Page 92 of Seven Lost Summers
“I didn’t put sugar in,” he says, his eyes flicking up to mine. “Wasn’t sure how you take it.”
And after that, he smirks. That smug, all-seeing, cocky bastard smirk. The kind that says:Yeah, I saw you staring and I’m fully aware of what you were thinking.
I stand frozen. Motionless. Useless. Brain fried. Eyes wide. Probably drooling.
Jesus Christ. Was I drooling?
I blink and try to act normal.
Apparently, that means continuing to stare at him like he’s the main course and I’ve skipped breakfast, lunch, and every moral boundary I’ve ever had.
Did I have my tongue out?
Fuck. I might have. I might have even made a sound. Some needy little moan or something equally tragic.
My whole body is radiating “thirsty girl at a frat party” energy, while he stands there shirtless, glistening under kitchen lights, handing me caffeine like a goddamn lingerie ad come to life.
I can’t even blame him for that stare. The one that says,are you good? Do you need a cold shower… maybe a priest?Because he fucking knows exactly where my mind went.
Now I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that I got caught full-on eye-fucking him, or that part of me that wants him aware of it.
He turns back, reaching for another cup from the cupboard, and fuck, that alone should be my cue to move. Do something. Stop standing here, useless and overheating with my dignity circling the drain while he exists in nothing but boxers and cockiness.
I shove air into my lungs and will my feet to cooperate.
One step.
Followed by another.
By the time I slide onto the stool, Theo’s already moving. Unbothered. Smooth. Acting as though he hadn’t caught me practically drooling over him.
He strolls over and drops a few sugar packets on the counter. He doesn’t say a word, only stands close enough that the heat from his skin seeps into mine.
I keep my gaze down, because I can’t risk looking at him. Not when the image of him half-naked is still burned into the backs of my eyelids.
My fingers shake as I tear the packet open.
Sugar scatters in a clumsy little trail across the counter, and I don’t bother brushing it away. My hands keep moving, desperate for something to do. Stir, stir, stir. Sip. Repeat.
We’ve never had anything between us this heavy. Now the weight of it is deafening.
This is Theo, for fuck’s sake.
The same guy who used to steal fries off my plate with a shit-eating grin and zero shame. The same guy who once confessed, drunk off his ass, that he taught himself guitar because the sound kept the dark out.
Now he’s standing close enough to kiss, and I can’t tell who we are anymore.
But he isn’t just Theo now.
He’s Theo fucking Kade. Rockstar. Bass slung low, head down, fingers sliding over strings, lost in the rhythm while thousands of fans scream his name. Magazines plaster him across glossy covers. Giant posters hang in record stores and bedroom walls. Fans lose their minds when he so much as glances at a camera, and every move he makes ends up replayed in slow motion on TikTok.
And I should know.
I watched them.
Bought the magazines and hid them away like stupid little treasures.
They were the only pieces of Nate and Theo I could still touch, some fragile thread tying me back to the boys I used to know. Every time I saw their faces in print, I thought about the nights we stayed up talking shit and raiding snacks from Nate’s kitchen. About the way they smiled when they played, before the rest of the world realized how fucking good they were.
