Page 109 of Caden & Theo
“You good?” he murmurs, low enough that no one else could possibly hear.
I clear my throat. “Define good.”
He huffs a quiet sound, and it’s not quite a laugh. The corner of his mouth tips up, not into a full smile—he saves those like they’re precious—but enough to warm something in me that has been cold for years.
“Better question,” he says. “You gonna let go of my hand?”
I glance down, then back up. My voice scrapes out rough, like it’s caught on everything I’ve swallowed for the past decade and a half. “Not if you don’t make me.”
His gaze holds mine steady—so steady, I almost can’t stand it. I look away first, pretending to scan the crowd, but the truth is, I’m reeling. From his kiss outside. From his words. From the fact that I agreed—like a fool or like a man who’s been starving—to be his prom date tonight.
I should be careful. I should be shoring up walls. Instead, all I can do is still taste him faintly on my lips and wonder how I’m supposed to survive this night.
And then there’s the LEGO.
I pressed it back into his hand earlier. The hot dog vendor, the one he’d kept all these years. It belonged to him, always had. The way he looked at me—God, it nearly cracked me open.
What I didn’t tell him was that his isn’t the only one.
Mine is a firefighter. Red helmet, blocky shoulders, and a dalmatian at his side. I can still see us on the night we made them, as clear as if it were yesterday.
We’d sprawled out together in his room, two unopened boxes between us. I’d leaned forward and tugged one open, tiny bricks cascading out across the table.
We’d worked in companionable silence for a while, music spilling from his stereo, the world narrowed to the scatter of bricks and the furrow between his brows as he clicked pieces together with the focus of a surgeon.
I’d finished mine first—a crooked little hot dog cart with a lopsided awning. And without any fanfare, we’d swapped. Asimple, quiet trade. His fingers brushed mine in the handoff, a spark I still remember. Suddenly I was staring down at the firefighter in my palm—at him, in miniature, travel-sized for convenience.
I’d promised to keep him safe.
And I kept that promise only halfway. The firefighter has survived nineteen years, four apartments, and every move I’ve made. He’s sat on my nightstand more times than I’d ever admit out loud. He’s whole. Untouched. Safe.
But Caden? I wasn’t just not there for him in the aftermath—I wasthere, behind the wheel, when everything went wrong. I was the one who nodded off, the one who let exhaustion blur into recklessness. I was the one who should have been paying attention. The world can call it an accident all it wants, but when I look at him, I know the truth: I failed him in the most devastating way a person can fail someone they love.
Every time I hold that little red-helmeted man, I feel the sharp edge of the contradiction. I protected the plastic version of him, tucked him carefully away, never lost him. But the real Caden—the living, breathing man who trusted me with everything—I couldn’t keep safe. I shattered that promise the moment my eyes closed behind the wheel.
I kept a toy safe. But not him. And now, he’s standing beside me anyway. It’s enough to make me stumble inside. The guilt is stitched into me. It makes my grip on his hand falter and my chest tighten. How do you stand beside someone when you’re the reason they had to learn how to walk all over again?
And yet, when he looked at me tonight while handing me back the hot dog vendor he’d carried all these years, it wasn’t anger in his eyes. Not accusation either. Just something that cracked me wide open: The echo of the boy who once laughed with me over crooked LEGO while rap played through his speakers, and the man who somehow still carries me with him.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Caden mutters beside me. His voice is low, threaded with something that isn’t quite amusement but isn’t unkind either.
I blink at him. “What?”
“You get this look,” he says, tilting his head just slightly toward me. “Like you’re trying to solve the world’s hardest math problem. Don’t.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “That obvious?”
“Yeah,” he says. Then softer—almost like he regrets letting it slip—he murmurs, “Always has been.”
That lands sharp in my chest. Because it’s true. He always could read me, strip me down to the wire. Apparently he still can.
I swallow hard. “You sure about this?” I gesture faintly to our hands. To him. To everything.
His gaze sharpens. “I asked you to be my prom date, Theo. Didn’t think I’d have to ask twice.”
And there it is again. That steadiness. That unshakable confidence I used to lean on and resent in equal measure. It hasn’t dulled with time. If anything, it’s stronger now.
I draw a breath, but the air feels too thick in my lungs. The truth is, I don’t know if I’m sure. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel sure again. But my hand is still in his. My heart is still racing. And maybe that’s the only answer that matters right now.
