Page 113 of Caden & Theo
He pulls back to look at me, eyes dark and steady. “Then it’s mine too.”
And that’s it. That’s all I need.
TWENTY-FIVE
CADEN
Theo’s breathcatches like he’s been bracing for permission he didn’t realize he needed. He pulls me down again, and the kiss changes. It’s not frantic so much as decisive, the kind of hunger that knows exactly where it’s going to be fed and still refuses to rush. Theo’s hand finds the back of my neck. He holds me there, not tight, just sure, like he’s not going to risk me drifting even an inch away.
I’m not afraid of kissing him. I’m not afraid of being wanted by him. What makes my pulse spike is the knowledge that if we keep moving, we’ll step past the last barrier I’ve kept up between us, the one that has nothing to do with distance or time. I’ve done this—undressed in front of men and women I didn’t love. I’ve learned how to be matter-of-fact, how to answer questions before they’re asked. But this is Theo. He knew the boy, the young, naïve man I was before there was anything missing. He loved a version of me that had both feet planted, both knees careless, both hands cocky around a basketball and a future. He hasn’t seen me like this.
He kisses me again and again, breath hot, hands fierce, and the thought flickers up anyway: If he looks away—even for a second—I will shatter.
“Theo,” I say into his mouth.
He goes still at once. He’s always done that—stopped when I speak, like my voice is an instruction he trained himself to follow. He rests his forehead on mine and waits. We’re both breathing hard. The room smells like his pine polish and clean laundry and the citrus press of his cologne. My pulse is a drumline.
“I want to go slow,” I say. “I need to.”
“Okay.” His answer is immediate, steady. “We go slow.”
He holds my face, thumbs along my cheekbones as if he’s memorizing the shape of me now, not the shape he holds in his head. The knot between my ribs eases a fraction. I nod and swallow.
“Undress me,” I say. “But let me show you how to help with my leg.”
His eyes flare, not with alarm but with focus. He nods again, the movement small and deliberate, like we’re spotting each other at the rack.
“Tell me what you need,” he says.
I sit back beside him and start with the easy things. He reaches for my tie first, fingers sliding under the knot like he’s untied a thousand of them for me. Maybe he has, in rooms that smelled like aftershave and locker room funk and the sharp sting of nerves before a banquet. He works the silk loose without jerking. When he pulls it free, he doesn’t toss it; he lays it on the chair by the window. His hands come back to my collar. The brush of his knuckles against my chest sets off small fires as he undoes each button at my throat with a patient care that unsettles me more than if he’d ripped the shirt open.
He leans in to kiss me as he reaches the middle buttons, and I feel his breath catch when his palm flattens against my sternum. I’m not a different species now, I don’t think, but I’m not the myth he carried either. He breaks the kiss and watches his handrise and fall with my breathing for a beat, like he has to prove to himself that I’m here and real. Then he slides the shirt off my shoulders. He takes the time to lay it down with the tie. I realize my hands are clenched.
He notices the tension and covers one fist with his warm palm until it eases. “Good?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I mean it.
He goes for my belt, and I stop him with a touch to his wrist. “Before my pants come off,” I say, and let the rest of the sentence sit between us. He understands instantly. His expression sobers into something even more attentive.
“Teach me,” he says.
I shift back, drawing my left pant leg up to show the edge of the black liner peeking beneath the hem. I’ve dressed for an event, not for convenience, so there’s no quick zip hidden in the seam. He’ll have to undress me for real; I’ll have to let him. The thought turns my mouth dry and my chest warm at the same time.
“We’re going to take the pants off first,” I say, voice even. “Then the liner. Then the lock. I’ll tell you when to press, and I’ll lift. You don’t pull. You hold steady.”
He nods as if he’s taking mental notes. He kisses my jaw softly once, like a seal on a contract. “Okay.”
We stand, and I steady myself with one palm on his shoulder. It’s automatic, not because I can’t balance, but because his shoulder is there and it’s mine to use. He exhales like the contact relieves him. He undoes my belt with careful fingers and unbuttons my waistband, then slides the zipper down. I step out of the pants a fraction at a time, weight shifting. He follows my lead, moving with me rather than trying to move me. When the fabric clears my liner, I see him take me in. He doesn’t flinch. He looks at the gel hugging my residual limb the way he looks ateverything that matters—as if information is intimacy and care is an action, not a feeling.
I sit on the edge of the bed. He kneels in front of me without ceremony, the way he used to drop to tie my shoe before a game if I was running late and Coach was screaming. He sets my pants aside and rests his hands lightly on my thighs, not grabbing, not gawking. He waits.
“It’s a pin lock,” I say, tapping the side of the socket just below my knee where the release button sits. “There’s a silicone liner under the sleeve. We’ll roll that down last. First you press here when I tell you. I’ll lift and let the air in. It slides.”
“Okay,” he says. His voice has gone low. I can’t tell if it’s nerves or reverence. Maybe both.
I breathe once, twice. The world narrows to the points where he touches me and the small silver button that’s never meant anything but function until now. “Press.”
He does. There’s a soft click. I shift my weight, lift slightly, and the seal sighs. He looks up at my face, checking for pain, for regret, for anything that would tell him to stop. I give him a small nod. He keeps his thumb on the release until I say, “Got it.” Then he moves his hand away but stays close.
