Page 56 of Caden & Theo

Then we’re moving fast—down the hall to where my room is. The second the door is locked, I press him back against it and kiss him like the biggest moment of my life didn’t happen an hour ago.

His hands slide up under my shirt, fingers pressing into my sides like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me. “You okay?” he breathes between kisses.

“No,” I say, and laugh softly. “But I will be.”

He pulls back to meet my eyes. “Detroit.”

I nod. “It’s closer to you. Closer than Atlanta, than home. We’ll make this work.”

He grins that same grin from my senior high school year when we first kissed covered in foam. “You’re really doing it.”

“We’rereally doing it,” I correct. “You’ve been there every step.”

His hand cups the back of my neck. “I’ll be there for all the rest.”

And then we stop talking. Because some things—like celebration, like hope, like love—don’t need words. Not when they’re pressed into skin and whispered in the dark.

Not when they already feel like forever.

But we don’t have much time. Not right now.

Instead, we’re all hands and mouths, breathless laughter against skin, a tangle of limbs and need. My hoodie hits the floor. Theo’s fingers are in my hair like he’s trying to ground us both, but the urgency between us decides otherwise. It’s not slow. It’s not sweet. Not this time.

Theo pushes me backward onto the bed, eyes dark with heat, mouth swollen from kissing like we forgot how to stop. The world outside—the sunset, laughter—dissolves beyond the door we locked. Here, it’s just us.

His hands are everywhere. Sliding under my shirt, curling around my ribs, greedy in a way that makes my chest tighten with something bigger than just want. My pulse stutters when he pulls the shirt over my head and tosses it aside like it offends him.

“God, Caden,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss just below my collarbone, lips dragging heat across skin. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. His mouth finds that spot just under my jaw and I shiver, fingers tightening in the sheets. It’s likeevery part of him is tuned to mine. He knows exactly where to touch, where to bite. And I’m burning for him.

I tug at his shirt until he lifts his arms and lets me strip it away, revealing the lines of muscle I’ve memorized from too many nights of doing exactly this. I run my hands down his chest, over his stomach, and he exhales like I knocked the wind out of him.

“Come here,” I whisper, and he does.

He kisses me again, rough and perfect, but then he breaks away just long enough to press his forehead against mine, our breaths mingling, sweat already clinging to our skin. “This feels like a dream,” he says, voice low and wrecked.

“Then don’t wake up,” I say breathily.

He grins—and then he’s moving again, trailing heated kisses down my body like he’s starving for it, like touching me is the only way he remembers how to breathe. His hands hook into the waistband of my shorts, unhurried just for a second, like he’s giving me the chance to stop him.

I don’t.

He drags them down, and then he’s there—between my thighs, looking up at me like I’m something sacred, even now, even with nothing left to hide between us.

“Cade,” he murmurs, voice rough with want, “you’re gonna ruin me.”

And then his mouth is on me. It’s hot, measured, devastating. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound that would definitely get us caught.

Theo’s always been good at this. Focused. Intent. Like he’s proving how well he knows me by feel, pressure, and rhythm. His eyes flick up once, and the sight almost undoes me.

The room is dim, quiet but for my harsh breathing, the faint whisper of his lips moving up and down my dick, and the wet pull of sweet suction. My fingers tangle in his hair, not pushing,not guiding—just needing to hold on. His tongue drags over me like he’s savoring it. Like he wants this just as much as I do. Like maybe he needs it.

My limbs shake, and I brace myself with one hand, the other still buried in his hair. My chest tightens with something more than lust. It’s him. It’s always him.

He cups my balls gently, fingers firm but tender, like he’s not just trying to bring me pleasure—he’s trying to tell me something. Like he loves me without needing to say the words out loud again. It’s all in the way he touches me, the way he lets me tremble, lets me hold back the sounds I can’t afford to make.

My heart pounds against my ribs the deeper he sucks. My breath comes out in short, shallow gasps. And still, he moves with calm precision, like he knows my body better than I do.