Page 45 of Stop and Seek (Our Childish Games #1)

When Theo’s alarm went off, he didn’t have the energy to hit snooze. No point—he hadn’t slept anyway. His brain had been on high-alert since the Jagger revelation, envisioning things like some kind of low-budget horror reel. Choppy cuts of blood, eyeballs, Noah’s hands. Noah’s voice.

Rolling around in bed—grinding against Noah to relieve some of the pressure—was really a fucked-up way to spend an entire night.

Now, every inch of him was sore, and the idea of moving felt like a chore.

Even his hair hurt. The sheets were a tangled mess of limbs and heat, and he was definitely one of the limbs.

A very sore, very uncomfortable one. Meanwhile, Noah had been sleeping like a baby, complete with soft snoring and a death grip on Theo’s torso. At least someone had gotten shut-eye.

“Where are you going?” Noah asked, groggy as shit, when Theo tried to shift out from under the dead weight of his arm.

“Work.”

Noah yawned, propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. His hair was sticking up in every direction, and somehow, he still looked hot .

Life was unfair.

“Do… do you need anything?” Noah asked, stifling a yawn. “Tylenol?”

Theo snorted. It was so damn sweet, it was heart wrenching. “Go back to sleep. I’m good.”

But Noah didn’t. He flopped back onto the pillow, eyes open, staring up at him. Silent. Maybe still hungover. Maybe still too drunk to register the full scope of what happened in the shower.

“Last night was…” Noah started, then trailed off.

Go on. Say it. Disturbing? Demented? A full tour of my screwed to shit emotional terrain?

He didn’t press. Just waited, pretending the pounding in his temples wasn’t growing louder.

“I need to deal with whats-his-face,” Noah finished.

“Andrew,” Theo said. “I want to be there.”

“Are you sure, baby?”

Sure was one thing.

Ridiculously excited was a whole different ballgame.

Theo nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak—not when his throat was this dry and his skin felt too tight around his body. Admitting the thrill of it out loud would make it real.

“You wanna go tonight?” Noah asked. “Or is that too soon? I don’t wanna push.”

Tonight wasn’t soon enough. He wanted to skip work and go now . He wanted to see the blood. The panic. The fear. Wanted to stand in the gore and breathe it in like incense.

God, that was fucked up.

When Noah pulled him into his arms, dragging him back down against warm sheets that smelled like sex and sweat, Theo didn’t argue. He closed his eyes and let Noah kiss a line down his neck. And when Noah’s hand wrapped around his dick, he blamed morning wood. Reflex. Circumstance.

Anything but what it really was.

Work crawled by in a blur of raw, tender skin—the atrocious green turtleneck barely hiding the amount of hickies on his neck—and Mrs. Rosario’s compliments.

“You have a sweet smile, Theo.”

Thank you, ma’am.

“You look happy today.”

Yes, ma’am.

“Did something good happen?”

No, ma’am.

Well… maybe.

Not in the way she was expecting, though. Unless her idea of “something good” included getting laid, murder talk, and throwing his moral compass out the fucking window.

And Theo did try to look happy when he was here. He tried, dammit. Sure, he was probably working a little too high or so hungover he couldn’t keep his eyes open most days, but he loved the library.

The bell above the door chimed, sharp and hollow, slicing clean through his spiral.

He glanced at the clock. Half-past two.

God, today couldn’t end soon enough.

“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Rosario sang.

Theo pulled open the box of decorations, instantly assaulted by the overpowering scent of cinnamon and dusty cardboard.

His eyes watered. Early autumn decorations, his least favorite.

Inside, a void of crumpled red tablecloths stared back at him.

The cheap fabric clung to his hands, static crackling as he tugged one free.

Buried beneath them were the fake flowers he hated—golds and reds and oranges, mashed together with those dollar-store berry branches that fell apart when someone bumped into them.

He yanked the cloth off the center table, half-heartedly folding it before tossing the new one over.

