5. Theo
5
Theo
T he engine rumbles beneath my hands as I steer my old truck down the quiet streets of Shadow Grove. The truck—a ‘93 Ford F-150 with more character than reliability—was my uncle’s before it was mine. He took damn good care of it, and I am beyond grateful he let me have this piece of him after he passed. The dashboard’s a little worn, and the radio takes some sweet-talking to cooperate, but it still drives smoothly. Steady. Dependable. At least, when it wants to be.
Like the man who left it to me.
I exhale, tapping my fingers against the wheel, glancing at the bouquet of fresh herbs and wildflowers I just picked up from the supermarket, sitting in the passenger seat. Not roses, not anything too much—just a simple bouquet that smells like summer and fresh starts. I told myself I wouldn’t overthink tonight, but here I am, running through the checklist in my head to make sure nothing is missed before we head back to my house.
Food? Check.
Drinks? Check.
Playlist? Already queued up.
Selene doesn’t strike me as someone who needs grand gestures. She doesn’t seem like the type to swoon over candlelit dinners or elaborate surprises. If anything, I get the sense she’d find them suffocating. She values control—keeps people at arm’s length until they prove they deserve to be let in. Tonight isn’t about impressing her with fancy restaurants or over-the-top plans. It’s about making her feel comfortable. Seen.
I turn onto her street and spot her waiting on the porch, Valkyrie sitting obediently at her side. Even from a distance, she looks like she owns the night. She looks effortlessly good—black jeans, a fitted top, hair down, catching the last bit of evening light. As I roll to a stop, she scratches behind Valkyrie’s ears and murmurs something to her before opening the front door and ushering her inside. She then jogs down the steps toward me and my truck.
I lean over, pushing the passenger door open. “Evening, Valkyrie’s human.”
Selene smirks, sliding in. She moves like she’s completely in control—even in the simple act of getting into a truck. “Evening, Hot Shot.”
I chuckle as she fastens her seatbelt. “You ready?”
She lifts a brow. “Are you going to tell me what you had planned?”
I pull back onto the road, the truck humming along, familiar and steady. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Selene huffs, crossing her arms as she leans back into the seat. “You know, if this was an episode of Dateline , this is exactly how it would start.”
I glance at her, amused. “Oh yeah?”
She nods, dead serious. “Mysteriously sexy guy invites an unsuspecting woman out on a date and refuses to tell her where they’re going. Next thing you know, she’s missing, and his old, suspiciously well-maintained truck becomes a key piece of evidence.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Mysteriously sexy? Suspiciously well-maintained?”
“Well, yeah. Your truck screams ‘ I change my oil and know how to get bloodstains out of upholstery.’”
I grin, playing along. “You think I’d be that obvious?”
“Serial killers get cocky. It’s their downfall.” She tilts her head, considering. “Then again, you run a cafe. Maybe your thing is poisoning instead.”
I let out a dramatic sigh. “Damn. You got me.”
She smirks. That sharp, knowing smirk makes me feel like she’s uncovered a truth I haven’t even realized yet. “Knew it.”
I shake my head, turning the volume up on the stereo. “Guess I better prove I’m not a murderer before we get to my place.”
Selene blinks. “ Your place? ”
I bite back a smile, keeping my eyes on the road. “Relax. You’re safe. For now.”
She eyes me like she’s weighing whether or not she needs an escape plan. Then she just shrugs, like she’s decided if I am a murderer, at least it’ll be interesting. She shifts in her seat as music fills the cab. The playlist kicks off with a bright, bouncy track—perfect for cooking and moving around the kitchen. I catch her nodding along, fingers tapping against her thigh.
“So,” she says, glancing over. “What’s with the mystery?”
I shrug, pulling into my driveway. “Thought it’d be more fun this way.”
Selene raises a brow as I throw the truck into park. “Depends on your definition of fun.”
I chuckle, grabbing the bouquet from between us before hopping out. By the time she joins me, she’s already taking in her surroundings—the house, the wraparound porch, the warm glow of light spilling from the windows.
Her expression shifts, just slightly. “Your place, huh?”
“Still convinced I’m a serial killer?” I tease, unlocking the door.
She hums, stepping inside ahead of me. “Not ruling it out yet.”
The second I shut the door behind us, my phone connects to the Bluetooth speakers in the kitchen, and the music from the truck picks up right where it left off—a smooth transition, like the house is just as ready for tonight as I am.
Selene glances toward the speakers, amused. “Didn’t take you for the ‘walk into the room with a soundtrack’ type.”
I set the bouquet down on the counter, flashing her a grin. “It makes life more interesting.”
She smirks, but I catch the way her eyes linger on the space around her. It’s not a huge house, but it’s comfortable—lived-in. Warm wood tones, open shelves lined with coffee mugs and cookbooks, a well-worn couch in the living room, and a few framed photos that have been in the same spots for years.
