Page 97 of Caden & Theo

We walk out into the warm, humid night. The scent of honeysuckle is thick in the air, crickets chirping like a soundtrack to something inevitable—like they know we’re circling closer to what neither of us has dared to say.

At the curb, he pauses. “Good night, Theo.”

“Night, Caden.”

He turns and starts down the sidewalk. I watch him go, some part of me aching in a way that’s both old and unbearably new.

And just before I climb into my truck, I see him glance back. Like maybe he’s thinking the same thing I am. That this—whatever it is—still matters, even after all this time.

TWENTY-ONE

CADEN

Sleep tookits time last night, the way it always does when my leg won’t quite settle and every shift in bed feels like I’m dragging someone else’s limb around with me.

By seven thirty, I give up and get moving. The shower sputters like it’s clearing its throat. I wash fast, towel off, and seat myself on the edge of the bed to put on my liner and socket. The motions are automatic—liner rolled smooth, limb guided down, the quiet click and seal as the carbon fiber shell seats into place. I flex. It’s solid with no hotspots. The day will be cold-start stiff until I warm up, but that’s normal. I reach for my athletic cover—the matte black one that disappears under shorts when I’m training—and snap it into place. It feels like suiting up and coming home at the same time.

I text Cameron.

Me: The Roll in 15?

He texts back as I lace my sneakers.

Cam: Definitely. Bring your appetite and your terrible taste in coffee.

It’s not my taste that’s terrible. It’s The Roll’s coffee. That’s half the charm.

I cut through town on foot. Gomillion wears Saturday mornings well. Sunlight unspools across Main Street, making the shop windows glow like they’re holding their breath. The bell above The Roll’s door jingles when I push in. The scent hits like a hug: butter, cinnamon, sugar, and a hint of burnt drip coffee.

There’s a banner behind the counter that’s probably older than some of the kids Theo trains, readingVoted Best Cinnamon Roll in the State for Over Twenty Years!Someone added, in Sharpie:They gave us the title for life and retired the category.I barely hold back my laugh.

Cameron already has a table by the window, all elbows and easy charm in a soft gray jacket and a T-shirt that probably cost more than my first month’s rent after college. His hair is immaculate. His grin isn’t.

“You look like a man who fought a mattress and lost,” he says as I drop into the chair across from him.

“I slept in a bed that had the springs of my youth,” I say. “It was nostalgic. And crunchy.”

He slides a plate toward me. Eight inches of spiraled sin glistens under a sheet of frosting, steam curling off the top like it’s performing for the camera. There are two forks and two paper cups of coffee that smell like they were brewed yesterday.

“I bought the wheel,” he says proudly. “And the state-sanctioned bad coffee.”

“Bless you,” I say, and pull the plate closer. The first bite is indecent. Sweet. Warm. A little yeasty, a little crispy at theedges. Joy in carb form. The coffee tastes like deadlines and determination. I drink it anyway.

Cameron watches me like he’s timing a split. “Scale of one to sacred?”

“Somewhere near baptism,” I say around another bite.

He laughs, then leans back and studies me. This is the part where he stops being my high school buddy and becomes the guy who negotiates with billionaires for breakfast. His eyes get a little sharper. He knocks softly on the table with his knuckles. “So. Eleven o’clock.”

“The alumni game.” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “I saw it on the schedule.”

“Come on,” he says lightly. “Play. Ten, fifteen minutes. We’ll check with whoever’s wrangling team rosters. You start, you smile, you get out before your knee and residual throw a fit.”

I snort. “Oh, so you’re my trainer now?”

“God, no,” he says. “I like my body too much to put it through whatever you put your clients through.”

We share a grin. My chest loosens a little. It’s always easy with Cam: old rhythms and new respect. He helped thread my life back together when I let him back in. He also knows when to push.