“He’s right over there, sir,” Mrs. Rosario said.

Theo looked up, neck craning around the shelves, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Two detectives.

What the hell were they doing here?

What did they want from him?

“Theodore Lambert?” one of them asked, striding closer.

“Theo.” The correction was automatic.

They weren’t locals, that much was obvious. All the cops here knew him. Hell, half of them probably still had his old senior picture tacked up in some backroom like a lost pet flyer. One too many teenage disasters and his parents’ number was permanently in everyone's phone.

The taller of the two pulled out his badge—

Michael Woodman.

Independent Contractor, Investigative Service s

“Nice to meet ya, Theo,” he said. Casual. As if they were making introductions at a cookout and not about to ruin Theo’s slow-ass afternoon. He nodded to the darker-haired man beside him. “This is my partner, Glenn.”

Theo licked his lips. “Can I help you?”

“Do ya have somewhere we can talk? Private.”

That wasn’t ominous at all.

The back room had coffee. Old coffee. The kind that looked more like burnt soup than anything drinkable. Theo had made it when he got in, then forgot about it entirely—too busy pretending to be a functioning human.

He poured the sludge into three chipped cups. Paused.

“Do you two want sugar? Or cream? All we have is the powdered kind,” he said, hands shaking. Gripping the mug tighter didn’t help.

There was nothing to be nervous about. Thinking about doing something bad didn’t amount to doing it.

Michael stayed standing, but Glenn took the seat across from him—calm, professional, his hands folded like this was routine.

Because for them, it probably was.

Theo’s palms were damp against his khakis. He rubbed them, slow, trying to scrub away the nerves bubbling under his skin.

Michael leaned across the table. “Sit down, Theo. ”

Theo forced himself into the seat. His eyes met Glenn’s. Not unkind, but heavy. The same look of I can’t remember what sleep is that Theo saw in the mirror most mornings.

“We need to talk to you about William Jaeger,” Glenn said. “You were the last known person he contacted.”

Theo’s throat went dry. He nodded once.

“Can you tell us what he said?”

His tongue sat too thick—a brick in his mouth. “He’s been asking me to meet him for weeks. Said he needed closure.”

“And did you?”

Theo hesitated, then nodded again. “I showed up, yeah. He didn’t.”

Because he was already dead.

Because Noah had caved his skull in with a fucking picture frame and impaled glass into his brain.

Glenn jotted something down in his notebook. “Did he seem afraid? Nervous? Did he say anything that might suggest someone else was involved, or that he thought he was in danger?”

“No.” Theo shook his head. “He sounded desperate, I guess. Is he missing?”

That was the right question, wasn’t it? If he didn’t ask something, it would be even more obvious.

Michael dropped into the seat next to Glenn. “We think it’s a lil worse than that.”

Theo stared down at the old table. Coffee stains, the corner peeling like dead skin. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was louder now. It screamed into his skull, threatening a shut-down level migraine .

“We’re looking into all possible suspects,” Glenn added. “You’re not in any kind of trouble. But if there’s anything you remember, something he might’ve said, anyone he mentioned, now’s the time.”

“I haven’t talked to Jag—William a lot since we broke up. I don’t know what’s going on with him.”

Technically true. He just happened to know Jagger was buried six-feet-under somewhere.

Michael nodded, slowly. “Sometimes people reach out right before things get bad, y’know? Tryin’ to fix parts of themselves. Or drag someone else into their disaster.”

Theo didn’t answer.

Glenn flipped his notebook shut. “If anything comes back to you, give us a call. You’ve got our card.”

The chair scraped as Theo stood, legs numb beneath him.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Okay.”

As soon as the door shut behind them, the world snapped back to normal.

Sort of.

Theo stood there for a second, staring at the empty chairs, heart thudding so hard it made his fingertips tingle.

They were gone.

Poof , as Alyssa would say.

And he hadn’t slipped .

