Page 50 of Caden & Theo
The air smells like grass and warm pavement, and every tree on campus is showing off, bursting into pinks and whites and those fuzzy green buds that make everything look like a painting. It’s the kind of day that feels like it’s holding its breath, like it knows something good’s about to happen.
I step out of my car and immediately regret wearing a hoodie. It’s too warm. The sun’s already baking the sidewalk, while the breeze is just shy of sticky. But it’sCaden’shoodie, so obviously, I’m not taking it off.
His building looks exactly like it did the last time I was here a week ago—still part of campus, but cleaner, newer, and less chaotic than the freshman dorms he was in last year. The suite-style setup means fewer people crammed into one space, and it’s a lot quieter. A guy in flip-flops lumbers past, earbuds in, muttering like he’s trying to psych himself up for a final. I text Caden that I’m outside, and it takes less than a minute before the door swings open.
And there he is.
Six-foot-four now, his lineup is crisp, and his hair is tapered low on the sides and in the back with longer tight coils on topthat I love twisting with my fingers when we cuddle. They appear damp like he just got back from the gym or maybe just showered, wearing shorts like it’s July, and grinning like I’ve just made his whole damn week.
“You wore the hoodie,” he says, voice already half laughing, stepping out onto the cracked cement and pulling me in before I can even drop my bag.
“You say that like I don’t wear it every other day,” I mumble into his shoulder. It’s one of my favorites. Though, it’s not something I can get away with wearing on campus at Louisville.
He presses his face into the side of my neck for half a second. I feel the breath he lets out. His fingers curl just slightly tighter around my waist. “Still smells like me,” he says softly.
“Gross,” I reply, not stepping back.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
We stand there too long. Hugging like this on a public sidewalk like we don’t know better. Like this campus doesn’t have eyes. Like someone won’t make a comment. Like we’re not trying to keep this just ours.
And right on cue, a second-story window creaks open and someone yells, “Y’all need a room or what?”
Caden doesn’t even flinch. He lifts a hand, middle finger high in the air, not even looking up. “Kick rocks, Mason,” he calls, casual as breathing.
I force a laugh that doesn’t quite feel right and untangle myself like it’s nothing. Just a bro hug. Just friends being dumb.
No one knows. We’ve continued to keep it that way. Shared emails, texts, late-night Skype calls that end with silence and stubble against the screen. Another year of pretending we’re just close. Of playing it cool while texting like we’re dying. But since I moved to Louisville last year, it’s been a hell of a lot easier.
Caden grabs my duffel like it weighs nothing and nudges open the door with his shoulder. Inside, the hallway smells likeAxe body spray. Nothing’s changed. It’s familiar, and what’s better is this year, Cade has his own room. And the other guys here—most of the basketball team—they don’t even raise a brow that I’m here so often.
Once we’re inside his room and the door clicks shut, it’s like a switch flips. My back hits the wood with a quietthudand he’s there, hands on my jaw, mouth already on mine like he’s starved for it. He fists the hoodie between his fingers like he’s reminding himself I’m real.
God, I missed him.
Two years in, and I still can’t believe this is real.
When he finally pulls out of the kiss, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathless, he whispers, “Happy anniversary.”
I blink. “Wait—today?”
“You absolute asshole.”
“No, no, I knew it was close—like, Iknewit was this week.”
“It’sliterallytoday,” he says, pointing at his wall calendar with an inked heart. “Marked and everything.”
I exhale, grinning despite myself. “You made a calendar event?”
He shrugs, and I want to kiss him again, but he steps back. He’s practically vibrating. “Okay. Get ready. I have plans.”
“Plans?”
He tosses me a water bottle from his mini fridge. “Yes. Plans. Blanket, food, music, and one absolutely perfect hill. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Well, maybe a little.” My heart stumbles at how sweet he is. Since his second season ended—Final Four heartbreak and all—we’ve been stealing these pockets of time before finals hit. Then it’s home to Gomillion, where, if we get our way, we’ll be wrapped up in each other every night. Thankfully, our parents don’t even do a double blink anymore.
We grab stuff—he pulls a blanket from under his bed, a cooler bag from his closet—and we head out the back entrance. It’s quieter this way. He keeps brushing my knuckles with his when we walk, like he can’t help it, and I pretend not to notice even as I lean into it.
