the smell of onions and cilantro thick in the air. Celeste must’ve stocked his fridge, there’s always good food here. Always warmth.

  She’s offered to bring me meals, especially when she noticed I wasn’t eating. She never believed my “I’m cutting weight” excuses. My stepmother has been in my life long enough to know when I’m lying.

  Miguel hands me a bowl of frijoles de la olla before I can protest. “Eat first, overthink later.”

  He knows me all too well.

  I grin, small but real, and sit at the counter. Looking at the bowl in front of me, I think to myself that this is one of my favorite things his mom makes. It’s simple. But it was the first thing she fed me when I came to live with them after what happened.

  He doesn’t know that, though.

  Miguel leans against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes soft. Watching me.

  “Stop staring,” I mutter between bites of rice.

  “Can’t.” He smirks. “You’re cute when you pretend you don’t like it.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t look away.

  For a second, it feels normal, like two brothers teasing each other in a kitchen. Then his hand brushes against mine when he takes the empty bowl, and everything shifts. The air tightens.

  He doesn’t touch me again, but the look in his eyes says enough.

  It says, “I’m here.”

  It says, “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  It says, “You’re mine even if we can’t say it out loud.”

  “Do you wanna talk?”

  I let out a sigh. “Not really.”

  Miguel’s back is to me as he washes the dish at the sink, but I can see the tension in his back. He’s trying so hard to respect my space. I love him for that.

  “I need a shower. Today was pretty rough at work.” He turns around and leans against the counter. “If I take one real quick, will you still be here when I get out?”

  I shrug. Probably not.

  “Come on,” he says, already moving towards the hallway. “You’re taking one with me then.” I don’t argue. Arguing would be pointless, especially when all I want is his hands on my body. He disappears down the hall, not waiting to see if I’ll follow.

  I do.

  The sound of the shower starts before I reach the doorway. Steam curls into the air, softening the edges of everything—light, sound, and thought. Miguel’s shirt hits the floor just as I step inside the bathroom. He doesn’t look at me right away, just reaches into the stall to test the water.

  “Want me to turn it down?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He turns then. His eyes find mine, dark and steady. It’s a look that says, “I’ve got you, even when you don’t know how to have yourself.”

  For a second, neither of us moves. Then his hand reaches out, slow and careful, and brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead. My chest aches from how gentle it is.

  “Clothes off,” he murmurs. “You’ll feel better once the heat hits you.”

  He says it like a promise, not a command. Still, it sends a shiver down my spine.

  By the time I step into the shower, the room’s fogged up enough to blur everything but him. Water runs down his shoulders, tracing muscle and ink, catching light. I stand there, useless, naked, my soul bared to only him.

  Miguel reaches for me again, fingers sliding around my wrist, guiding me under the spray. The heat burns first, then soothes, until my body remembers how to open itself up and just breathe.

  He tilts his head, studying me. “You good?”

  I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s true.

  He doesn’t call me out on it, even though he knows it’s a lie. He just steps closer, enough that I can feel the warmth of him even through the steam. His hands find my face, thumbs brushing over the bruised shadows under my eyes.

  “You haven’t been sleeping,” he says quietly.

  “Trying to.”

  “Liar.”

  A smile flickers and dies on my lips. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Not easy,” he says, “just not something you have to do alone. Stay here, Caleb. Fuck the dorms.”

  Something inside me breaks at that. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just the quiet, inevitable give of something that’s been held too tight for too long.

  I lean forward until my forehead rests against his chest. Water pounds against my back. His heart beats against my skin. A rhythm that’s soothing to my tired brain.