Page 116 of Caden & Theo
“I am,” I say, and I’m surprised to hear how certain I sound.
He smiles into my shoulder.
The wind chimes knock softly outside. I close my eyes. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like the story I’m telling myself about my body and the story he’s telling himself about me are the same one. It feels like relief.
It feels like home.
TWENTY-SIX
THEO
Morning pressessoft light through the curtains in thin stripes that reach across the bed and catch on the crumpled sheets tangled at our feet. I surface gradually, and for a long moment, I don’t move at all. The weight in my chest is foreign—not the ache I’ve lived with for fifteen years, but something fuller, sweeter. Happiness, heavy enough to anchor me.
But beneath it, dread lingers sharp and quiet. Because happiness isn’t simple. Happiness has a cost. The reality is thousands of miles between us, a lifetime of separate routines, separate beds, separate cities. Last night felt impossible, a dream transformed into flesh, but now the question hangs between us like morning fog: What does it mean, the morning after?
The sex was phenomenal. There’s no point pretending otherwise. Every second of it ripped me open and stitched me together again. But it wasn’t just sex. It was the way he said he loved me—simple, unshaken—and the way I believed him with my whole heart. I love him too. God, I do. But do we still know each other? Or did we just fall into old grooves that are too easy, too familiar to resist?
I’m halfway down that spiral when his voice cuts through, rough and low from sleep.
“You’re thinking too hard again.”
I start, glance over. He’s awake, head tipped back on the pillow, eyes heavy but knowing. He looks unfairly good like that—hair mussed, lips swollen from all the kissing we did, gaze steady like he’s already caught me in the act.
“I wasn’t—” I begin, weak denial at best.
His full lips tilt into the smallest smirk, and then he leans across the rumpled space to kiss me. Soft, unhurried, like he’s pressing the truth into me. The protest dies on my tongue.
When he pulls back, he exhales and mutters, “I need to pee.”
The glamour of the moment cracks, but it makes me laugh. “Do you… do you need your prosthesis? Or… support? Or are you good to just—” I gesture vaguely, words tangling. “I mean, I don’t know?—”
The discomfort crawls up my throat. I hate that I don’t know, hate that I can’t read the rhythms of his body anymore the way I used to. Fifteen years gone, and suddenly we’re strangers to the most practical parts of each other.
He notices—of course he does. He lifts his hand and brushes my frown away with his thumb. He kisses me again, firmer this time, until my chest unclenches. “Help to the en suite would be great,” he says lightly. “Save me putting my leg on. And with my bladder this full, best not risk bouncing around too much.” His grin is sharp, teasing, meant to make it easier.
“Okay,” I murmur, relief and affection tangling in my chest.
I slip out of bed and brace his side as we cross the few steps to the bathroom. He moves easily with me, not fragile, not breakable—just mine to steady. When he disappears inside, shutting the door with a click, I stand there for a second like a fool.
Do I get dressed? Cook breakfast? Pretend I know how to be normal the morning after my entire world turned inside out? None of it feels right.
In the end, I head down the hall to the other bathroom, relieve myself, then splash cold water over my face. My reflection stares back at me, raw-eyed, hair a mess. I look exactly like someone who didn’t sleep much because he was busy rediscovering the love of his life.
After padding back to the bedroom, I fish my phone from the pocket of my pants. When I stand straight, he’s already there, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the place, even naked, something he apparently has no hang-ups about. And he smiles at me.
God. That smile. It’s not the practiced one he used to give cameras or teammates, not the sharp one that cut across a room and drew every eye. It’s softer, slyer, private. The corners curl up like he’s remembering exactly what we did last night, and his eyes gleam with it. He looks hot as sin, casual and devastating, like desire wrapped in familiarity. My chest clenches hard at the sight.
“You’re still naked,” he drawls as we climb back into bed. “Glad to see some things haven’t changed.”
Heat floods my face. I flop back onto the pillows, muttering, “You’re an ass.”
His smirk widens as he pushes into my side, every line of his body promising trouble. And God help me, I want it. For a moment, I just look at him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the steadiness of his eyes.
The words tumble out before I can stop them. “When’s your flight?”
He blinks at me, surprised, then shrugs a shoulder. “Not sure. Early afternoon, I think. I should check.” He tilts his chin toward the chair where his jacket hangs. “Hand me my phone?”
I lean over, fish it from the pocket, and pass it to him. The screen flickers dimly to life, the red sliver of battery already threatening.
