Page 38 of Caden & Theo
“Heroic,” I say, handing him my own figure. “Mine owns the hot dog stand across the street. Secretly feeds your dog when you’re not looking.”
“Illegal,” he replies. “But hot.”
We swap the minifigures without ceremony. Just a quiet trade, his fingers brushing mine in the handoff. I look down at the firefighter now in my palm—my Caden.
He clears his throat. “So now you’ve got me. Miniature edition. Travel-sized for convenience.”
I smile, throat tight. “I’ll keep him safe.”
His eyes meet mine for a second too long. The air shifts—thickens. Not in a bad way. Just… full. Like everything we’re not saying is pressing up between us, quiet but loud as hell.
He nudges my foot with his. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that makes me feel like you want to undress me and stay in for the night.”
I want to tell him I do want that. That any time alone I can get with him, I’m here for. But instead, I just say, “That obvious, huh?”
He grins, and for a moment, we snuggle—bare feet tangled as we rest on the bed talking shit, spare LEGO pieces scattered like confetti, sunlight skimming through the blinds.
The light outside starts to shift, the gold of late afternoon sliding toward the cooler blue of evening. It’s the kind of shift you can’t ignore, no matter how good it feels to stay still.
Eventually, we get up. The spell breaks gently, without drama.
We shower, then dress. He looks too good in low-slung jeans and a snug black T-shirt, the sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that’s downright disrespectful. I watch him in the mirror, barely bothering to pretend I’m not staring. He catches me once, smirks, and throws a balled-up sock at my chest.
We laugh.
And then we don’t.
Because this part—the next part—requires masks. We both know it.
By the time we’re out the door and heading toward the party, the shift is complete. I slide my hands into my pockets. He walks with too much space between us, posture loose but shoulders tight. We could be roommates. Just friends. Just two guys heading out for a fun night.
And that’s the story we’ll tell tonight. This is the version of us the world gets.
I know how important this is to Caden. Bonding with the guys—especially the upperclassmen—matters. Even if his talent is a given, respect isn’t. Chemistry isn’t. And no matter how much I want to take his hand in mine, I won’t be the reason he loses ground before the season even starts.
So I nod and grin and keep my damn hands to myself.
Just a couple of friends, heading out.
But my LEGO version of him is already in my back pocket. He doesn’t know it, but I’m bringing him with me anyway.
The house is already loud when we show up—music pulsing through the walls, red plastic cups clutched in almost every hand. There’s a grill going in the backyard, a few people dancing in the living room, and the unmistakable smell of cheap beer, cologne, and charcoal hanging in the air like a frat-boy fog.
Caden gives me a look—half apology, half warning—and I squeeze his shoulder once before we step inside.
“Let’s just do the rounds,” he says quietly. “Won’t be long.”
“I’m good,” I say, and I mean it. “Just don’t ditch me with someone who only talks about protein powder.”
Caden laughs, and the tension in his jaw eases a little.
We work the room, shaking hands and nodding at people I’ll probably never see again. Some guys recognize me from pictures in his room. One of the freshmen nudges Caden with a smirk and whispers something, and Caden rolls his eyes but takes it in stride.
And for a while, it’s fine.