Hadn’t stuttered. Hadn’t given them anything but the version of events he’d known before Noah broke into his house, drunk and ranting.

God.

He was buzzing .

He shoved open the break room door too hard—it banged against the wall, loud enough to make Mrs. Rosario glance up from the circulation desk.

“Everything okay, Theo?”

“Peachy,” he said, breathless as hell. “Nothing to worry about.”

Ducking behind the nearest bookshelf, Theo dragged in a deep breath. Held it. Trying to trap the adrenaline and keep it there. He felt every ounce of static, every edge of the bright, sharp world under his shoes.

He pressed his palms to his cheeks. They were hot. Burning.

Holy shit, calm down.

Calm down right-fucking-now.

Except he couldn’t.

Instead, he went back to the table and grabbed the stupid fake flowers from the box. Ripped them out by the handful. A few of the plastic berries scattered across the floor, knocking against his sneakers.

He laughed. Once. Quiet and short. But it didn’t feel normal. It was the kind of laugh right before the panic attacks. Half a second before he threw up or debated running into traffic.

The cops really looked him in the eye and told him the thing he already knew like it was new .

The bell above the door chimed again—another person, another thing to keep him busy for the next few hours before the clock finally set him free.

Theo shoved some semblance of a bouquet into the glass vase. Stood back. His foot must have caught the edge of the table cloth because the whole thing came crashing down.

Oops.

“—popular today.” Mrs. Rosario’s voice floated through the air. “He’s over there.”

“Thanks,” the person replied, and that voice—

Yeah. That sounded a lot like Noah.

Peering around the bookshelf, Theo caught sight of him. No signs of a bad hangover from model-perfect Noah. His hair was done, skin fucking glowing—wearing another one of Theo’s shirts that did not fit him in the best way possible.

Screw waiting.

Theo launched himself at Noah, arms wrapped tight around his neck, fingers tunneling through blond hair crunchy with gel. A plastic bag crinkled between them, warm against Theo’s chest. He barely registered it.

The kiss was all teeth and heat, a wet, frantic tangle of tongues that wasn’t even close to sweet. He didn’t aim. Didn’t think.

Noah made a small, surprised noise into his mouth—part gasp, part laugh.

But he didn’t pull away.

Theo kissed harder. His mouth slid open wider like he was starving, like he wanted to crawl inside Noah and just—stay there. Hide there. There was no way he could get close enough. Not even when he was drowning in Noah’s citrus cologne .

He bit down, not enough to break skin but enough to feel the catch of Noah’s breath. Their hips bumped, clumsy, a knock of belt buckle and thigh that dragged a quiet, helpless whine from somewhere deep in Theo.

“You’re gonna make me drop food,” Noah murmured against his lips.

Theo grinned. “Fuck food.”

“No—not—you’re shaking, Theo.”

This time, Noah did pull back, and Theo had to remind himself to breathe.

Noah sat the bag down, both hands coming up to cup Theo’s face. That dumb smile made it hard to think about anything else.

“Hey,” Noah whispered. He kissed him again. Once. Soft and sweet. “I missed you too.”

“Did you—” Theo swallowed. Waited for the pounding in his ears to ease. “Did you come by to eat together? I take lunch at noon.”

“Kinda? I wanted to make sure you ate something. I was out grabbing groceries for us—”

Us.

Not you. Not me.

Us. Like they were something real. Something fucking solid. Like they had routines now. Like he belonged somewhere.

I am not emotional right now.

“—and I was getting hungry, so I thought you might be too.”

Every damn thing Noah did made Theo’s chest ache.

He couldn’t look away. His heart was too loud. His skin felt like a lit match beneath Noah’s touch.

Noah’s thumb brushed gently across his cheek, and goosebumps exploded down Theo’s arms, racing over his skin in a wave.

“Are you okay, baby?”

“Never better,” Theo said.

And for once—

For the first time in his miserable life—

He meant it.