She looks at it like she’s searching for a tell—a crack in the perfect, steady image.
“Alright, Hot Shot,” she says, turning back to me. “What’s the plan?”
I nod toward the kitchen. “We cook.”
Selene blinks. “Wait, what?”
I laugh, moving toward the fridge. “You thought I was taking you out, didn’t you?”
She crosses her arms, eyeing me. “I mean… yeah? I thought you were just dropping off your groceries because you have poor time management skills.”
“Well,” I say, pulling out ingredients, “I have excellent time management skills, but I figured this would be better. More fun. Less pressure. Plus, I needed to see if you could hold your own in a kitchen.”
She scoffs. “I can cook just fine, thank you very much.”
I slide a cutting board toward her, along with a chef’s knife. “Good. Prove it.”
She shakes her head, muttering under her breath, but she steps up to the counter. I don’t miss the way she rolls up her sleeves like she’s ready to go to battle.
We fall into an easy rhythm—chopping, stirring, moving around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times before. The music keeps the energy light, and soon enough, we’re laughing between steps, trading playful nudges when one of us gets in the other’s way.
A familiar guitar riff hums through the speakers, and before the first verse even starts, I know exactly what song it is.
Assimilate by Umbra.
I glance at Selene, curious. Most people either recognize their big hits or don’t know them at all, but the way she perks up tells me she’s in the first category.
And then she starts singing.
Not just singing—she’s harmonizing .
Perfectly.
She does it effortlessly, her voice slipping into the background vocals like she was meant to be there. Not a single hesitation. No stumbling over the words. Just pure, instinctual rhythm, blending with the track like she’d rehearsed it a hundred times before. Her voice blends perfectly with Ara’s.
My hands still. The knife I was using rests against the cutting board as I turn to look at her.
She doesn’t notice at first, too caught up in the music. Her body moves slightly with the beat, fingers drumming absently against the counter, completely in sync with the song.
It’s not just impressive—it’s intimidatingly good.
Selene must feel my stare because she suddenly stops mid-line and looks up, brows drawing together. “What?”
I blink. “What the hell was that?”
She shifts, suddenly looking a little self-conscious. “Singing?”
“No, that was not just singing. ” I point at her. “You were doing the harmonies.”
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Yeah?”
I stare at her. “Nobody just knows the harmonies. That’s not casual fan behavior.”
She tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with a look I can’t quite read—amusement, maybe, or a challenge. “I mean… I guess you could say I’m familiar with the band.”
I narrow my eyes, no one knows the members of the band. “How familiar?”
Selene sighs, finally setting down her knife and leaning a hip against the counter. “ I’m their graphic designer. So I listen to their music as I create designs for them. ”
For a second, I don’t process what she just said.
Then I blink. “You’re telling me you design for Umbra?”
She nods. “Album covers, promo stuff, tour graphics—you know, the visuals that go with the music.”
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “You’ve been sitting on that this whole time?”
She smirks. “You didn’t ask.”
Grabbing the nearest dish towel I throw it at her. She ducks, laughing, and suddenly, I know one thing for sure.
I’m completely screwed.
She doesn’t chase, doesn’t press for attention. But she doesn’t need to—somehow, she always keeps me on my toes, keeps me wanting more.
As we settle at the table, plates full of the dinner we made together. As we eat the conversation flows just as easily as it did at the lake.
“Dinner was great, Hot Shot—” Selene smirks over the rim of her wine glass, eyes playful. “I have to ask—how did you survive all this time without my expert knife skills?”
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. “You mean the ‘expert skills’ that nearly sent a tomato flying across my kitchen?”
She gasps in mock offense. “That was one time.”
I lift a brow. “That one time was ten minutes ago.”
She points her fork at me. “If you keep insulting the chef, I might just take my talents elsewhere.”
“Oh, talents?” I tease, grinning. “So we’re just ignoring the fact that I did ninety percent of the cooking?”
She shrugs, smirking. “Delegation is an important skill.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I take a sip of my drink. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah, but you like it.”
She says it like it’s a fact, not a question. And maybe it is.
I don’t answer right away, just watching her for a second. The flickering candlelight makes the blue in her eyes stand out, and she looks so at ease—like she belongs here, like she’s always belonged here.
Yeah. I definitely like it.
Instead of saying that, I clear my throat and set down my glass. “Alright, Smartass. Are you ready for your surprise?”
She leans back in her chair, intrigued. “You mean dinner wasn’t the big event?”
I shake my head. “Nope. There’s more.”
Narrowing her eyes, she asks, “Am I going to regret this?”
“Only if you hate fun.”
Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “Alright, Hot Shot. What’ve you got?”
I push back from the table and stand. “Come on.”
