Page 118 of Caden & Theo

He scrolls, then glances up. “I’ll put you on the same flight. If not, same connection and I’ll wait.”

“Same flight,” I say, too fast. “I want the same everything.”

A spark lights behind his eyes at that. “God, Theo.” He exhales, leans in, kisses the corner of my mouth like he doesn’t trust himself with more. “Okay. We’re doing it.”

He props the phone on the bedside table to charge and tugs me closer by the wrist until I’m half sprawled over him. The sheets are cool, his skin warm, the morning light a thin gold drape across his shoulder. We breathe there for a while, noses brushing, the quiet turning thick and sweet.

Then reality taps again. “I should… pack?” I say, the word absurd in my mouth, like I’ve never done it before.

“Mm. Essentials,” he says, counting them off with kisses to my temple. “Wallet. ID. Toothbrush.” Another kiss. “A shirt you’ll pretend isn’t mine that absolutely is.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I literally saw one of my old basketball jerseys draped over your laundry basket in your en suite,” he says and trawls a grin across my mouth when I glance down at my very naked chest and cough.

“Details,” I mutter, only slightly mortified that I have a shirt that’s sixteen years old and that I still wear the damn thing.

He laughs and then sobers, thumb tracing under my eye. “You okay?”

I want to say yes without hesitation, but he deserves truth, not autopilot reassurance. “I’m… scared,” I admit. “Not of you. Of the whiplash. Last night, this morning, now a plane. It feelslike jumping into the deep end and realizing I forgot to learn how to swim.”

He nods, eyes steady. “Then I’ll jump in with you and keep a hand on you the whole time.”

My throat tightens. “That’s not how swimming works.”

“It is now,” he says. “New technique. Approved by me.”

I huff and hide my face against his shoulder for a second. When I lift it again, he’s still there, still grounded, still Caden.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Then we jump.”

He nods once, decisive. “We jump.”

I peel myself away before I lose the thread entirely and snag a duffel from the closet. I toss in jeans, underwear, socks, two T-shirts, a hoodie, and toiletries. The firefighter goes last, tucked in a side pocket. I tell myself it’s temporary. That I’ll set him on Caden’s dresser in San Francisco and let him look out a window we haven’t seen yet.

Behind me, the bed rustles. “I should put my leg on,” he says, practical as breath.

“Want help?”

He looks over like he’s cataloging the question. “Yeah,” he says finally, quietly. “Thanks.”

We move through it together—familiar now after last night’s careful unlearning and relearning—our rhythm already smoother. He tells me where to steady and where to wait, when to hold and when not to. The routine is different from undressing; this is the day version, the going-out-into-the-world version. It feels just as intimate. Maybe more so. When everything’s aligned and secure, he tests his weight, looks up, and gives me a small nod that lands like a warm hand between my shoulder blades.

“Good?” I ask.

“Good,” he echoes. “Really good.”

He stretches, grimaces at his phone’s battery percentage, and slips it off the cord. “I’ll charge it more in the car.”

“I’m driving,” I say, and the words hang there for a split second, both of us remembering the last time the world tilted behind a steering wheel. I wait for the flinch, despite his quiet acceptance yesterday. He gives me a soft, sure nod instead.

“Okay,” he says. “You’re driving.”

The knot in my chest loosens another degree. We’re not pretending the past didn’t happen. We’re choosing to walk past it—together.

“Text me the itinerary,” I add, grabbing my own dead phone and grimacing.

He lifts his. “I’ll AirDrop it when we have more than 5 percent life support.”