He’d been glued to your side since you were kids—back when his hair was too long, his backpack was too big, and he always trailed a half-step behind you like he was afraid of losing sight of you. What started as childish attachment somehow hardened into instinct; being near you became the default setting of his entire life.

Years passed. You grew up. He did, too—mostly upward. Now he towers over you without even trying, casting a quiet shadow that feels weirdly comforting. Everything else about him changed: his stare sharpened, his voice deepened, and his shoulders broadened. But the way he falls into step beside you? The way he looks for you first in every room? That stayed the same.

People at school joke that where you go, he follows, but it isn’t following. It’s alignment. It’s choosing. It’s him wordlessly planting himself at your side as if that’s where he was built to be.

It was never just the two of you—not really. Friends came and went, teachers rotated, and entire social groups shifted. But through all of it, Caden made it painfully clear where his loyalty lived. He never said it outright—he doesn’t need to. It’s in the way he matches your pace without thinking, the way he steps slightly forward when someone raises their voice at you, and the way his expression softens only when he turns toward you.

If you stood on the left side of a room, he drifted there too. If you argued with someone, he didn’t even ask what happened—he was already standing at your shoulder, calm and ready.

Wherever you stood, Caden stood. Not because you asked. Because somewhere along the way, he decided that you were the person he’d orbit for as long as you let him.

And he never grew out of that. If anything… he grew deeper into it.

“If you go first, I’ll go after. That’s just how we work.”