Chapter 9
NINE
THEO
Waking up with Caden’s mouth on my dick probably ruined me for regular mornings. I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back to alarm clocks and cereal after that kind of sunrise.
I’d barely opened my eyes, still heavy with sleep and travel aches, when I felt him—warm breath, hot mouth, soft hum against my skin, like he was trying to wake me up slowly and sweetly. Like a gift.
It worked.
We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. We’d simply touched and moved and let it happen again, the way it’s always going to happen when it’s just us in a room and we’ve got enough hours to get tangled up without time running out.
Later, we laughed about it while brushing our teeth, naked except for boxers, bumping hips like we weren’t both fully addicted.
Best. Morning. Ever.
We spent the whole day together—Caden showing me around campus, pointing out weird student traditions, claiming a corner of the library as “his,” telling me about classes and professors and how tough Coach has been on him even though his scholarship pretty much guaranteed him a spot.
“Tryouts were hard,” he said, “and the pressure’s real.
If I want to start, I’ve gotta earn it.”
I believed him.
He’s got the kind of drive that burns through everything.
It scares me a little, if I’m honest. Not because I think it’ll pull us apart, but because it makes me wonder how I’ll coexist next to that kind of fire when I’m not even sure what I want yet—besides him.
I know I’ll follow him here in a heartbeat if I can, but I also don’t want to mess up what he’s building by hovering too close.
Still.
Today made it harder not to imagine that future—lunch at the campus café, making out in the stairwell of a dorm I’ll probably never live in, holding his hand under the table at a hole-in-the-wall diner in town where no one looked twice at us.
If I went to school here, we could have that all the time.
Well, some of it. The whole together-in-public thing would have to continue to remain on the down-low.
By the time we get back to his dorm, the sun’s barely begun to set, spilling a warm gold across the floorboards like a movie scene that doesn’t know how to end.
Caden shrugs off his hoodie and tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door—some half-assed attempt at adulthood he swears keeps him organized.
He stretches, arms over his head, shirt lifting to expose a sliver of warm brown skin and the curve of his waist. I catch myself staring, and he catches me looking.
“Hungry?” he asks, eyebrows raised, teasing already curling at the edge of his voice. “I’ve got leftover spaghetti that may or may not be a health hazard.”
I laugh, because of course he does. “You planning to poison me before the party?”
He shrugs. “There are worse ways to go.”
“I’ll pass,” I say, dropping onto the couch. “I think I’d rather starve.”
He snorts and walks over to me with a small bag he drops dramatically on the bed.
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
He grins. “Part of your birthday gift.”
I lean forward and pull it open. Two mini LEGO kits. One is a tiny street food cart with a hot dog vendor. The other looks like a firefighter with a dalmatian.
“We’re building these?” I ask, bemused.
“You’re damn right we are,” he says, already tearing into the box. “We’ve got time, and I need a pre-party wind-down.”
I snort. “Is this a thing now? LEGO dates?”
Caden shrugs. “Could be. You trying to judge me or fall more in love with me?”
“Dangerous question,” I say, and open the second box.
We work in silence for a while, soft music playing from his stereo. He’s got a little furrow between his brows as he clicks pieces together, biting his lip in concentration like he’s assembling a space shuttle and not a four-inch plastic hot dog cart.
I finish mine first. It’s crooked, but charming. “Mine’s got personality,” I declare.
He leans over, inspecting it critically. “Yours looks like it survived an earthquake.”
“Still standing.”
He laughs, that deep, warm kind that settles behind my ribs. Then he holds up his finished figure—a proud firefighter with a red helmet and blocky shoulders. He even gave it a tiny mustache. “Behold: me, in another life.”
“Heroic,” I say, handing him my own figure. “Mine owns the hot dog stand across the street. Secretly feeds your dog when you’re not looking.”
“Illegal,” he replies. “But hot.”
We swap the minifigures without ceremony. Just a quiet trade, his fingers brushing mine in the handoff. I look down at the firefighter now in my palm—my Caden.
He clears his throat. “So now you’ve got me. Miniature edition. Travel-sized for convenience.”
I smile, throat tight. “I’ll keep him safe.”
His eyes meet mine for a second too long. The air shifts—thickens. Not in a bad way. Just… full. Like everything we’re not saying is pressing up between us, quiet but loud as hell.
He nudges my foot with his. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that makes me feel like you want to undress me and stay in for the night.”
