Page 120 of Caden & Theo

I grab the duffel and sling it over my shoulder. He reaches for it automatically, like he’s ready to take the weight if I want him to. I keep hold. Not because I need to, but because I want to carry this part, at least. He nods once, understanding something I didn’t say.

At the doorway, I look back. The bed is a mess. The morning is bright. The space we just remade together looks ordinary again, the way miracles do once you close your eyes after witnessing them and then open them again.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No,” I say honestly. Then I squeeze his hand. “Yes. Let’s go.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

CADEN

The morning lightin Bernal Heights always feels different—like it softens just enough to forgive the sharp edges of the city. It pours through my bedroom windows, painting the hardwood, spilling across the rug, turning Theo into something holy where he lies beside me.

My bed hasn’t looked like this in fifteen years—lived in, warm, shared. I could stay here all morning just to memorize the rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his mouth slack with sleep. My life has had its good turns, its hard-won wins, but nothing prepared me for the quiet miracle of opening my eyes and finding him here.

He stirs when I shift onto my side, lashes fluttering before he blinks awake. His voice is low, rough-edged. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Figured I’ve earned it.”

His mouth tips into that crooked half smile that used to undo me when we were teenagers. “Not creepy at all.”

“Extremely creepy,” I agree, leaning in until I can kiss the corner of his mouth. He hums, catches me in a fuller kiss, and for a second, it’s too easy to forget I’m supposed to go to work today.

The last couple of nights come back in flashes—the way we fumbled across each other’s bodies, mouths hungry and greedy,the taste of him hot and dizzying on my tongue. Fifteen years of imagining, and then it was real. Him, coming apart under me. Me, losing my breath when he gasped my name. I’d thought that door was closed forever, locked behind guilt and time. I’d been wrong.

Now, tangled in sheets that still smell like us, I want more. I could drag him under the covers, keep us here until the day burns out. But I’ve never been able to ignore morning, not when the city’s waking up, and not when my work waits.

I pull back to see his eyes open fully, still soft from sleep. “I’ve got appointments starting at nine,” I say gently. “But I like to train first.”

He stretches onto his back, groaning into his hand. “Of course you do.”

“You’re coming with me,” I remind him, grinning when he gives me a mock glare.

“Right,” he says, and then quieter, “Kinda nervous.”

“Don’t be.” My hand finds his, our fingers threading together. “I want you to see it. Everything I’ve built. You’ve only ever seen me in jerseys or in pieces. Never this.”

His thumb brushes my knuckle, and he holds me like he hears more than I’m saying.

I let out a breath, the confession slipping before I can stop it. “I want you to be proud.”

Theo’s hand tightens around mine. His voice is steady when he says, “I already am.”

That cracks something open in me I didn’t know I’d been bracing against. I kiss him again—slow, grateful—and then roll onto my back before I forget the clock entirely.

The truth is, I’ve done okay for myself. Not perfect, not easy, but okay. I had money from my two years pro, and thank God I invested when I did. It carried me far enough: paid forqualifications, physio training, specialization. My parents tried to cover it, but I couldn’t let them. I needed it to be mine.

By the time I finished, I had enough collateral to buy a small studio and an apartment. Five years ago, I expanded into a bigger space and bought this house. A risk, sure, but it worked. I knew people. I knew what I was doing. AJ and Cam told the right stories, and some of my old contacts from the league passed my name around, and suddenly I was the guy you saw when you wanted to train harder, heal faster, keep your body alive for the game.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s mine.

And today, Theo gets to see it.

I throw the covers back and stand, stretching until my shoulders pop. Theo watches me, his gaze unguarded, and for a second, it feels like it did when we were twenty, except now we’re stronger, older, built out of fire instead of just sparks.

“C’mon,” I say, grinning at his reluctance to leave the bed. “If you’re going to survive San Francisco, you’re going to need coffee first.”

“Coffee,” he repeats, hauling himself up. “That I can get behind.”