She follows me into the living room, where I’ve already set everything up. Selene stops short, blinking at the setup. “No. No way. ”
While she was putting the finishing touches on dinner I snuck in here to finish setting up the room. Two blank canvases,in front of the couch, a set of paints and brushes on the table in front of the couch, and I have a Bob Ross painting tutorial pulled up on my TV.
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly a little self-conscious. “You said you hadn’t used real pencil and paper in a while, and I figured—y’know—maybe this could be fun?”
She crosses her arms, studying me with a look that’s half suspicion, half warmth. I don’t know if she’s impressed or if she’s just surprised, but either way, I can feel her gaze settling somewhere deeper than I expected. “You did all this because I told you one time yesterday that I hadn’t sketched in a while? How did you get this stuff? Do you paint?”
I shake my head. “Not unless you count kindergarten finger painting.”
She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh. “This is either going to be incredible or a complete disaster.”
“Probably a disaster.” I grin. “But at least we’ll have wine.”
She lets out a laugh, stepping closer to the setup. “Alright, Hot Shot. Let’s paint some happy little trees.”
I hit play, and as Bob Ross’s soothing voice fills the room, we get to work, glasses of wine in hand.
We follow along with Bob Ross as best as we can, but it’s clear pretty early on that one of us is more naturally talented than the other. Spoiler alert: it’s not me.
Selene glances over at my canvas and immediately chokes on her wine, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Theo—what is that?”
I squint at my painting, tilting my head. “It’s a mountain.”
She looks between my attempt and Bob’s effortlessly blended masterpiece on the screen. “No, that is a mountain,” she says, pointing at the tutorial. “ Yours looks like… I don’t even know. A melted iceberg?”
I snort, shaking my head. “Okay, art critic, let’s see yours.”
She spins her canvas around, revealing a painting that actually looks good. Her shading is smooth, her trees have depth—it’s not Bob Ross level, but it’s damn close.
I stare at it, impressed. “Alright, okay. I see how it is. You’re just trying to make me look bad.”
Selene grins. “You’re doing that all on your own, Hot Shot. How did you even get paint in your hair?” She reaches over and tries to pick it out, but it’s been in there long enough that it’s already dried.
Fuck. This is embarrassing.
I groan dramatically, setting my brush down. “I think I’ve accepted my fate as the worst painter in Shadow Grove.”
She hums, tapping her chin. “Nah, I think there’s some kid out there making macaroni art who might give you a run for your money.”
Selene’s still smiling as she turns back to her painting, but I catch the subtle shift in her expression—like she’s letting her guard down without even realizing it. Like she’s allowing herself to just be here, with me.
Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans in, and without thinking, I reach out and gently tuck it behind her ear.
She stills.
So do I.
The air shifts, the playful teasing melting into a heavier tension that hums between us like a live wire.
Slowly, she turns her head, her gaze flicking from my eyes to my lips and back again.
“Are we…” She exhales softly, searching my expression. “Are you going to finish your painting?”
I shake my head, my voice quieter now. “Not at all.”
Her lips part just slightly, and I don’t know if she’s about to say something else, but I don’t wait to find out.
I lean in, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she meets me halfway, her hands finding my shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric. I gently grab the nape of her neck to bring her flush against my chest.
The kiss is slow, deliberate—like we’re both realizing at the same time just how inevitable this was.
She tastes like wine and a sweeter note that’s entirely her, and I don’t think I could ever get enough.
When we finally break apart, she exhales a breathy laugh, her forehead resting lightly against mine.
“So,” she murmurs, her fingers still curled in my shirt. “Does this mean I’ve inspired the artist in you?”
I grin, my hands settling on her waist. “I think I’m gonna need a lot more inspiration.”
She smiles up at me. “Good thing I’m pretty inspiring.”
I chuckle, pressing one last lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth before reluctantly stepping back. “As much as I’d love to keep failing at painting next to you all night, I should probably get you home.”
She arches her brow. “Afraid I’ll beat you at another Bob Ross masterpiece?”
I smirk. “Nah, that was a lost cause from the start. But I do know you have a very needy, very dramatic dog waiting for you.”
Selene sighs, but there’s no real disappointment in it. “You make a good point. Valkyrie will riot if I stay out too late.”
I help her gather her things, and after one last amused glance at my not-mountain painting, we make our way back to my truck. The drive is quiet and comfortable—her hand resting on her lap, mine gripping the wheel, both of us stealing glances when we think the other isn’t looking.
When I pull up in front of her place, I hop out first, walking around to open her door. She steps out, looking up at me with an unreadable expression.
“I had fun tonight,” she says softly.
“So did I.”
She hesitates, then presses up onto her toes, placing one last, lingering kiss on my lips. “See you soon, Hot Shot.”
I watch as she heads inside, a stupid grin stuck on my face. And as I drive away, I know one thing for sure—this was only the beginning.