Page 117 of Caden & Theo
“Not much juice left,” I warn.
“There’s a charger in the drawer?” His tone is casual, like he already knows it’ll be there because I’ve always kept spares.
“Yeah. Top drawer, left side.”
He shifts, still draped against me, and reaches back without looking. He fumbles through cords and pens until he goes very still.
“What?” I murmur, tilting up on one elbow.
Slowly, he pulls something out. Not the charger.
The firefighter LEGO sits in his palm, tiny and unchanged—helmet red, a drawn-on mustache, a crooked smile stamped on his blocky face.
My chest seizes. Words clog my throat.
Caden stares down at it for a long beat. Then, without accusation, without a trace of mockery, his mouth curves. Soft, aching. “You kept him.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. I—I couldn’t not.”
He brushes his fingers over the little plastic figure, almost trembling. “Almost twenty years,” he whispers. “And you still—” His voice cracks, and he doesn’t finish.
I cover his hand with mine, pressing the LEGO between our palms like the fragile thing it is. “I kept him safe. Even when I couldn’t keep you.” The admission tastes like rust on my tongue.
His eyes rise to meet mine, and there’s no anger there. Just something rawer. A brightness that undoes me. He leans in and slowly kisses me, grounding me in the present instead of drowning me in the past.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine. His voice is quiet, deliberate. “Come with me today.”
I blink, pulse stuttering. “What?”
“Come with me. Same flight. To San Francisco.” He strokes my jaw, coaxing me to believe him. “Spend time with me. Not just last night, not just this morning. Longer. More.”
The words hit my brain like a live current. I want to say yes so badly, it terrifies me. Thousands of miles. A life I’ve built here. A life he’s built there. And yet—here he is, asking. Offering.
“Caden….” My voice shakes.
His eyes search mine, steady and fierce. “Don’t overthink it, Theo. Just… say you’ll come.”
“Yes,” I blurt, before my brain can gag me with caution tape. “Yes. I’ll come.”
Relief breaks over his face like sunlight, quick and unguarded. He laughs—a startled, breathless sound—and kisses me so hard, I forget where my hands are supposed to go. I end up clutching his jaw like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I don’t hold him in place.
“Okay,” he says against my lips, smiling around the word. “Okay.”
We pull apart an inch, and I can feel my pulse skittering everywhere—in my throat, my wrists, my ribs. I said it. I meant it. The part of me that hoards practicalities immediately starts writing on a whiteboard: money, clothes, toothbrush, how long, what if—but the rest of me is louder for once.Go. Be with him. Figure it out later.
“Flight,” I manage. “What time?”
He lifts the phone I just handed him. The low-battery icon blinks red like it’s scolding us. “Let me check.”
“Charger’s in the drawer,” I remind him.
He kisses my cheek and feels for the cable again. When he finally finds it, he plugs his phone in and squints at the screen. “Early afternoon,” he says, thumbs sliding. “Two-ish. Enough time to pack if you don’t decide to bring your entire library.”
“I was considering it,” I deadpan.
“We’ll buy you a book in the airport. Or ten.”
“Dangerous promise,” I warn, even as something inside me unclenches. It’s ridiculous that looking at flight details could soothe me, but it does. Plans. A path. The next right thing.
