Page 112 of Caden & Theo
The familiar scent wraps around me—coffee grounds, the pine polish I use on weekends, the faint trace of old carpet that never quite leaves. Normally, it steadies me. Tonight, it barely registers. Because he’s here. Because the moment we cross the threshold, the questions that strangled me in the car all melt away.
It doesn’t matter if this ends in whispered conversation, in kisses until our mouths are raw, or in something harder, faster, hotter. It doesn’t matter if tomorrow he boards a plane, and I’m left with an ache I can’t name. It doesn’t matter if the only guarantee is this night.
What matters is that for the first time in fifteen years, I get to walk into my home with him at my side.
I’m not giving that up.
The door clicks shut behind us. The sound feels louder than it should, echoing through the house like a declaration. My house. My parents’ once, now mine. I’ve spent a long time filling it with my choices, my routines, my attempts at permanence. But with him standing here, hand still twined with mine, it feels suddenly alive in a way it hasn’t in years.
I kick my shoes off at the mat out of habit, then realize he doesn’t remember the rules here anymore. The first time when he showed up unannounced doesn’t count. He hesitates only a beat before bending down, slipping off his dress shoes one at a time. The motion isn’t as quick as it used to be—his left leg moves differently now, the prosthesis stiff under the fabric of his pants—but he doesn’t make a production of it. Just sets both shoes neatly by mine like he’s been here a hundred times and knows how I live.
The small gesture lands harder than it should. My chest clenches stupidly at the sight of his shoes beside mine, like he’s already marking space here, like he belongs.
The entryway light glows warm. Familiar. Safe. I should offer him a drink, ask if he wants water, beer, coffee. Something normal, polite, grounding. But my throat won’t work. His fingers return to mine, warm and certain, and it feels like if I break the chain—even to do something as simple as open the fridge—the night will slip away from me.
He looks around, taking in the framed photos on the wall, the books stacked too high on the shelf, the small scuff in the baseboard I never got around to fixing. His gaze lingers on everything with quiet curiosity, but it keeps circling back to me, like he’s tracing where I’ve been and what I’ve built but never forgetting that I’m what he came here for.
I clear my throat. “It’s different, huh?” Sure, he was here a couple of days ago, but it had been different. Tense and more uncertain in a whole other way.
He hums low, glancing up toward the hallway that leads to my bedroom. “It’s yours.”
Something about the way he says it—like that simple fact is enough, like the claim itself carries weight—sends a jolt through me. I’ve lived here for years. Paid the bills, painted the walls, made the bed. But hearing him acknowledge it with that quiet certainty makes me feel like I actually own more than just the mortgage. Like I own this life too.
The silence stretches again, thicker now, charged with something that makes my pulse spike. My mouth is dry. Every question that haunted me in the car begins to claw at the back of my skull—what does he want? What happens tomorrow? How long until I lose him again?—but none of them fit the moment. None of them seem to matter when his hand tightens just slightly around mine.
I draw a breath. “Come upstairs?”
His answer is immediate. “Yeah.”
My heart lurches hard against my ribs. I turn toward the staircase, and he follows without hesitation, his steps a half beat behind mine. The old wood creaks under us, the same creak that woke my parents up when I was seventeen and trying to sneak out. Tonight, I don’t care who hears. Tonight, the creak feels like permission.
When we reach the landing, I push my bedroom door open. The space is familiar and mine, decorated in muted blues and grays, shelves lined with books, a lamp casting a soft golden circle across the bedspread. It isn’t the room he once knew. It isn’t even the room I grew up in. But it’s where I sleep, where I dream, where I imagine futures I don’t often let myself believe in. And now, impossibly, he’s here.
We stop just inside the doorway. My hand finally slips free of his, not because I want it to, but because I suddenly don’t know what to do with it. My fingers twitch at my side, restless, unsure. He looks at me with that steady gaze that always unraveled me, like he’s waiting for me to decide which version of tonight we’re stepping into.
“Caden—” My voice catches. I try again. “I don’t know what this is supposed to be.”
His mouth curves, soft but sure. “Maybe there’s no ‘supposed to be’ about it?”
The question loosens something in me, but it also makes my stomach twist. Because no, it doesn’t. But yes, it does. Everything with him always has.
I take a step closer, not trusting my words. His chest rises, then stills, like he’s bracing himself. The space between us shrinks until I can feel the heat radiating off his dark skin. My hand hovers, then lands lightly on his chest. His heart poundsunder my palm, fast, insistent, and the sound in my ears might as well be its echo.
We stand like that for a long moment—my hand over his heart, his eyes locked to mine—until he moves. He lifts his hand and cups the side of my jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth with just barely enough pressure for me to feel it. My knees nearly buckle at the touch.
And then he leans in.
The kiss is gentle, almost reverent. No rush, no demand. Just the quiet press of his lips against mine, fifteen years of absence collapsing in the span of a heartbeat. I clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, afraid he’ll slip away if I don’t anchor him. He groans low in his throat, and the sound sends heat racing through me.
The hunger builds fast, urgent, like it’s been waiting under my skin all this time. The kiss deepens, our mouths parting, tongues meeting, and suddenly there’s nothing quiet about it. His hand slides through my hair. My body shudders, my cock straining painfully against my jeans.
I break the kiss just long enough to rasp, “God, Caden,” before his mouth claims mine again, harder.
We stumble toward the bed, our hands roaming now—his across my back, mine gripping his waist, pulling, tugging, desperate. The air between us snaps and sizzles with every brush of fabric, every gasp. I don’t know if we’re about to talk, to make out until the sun rises, or to strip the years from our skin and fuck until we can’t stand. And the truth is, I don’t care. Any of it. All of it. As long as it’s with him.
When the backs of my legs hit the mattress, I sink down, pulling him with me. He lands half on top of me, bracing his weight on one arm, and the kiss doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. His hips press into mine, the hard line of his cock grindingagainst me through denim, and my groan breaks open against his mouth.
“This—” I choke out between kisses. “This might be a mistake.”
