Theo – Twenty-six #2
“I have no idea, it’s been over fifteen years since I’ve been here, they are probably buried under a few hundred other postcards by now,” I replied, kissing the top of her head.
“Do you think we could find them?” she asked, her voice sounding hopeful.
“There’s no harm in trying!” I said and I could practically feel her smile at my answer.
She turned them giving me a kiss on my cheek and skipped her way back over to the wall and begun to look through as many postcards as she could.
“This is such an amazing idea. Thank you for bringing me here, Theo!” she beamed at me over her shoulder and her smile was dazzling – blinding even – she really was the most beautiful woman.
Celia was so focused she didn’t notice me staring.
I leaned against one of the old wooden support beams, watching as her fingers ghosted over the edges of each card like she was tracing the heartbeat of the person who’d written it.
She crouched down to reach the lower rows, a strand of hair slipping from behind her ear, and I had to bite back the urge to cross the room and tuck it back for her.
Then— “Oh my God!” she squealed, loud enough to make the shop owner look up from behind the counter. “Theo. Theo, I think I found one of yours.”
Her excitement was ridiculous and infectious. I crossed the room, slow on purpose, because I liked watching her practically bounce in place. My hands found her arms from behind, my fingers dusting along the soft skin just above her elbows. She shivered under my touch.
“Let’s see,” I murmured, leaning over her shoulder. She held up a postcard that had definitely seen better days — the edges curled, a corner bent, the image on the front faded to pastel shades. I took it from her carefully, my thumb brushing hers.
The handwriting was uneven, a little smudged. But I recognised it instantly — a clumsy scrawl that belonged to a much shorter version of me. I read it aloud, fighting a grin. “‘I love eating pastries every day for breakfast.’”
Celia’s laugh burst out, bright and delighted. “That’s it? That’s the great revelation of young Theodore Finch?”
“It was the truth,” I said, pretending to be offended. “Still is.”
“Oh, I believe that entirely,” she teased, eyes sparkling. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
We kept looking for a while after that, but she kept circling back to my tragic pastry confession like it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen. Then she spotted a rack of blank postcards near the counter.
“Let’s write one,” she said suddenly. “Both of us.”
The owner, a woman with silver hair pulled into a loose knot and reading glasses perched low on her nose, lit up when Celia asked if we could. “Of course,” she said in French, sliding a little tin of pens across the counter. “People come from all over to leave something behind here.”
We took our time picking. Celia chose one with a watercolour painting of the coastline; I grabbed a simple black-and-white shot of the square outside.
We stood at a narrow writing table in the corner, backs to each other, pretending to focus on our messages when really I was just aware of her — the curve of her hip, the faint scent of her shampoo, the way her pen scratched lightly against the card.
When I finished, I tucked mine into my palm before she could see.
“What did you write?” she asked immediately.
“Can’t tell you,” I said, slotting it between two others on the wall. “It’s like a wish. Won’t come true if I say it out loud.”
Her brows rose in mock suspicion. “Mysterious. Fine. Mine just says I’ve had the best summer ever.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s everything.”
I wanted to kiss her then, but I glanced at my watch and reality elbowed its way in. My suitcase was still open on the hotel bed, and my plane was less than twenty-four hours away from taking off. She caught the flicker of it in my expression.
“Shall I let you go?” she asked lightly.
“How about we get another drink first,” I suggested.
Her mouth curved. “I like that idea. And maybe… I could help you pack after?”
“I don’t need help packing,” I said, softening it with a smile.
Her grin turned sly. “It was just an excuse to spend more time with you. Maybe check out where you’ve been staying, have a look around your bedroom…”
That landed hard in my chest. I squeezed her hand. “Then you can ask. And I’ll always try to give you what you want.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Fine. I want to spend another night with you before you leave. I want to feel you inside me again.”
Both my cock and my heart got excited by her statement.
A slow smile pulled at my lips. “Shall we skip the drink then?”
She laughed — low, wicked — and shook her head. “Nice try, Finch.”
We left the shop and wandered a few streets over to a small café shaded by striped awnings.
The tables spilled out into the square, the clink of cutlery and the hum of conversation wrapping around us.
We found a spot tucked against the wall, the sun spilling over the edge of the canopy just enough to warm the table.
She ordered a spritz; I went for a beer.
We lingered, shoulders brushing, legs pressed together under the table, talking about places we still wanted to see, as if there wasn’t a clock ticking down between us.
When we finally walked back, her hand slid into mine again like it belonged there.
That night blurred into heat and skin and the sound of her breathing my name.
It was unhurried and greedy all at once, both of us trying to memorise every inch, every sound, every shiver.
She curled against me afterwards, tracing idle patterns over my chest like she was etching me into memory.
I stayed awake longer than I should have, committing the weight of her, the scent of her hair, the way her body fit against mine — because in the morning, I’d have to let her go.