Page 89 of Caden & Theo
I stare through the windshield, heart racing like I’m about to walk into a playoff game, only worse—because I have no idea what play I’m supposed to run. I’ve got no game plan. Just this knot in my chest and the way my hands won’t stop trembling on the wheel.
He could slam the door in my face. Hell, he should.
But then the car door opens—so does mine—and time skips a beat.
Theo steps out.
And just like that, I can’t breathe.
God, he looks good. Not justhandsome—he’s always been that—but solid in a way that speaks of stability and presence. There’s a weight to him now that wasn’t there at twenty-two. He was beautiful then, sure. Lean. Quick to smile. A little too serious about everything. But now? Now he’s the kind of man people slow down to look at. A full-grown heartbreaker.
His brown skin is darker than I remember—May sun already starting to claim him for the season. His curls are gone, hair trimmed short and tight at the sides. He’s wearing a faded Gomillion training T-shirt and jeans, and he’s staring at me like this is just any other afternoon.
But it’s not.
His gaze sweeps the street and lands on me. My feet hit the pavement unevenly, the weight of the prosthesis always more noticeable when I’m tired. I wince. My knee doesn’t lock quite right, and I have to catch myself on the car door.
Theo freezes.
His eyes drop—right there, to my leg.
Denim covers it, but the outline’s obvious. The awkward angle of my stance. The way I hesitate, shifting my balance.
And there it is. That flicker of guilt on his face. The wet glass of unshed tears in his eyes. His mouth parts like he’s about to speak, but the words don’t make it past whatever wall he’s put up since the last time we saw each other.
The hospital.
The moment I told him to leave.
The last time I saw him standing in a doorway, expression cracked wide open with grief and fear and love I couldn’t take.
A thousand memories crash into me all at once.
Theo holding my face in his hands in the back seat of his mom’s car after my first big win.
Theo barefoot in my kitchen, wearing my hoodie and holding a spoon like a mic while making pancakes.
Theo whisperingforeveragainst my neck in the dark.
The boy who knew every scar, every dream. The man I left behind.
I take a breath. It’s not enough. Another. Still not enough.
But somehow, his whispered name still escapes my lips.
His simple “Hey” follows, and then finally, after too many awkward, breathless heartbeats, he says, “You coming in, or do you want to keep standing there like a horror movie extra?”
His voice is soft. Familiar. Rougher than I remember, but God, it wraps around me like a thread pulling me forward.
I bark out a laugh, something strangled and surprised. “You always were dramatic.”
He shrugs, but his lips twitch. “Yeah, well. You’ve got a flair for entrances.”
A pause stretches between us.
“I didn’t know you still live here,” I say finally.
“Yet you came anyway.”