I want to tell him I do want that. That any time alone I can get with him, I’m here for. But instead, I just say, “That obvious, huh?”
He grins, and for a moment, we snuggle—bare feet tangled as we rest on the bed talking shit, spare LEGO pieces scattered like confetti, sunlight skimming through the blinds.
The light outside starts to shift, the gold of late afternoon sliding toward the cooler blue of evening. It’s the kind of shift you can’t ignore, no matter how good it feels to stay still.
Eventually, we get up. The spell breaks gently, without drama.
We shower, then dress. He looks too good in low-slung jeans and a snug black T-shirt, the sleeves hugging his biceps in a way that’s downright disrespectful. I watch him in the mirror, barely bothering to pretend I’m not staring. He catches me once, smirks, and throws a balled-up sock at my chest.
We laugh.
And then we don’t.
Because this part—the next part—requires masks. We both know it.
By the time we’re out the door and heading toward the party, the shift is complete. I slide my hands into my pockets. He walks with too much space between us, posture loose but shoulders tight. We could be roommates. Just friends. Just two guys heading out for a fun night.
And that’s the story we’ll tell tonight. This is the version of us the world gets.
I know how important this is to Caden. Bonding with the guys—especially the upperclassmen—matters. Even if his talent is a given, respect isn’t. Chemistry isn’t. And no matter how much I want to take his hand in mine, I won’t be the reason he loses ground before the season even starts.
So I nod and grin and keep my damn hands to myself.
Just a couple of friends, heading out.
But my LEGO version of him is already in my back pocket. He doesn’t know it, but I’m bringing him with me anyway.
The house is already loud when we show up—music pulsing through the walls, red plastic cups clutched in almost every hand.
There’s a grill going in the backyard, a few people dancing in the living room, and the unmistakable smell of cheap beer, cologne, and charcoal hanging in the air like a frat-boy fog.
Caden gives me a look—half apology, half warning—and I squeeze his shoulder once before we step inside.
“Let’s just do the rounds,” he says quietly. “Won’t be long.”
“I’m good,” I say, and I mean it. “Just don’t ditch me with someone who only talks about protein powder.”
Caden laughs, and the tension in his jaw eases a little.
We work the room, shaking hands and nodding at people I’ll probably never see again. Some guys recognize me from pictures in his room. One of the freshmen nudges Caden with a smirk and whispers something, and Caden rolls his eyes but takes it in stride.
And for a while, it’s fine.
The music thumps low under our feet. I sip a Sprite and listen to stories about preseason drills and how brutal Coach can be when he’s “in a mood.” I catch Caden watching me a few times, subtle and soft-eyed like he’s still surprised I’m here.
I give him a grin and bump his arm, and for a second, it feels almost normal.
Until it doesn’t.
We’re outside near the grill when one of the juniors, a wiry guy with a chipped tooth and too much swagger for someone wearing flip-flops, tosses a joke into the conversation like it’s nothing.
He’s talking about another guy on the team, some freshman who wears a bandana and always sings along to Destiny’s Child in the locker room.
“Dude’s probably got a boyfriend in his sock drawer,” he says with a laugh around a sneer. “Real secret garden type.”
There’s a pause. A few guys laugh—tight and awkward, like they don’t want to but can’t quite help themselves. Someone coughs. The air shifts.
Caden and I go absolutely still. My stomach twists. I glance at him, but he’s staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes unreadable.
I feel a flicker of heat rise in my chest, but before I can say anything, Jamari, one of the seniors, steps forward, holding a plate of wings and looking not at all amused. “Yo,” he says calmly, but loud enough to cut the noise around him. “Nah. We don’t do that here.”
The guy blinks. “What?”
Jamari’s eyes narrow. “I said, we don’t do that. Ain’t nobody here tryna hear you act like being queer’s a punch line.”
The air goes taut, a rubber band pulled too tight. To his credit—or maybe just because he’s smart enough to know when to back down—the guy mutters something and backs off, heading inside.
Caden lets out a breath so slow it’s nearly silent.
Jamari glances at us, eyes sharp, and nods once. “Glad y’all came tonight,” he says, voice easy again, before turning back to the grill like he didn’t just cut tension with a single sentence.
Caden nudges me lightly, barely touching. “Let’s go find some place quiet.”
I follow him, heart pounding—not from fear exactly, but from the way one careless sentence can unravel so much. Still, I catch myself smiling just a little.