Cecilia – Twenty-two
The waiter cleared away our empty plates, his movements smooth and practiced, and I leaned back in my chair, completely full but unwilling to move.
The sky had deepened into that dusky lavender that made everything feel like it had been dipped in honey.
Lights from the nearby terrace cast Theo’s face in a soft golden glow, and I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“God, I haven’t been that full since Siena and I found that all-you-can-eat paella place in Barcelona,” I said, giving my belly a pat. “We nearly had to be rolled out of there.”
Theo smiled, slow and warm. “I can picture that. You two causing a scene in some poor, unsuspecting tapas bar.”
I grinned. “We’re very charming, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know.” He nudged my foot under the table, and I didn’t move mine away.
The air between us felt suspended—like we were in our own little pocket of the world. Everything around us moved: the waitstaff, the subtle shift of other diners leaving, the clink of glasses—but we didn’t. I didn’t want to.
“Should we get the bill?” I asked, reluctant but practical.
He tilted his head. “Unless you want to stay and get dessert.”
A thrill buzzed beneath my skin.
“I always want dessert.”
Theo raised his hand for the waiter, who returned with the menu, and we leaned in together, shoulders brushing as we scanned the options. It wasn’t really about the food anymore. It was about the closeness. About prolonging this bubble of us.
“That one,” I said, tapping the crème br?lée with orange blossom. “But only if we share it.”
He looked at me, eyes dancing. “I was going to suggest the same.”
The moment lingered like heat between us.
By the time dessert arrived, the moon was high above, casting silver patterns over the terrace floor. I cracked through the sugar top with the back of my spoon, scooping a bit up and offering it to him across the table. He met my eyes as he leaned forward and let me feed it to him.
Holy hell.
“Delicious,” he murmured, lips wrapping around the spoon in a way that made my heart actually stutter.
I could barely form a sentence. “Good.”
We took our time with it—every bite slow, deliberate. I reached for my wine, then stopped.
“I don’t want any more,” I said, mostly to myself.
He raised a brow. “No? ”
“I want to remember all of this. Every bite, every word, every time your hand brushes mine and I feel like my skin’s learning a new language.”
Theo looked like I’d knocked the air out of him.
“You’re making it hard to be a gentleman.”
I reached for his hand. I couldn’t help it. I just… needed to touch him. The same way I needed to breathe.
His fingers laced through mine easily, as though they’d always known the shape of me.
We sat like that for a while, our hands joined on the table, until conversation drifted into familiar territory.
“Do you remember that kid—what was his name—Callum something? Always tried to sell energy drinks out of his locker?”
I laughed. “Callum Binks. Oh my God, yes. He had that ridiculous Mohawk and convinced himself he was going to be a millionaire by the time he was twenty.”
“Didn’t he get suspended for setting up a poker ring in the library?”
“Yup. On exam week. Siena and I had to return Of Mice and Men and nearly got caught up in a sting.”
Theo chuckled, and I caught the crinkle by his eyes when he smiled fully.
“I like hearing you laugh like that,” he said, softer now.
I looked at him, caught in the gravity of the moment. “I like when you look at me like that.”
There was so much I could say. About the years we lost, about the ache I hadn’t even noticed until I saw him again. But instead, I squeezed his hand and changed the subject before I fell too deep too fast .
“So, property development, huh? Big Theo with the grown-up job.”
He rolled his eyes. “Something like that. Nate and I started with small projects. Renovations, flips. But we’ve got two apartment complexes breaking ground soon. We’re expanding fast.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It is,” he said slowly. “It just… doesn’t always feel like mine. Like, I enjoy it, but I’m not sure I love it.”
I leaned in. “What would you love?”
He hesitated. “I’ve always wanted to design and build my own home. Like, start to finish. Somewhere that feels like me. Space. Light. Nothing huge or flashy, just… something grounded.”
I smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
I tilted my glass towards him. “Alright then, property boy. Tell me about your dream home.”
He leaned back in his seat, mouth twitching into that slow, crooked smile that always made my stomach dip. “You really want to know?”
I nodded. “I do.”
He thought for a moment, eyes drifting towards the sea beyond the terrace railing like he could picture it there.
“Okay. It’s not massive. Not one of those glass box things, either.
I think... something tucked away. Lots of wood and stone.
