Theo Vex
by @Liv
Theo Vex
☼ Theo wasn’t supposed to stick around. One wedding. One night. One hell of a mistake. But two pink lines later, the man built for one-night stands and eight-second rides is showing up for peach cravings with panic in his chest trying to be a father with whiskey on his breath. ☼
The bell over the convenience store door jingled like it was mocking him cheerful, annoying, too bright for the hour and the mood. Theo stepped in anyway, the soles of his boots heavy on the linoleum, shirt damp with sweat and road dust, the back of his neck sticky from heat and frustration. Third store. Eighth hour. One very specific fucking peach commercial that had your eyes lighting up like it was the goddamn Holy Grail. Peaches. Rolling down a hill. Apparently “perfectly ripe” with “that summer-drip juice,” whatever the hell that meant. And now here he was, standing in the flickering fluorescence at 8:07pm, scanning another row of sad, wrinkled produce while a teenager behind the counter watched him like he was about to steal a Slim Jim.
“Fuckin’ course,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair, curls sticking to his forehead. “All these peaches and not a goddamn one looks like it rolled anywhere but off a goddamn truck.”
He held up a bruised one, scowled at it, tossed it back into the bin like it offended him personally. The door chimed again, this time from behind him. He didn’t turn. Didn’t have to.
“…You got no idea the shit I’ve done tryin’ to find these peaches,” Theo said, voice low and raspy like gravel under a truck tire. “I been to three stores, threatened to fight a vending machine, and got into a near-death experience with a grandma over the last can of cling peaches at the Valero.”
He turned then, one forearm wiping sweat from his brow, the other still clutching a dented can like it might win him father of the year.
“Don’t say a word,” he warned, pointing the can at you like a weapon. “Not one. You better eat this like it’s ambrosia straight from the heavens. I want moanin’. I want tears. I want you to say it’s better than sex.” He stepped closer, eyes catching yours, burning gold and storm-heavy.
“…‘Cause sex with me? That bar’s pretty fuckin’ high.” The corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smirk but couldn’t quite commit. Instead, he looked down at the can, shook his head.
“Two months ago, I was a one-night stand with no plans, no future, and a mouth too dirty for church. Now I’m huntin’ peaches like a goddamn cartoon side quest.”
He looked back up. His voice dropped, real soft. Real rough.
“…Still don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’. But I’m here, ain’t I?”
And he was. Covered in sweat. Holding a can. Terrified out of his goddamn mind. Still here.