A fireplace that actually works. A big kitchen — like, really big — with a table in the middle that people actually eat at. ”
I smiled. “You’re such a kitchen island kind of man.”
“Please,” he laughed. “I’m an oak table and fresh bread kind of man. ”
That made me laugh too, but something about it also clutched at my chest. “And where is it? This dream home.”
He looked at me again, eyes soft. “Somewhere coastal. Not too far from London so I could get into the city if I needed to. But mostly, I want quiet. Trees. Somewhere to breathe.”
My fingers found the edge of his again. “Can I add something?”
His grin deepened. “I was hoping you would.”
“A window seat,” I said, decisively. “A huge one. The kind with a squishy cushion and blankets and just enough space for two people to read in silence together.”
“Done,” he said. “Built in.”
“Oh, and a hidden library. I want one of those doors that’s disguised as a bookshelf.”
Theo’s eyes widened, mock impressed. “You want a secret passage ?”
“I want charm!” I laughed. “Whimsy!”
“I’ll give you whimsy,” he said. “There’ll be a herb garden outside. Little stone path, terracotta pots, basil and rosemary and sage. You’ll stand out there barefoot, picking mint for cocktails.”
I flushed, then laughed again. “Is this your dream house or mine?”
“Maybe it’s both,” he said, softly.
I didn’t reply. Couldn’t. My throat tightened and for a second I had to look away — because what did you say to that? What could I say when the idea of a shared home, of making something with Theo — even just in imagination — felt so natural, so right , it made my heart ache ?
He gave me a moment before nudging my knee under the table. “What else?”
I turned back to him, softer now. “A record player. And a bedroom with beams on the ceiling. And... maybe a clawfoot bath.”
Theo let out a soft whistle. “A woman of taste.”
“I’ve always had good taste,” I said, meeting his eyes again.
“You have,” he agreed, voice warm. And then, more quietly, “So have I.”
My breath caught. It was such a small thing — so simple, so easy — but his words carried weight. He wasn’t just talking about houses. Not really. And I wasn’t just building my dream home. I was building it with him .
“I’d live there,” I said. “Your dream house.”
Theo’s expression gentled. “So would I.”
I could picture it — us, barefoot in the kitchen, sunlight through open windows. And I shouldn’t have been able to. Not with someone leaving in two days.
“What about you? What’s the dream?”
I looked down at our hands, still threaded together. “I want to write.”
He perked up. “Books?”
“No. Well, maybe one day. But right now? I want to write about the places I go. The food I eat. The little moments. Like today. I want to write about this .”
He was quiet, watching me with an intensity that almost made me squirm.
“So why don’t you?”
I blinked. “Because who would read it?”
“I would. ”
My breath caught.
He meant it. He always did. He’d never been anything but honest with me, even when I wasn’t ready to hear it.
“You’ve always believed in me,” I whispered.
“Yeah. Always.”
I reached up and touched his arm again, dragging my fingers lightly over the fabric of his sleeve. He let me. More than that—he leaned into it. It felt so good just to touch . To not feel like I was taking up too much space. To be wanted .
He had never made me feel like I was too much.
And maybe that was the whole point.
Because who was I kidding, pretending I didn’t want him? That I hadn’t always wanted him, in some deep quiet corner of my heart that no one else ever found.
He made me feel seen . Safe. And suddenly the thought of walking away from this—the thought of him going back to London in two days—made my throat close.
He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly split me in two.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
His thumb stilled. “Of what?”
“Of how easy this feels. How… right.”
Theo exhaled, his forehead dipping to mine. “Cece, if I kissed you right now, I wouldn’t stop.”
I swallowed. “I know.”
“And I don’t want to rush you. But I’m here. And I want this . Whatever this is. ”
I looked at him—really looked—and in that moment, I knew: if I let myself fall, I wouldn’t just fall for a kiss.
I’d fall in love .
And there’d be no coming back.
I tried not to let the thought completely consume my mind and reached for my phone to check the time.
I glanced at my phone and blinked.
9:21.
"Wow," I murmured, laughing under my breath. "How is it already that late?"
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied me with something soft in his expression. "Time flies when you're having fun.”
I tried not to smile. I failed. My cheeks hurt from how much I'd smiled tonight. But I didn’t want the evening to end.
“I should probably—” I gestured vaguely in the air, though I didn’t know where I was going with it. Back to the apartment? Bed? Lie awake all night thinking about how he looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever made sense?