Chapter 10 Kaleb
Kaleb
Morning light filters through the pines, soft gold on the dew-soaked grass. The fire’s long dead, just ash now. Taron’s still curled in the sleeping bag, cheeks flushed from sleep, his hair a little messy.
He looks peaceful.
Small.
Mine.
I hate waking him. But the day’s waiting—work for me, writing for the boy. I crouch beside him, brush a thumb across his cheek.
“Little,” I say. “Time to move. We need to get our asses in gear.”
He stirs, blinks up at me with sleepy hazel eyes. Smiles slow and sweet.
“Morning, Daddy.”
That word hits low. Every damn time.
I lean down, kiss him soft—lingering just long enough to taste last night’s marshmallows. “Morning. Let’s get you back.”
Taron stretches like a cat, yawns, then sits up. Hair a mess, lips swollen from yesterday’s kisses. He’s simply beautiful.
We make the hike back and pack the truck in silence—efficient, practiced, and contented too. Racer’s already in the bed, tail thumping. Taron climbs into the cab, still in yesterday’s clothes, jacket zipped against the chill. I crank the heat, pull onto the dirt track.
The drive back is quiet too. Comfortable. No need to talk nonsense or make unnecessary effort. His hand finds mine on the gearshift, fingers lacing. Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to.
Oak Lake B&B appears too soon. Fairy lights off now, porch empty except for Miles watering the pansies.
I park, kill the engine.
Taron turns to me. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says. “For last night. For everything.”
I cup his face, thumb tracing his lower lip. “Anytime.”
He leans in. We kiss again—deeper this time, slower. His hand fists my flannel. I groan against his mouth, pull back before I drag him back to the tent.
“Tonight,” I say, voice rough. “Woody Hollow. Seven. Dinner. You and me.”
His eyes light up. “It’s a date.”
“And maybe Trask too,” I chuckle. “I hope that’s okay but I promised him.”
“That’s cool,” Taron answers. “I want to meet your buddies. I’m still not convinced this Trask character exists!”
“Watch it,” I growl, a big smile on my face.
Another quick kiss. He hops out, backpack slung over one shoulder, waves once from the porch steps. I watch until he disappears inside.
Racer whines from the back.
“Yeah, boy. I know.”
I pull away, chest tight.
My worst, most pessimistic instincts tell me that he’s leaving eventually.
But it doesn’t stop me wanting more.
The diner’s already busy… Saturday morning crowd, locals in flannel and baseball caps, the smell of sizzling bacon and coffee thick in the air.
“Hell yeah,” I say to myself, my appetite growing by the second.
Trask has claimed our usual booth in the back corner, two plates stacked high: eggs over easy, sausage links, hash browns crispy, biscuits with gravy on the side. There’s a bowl of Kalebped bacon and scrambled egg bits on the floor for Racer, who dives in like he hasn’t eaten in days.
Trask looks up as I approach, grins wide. “Well, well. The mountain man returns. Survive the night?”
I slide into the booth opposite him, signal the server for two fresh coffees. Black. Strong.
“Don’t start,” I laugh.
“Too late.” Trask leans forward, elbows on the table. “You look… different. Less grumpy. Almost happy. Now I’m guessing this has something to do with a certain newcomer to town…”
I take the coffee when it arrives, burn my tongue on the first sip. But I don’t care.
“We camped,” I say, giving little away. “Talked. Watched stars. Made s’mores.”
Trask’s eyebrows climb. “S’mores? Romantic.”
“Shut up,” I growl, failing miserably as I try not to rise to Trask’s bait.
He laughs. “Come on, man. You’ve been mooning over this boy since he walked into the tavern. Overnight in the woods? That’s next level. You kiss him?”
I glare. Trask simply waits.
“Yeah,” I mutter finally. “We kissed. A lot.”
Trask whistles low. “And?”
“And nothing. We’re taking it slow.”
“Slow.” He snorts. “You’re falling for him, Kaleb. Hard.”
I don’t deny it. Just stare into my coffee. As much as I love the great outdoors, not much can beat the diner for coffee and breakfast. I’ve been coming here for years and could never imagine a world where I don’t either.
Trask takes a sip of his coffee and softens his approach. “Look. I’ve known you forever. You don’t do casual. You don’t do temporary. If he’s got you this twisted up, he’s special. Don’t bullshit yourself.”
“He’s going back to the city,” I say quietly. “Eventually. Has a life there. Writing. Agent drama is one thing but he’ll find another. Whatever. I’m not gonna ask the boy to stay for me.”
Trask leans back, crosses his arms. “Who said anything about asking? Just be honest. Tell him how you feel. If he’s the one…
if he could be Forever… don’t hold back because you’re scared he’ll leave.
Give him the chance to choose. I know you’re the Daddy but you have to make it clear that he needs to decide. ”
I rub a hand over my face. “And if he chooses the city?”
“Then you’ll survive,” Trask says, a glint in his eyes. “You always do. But if you never say it… you’ll always wonder. And I know which outcome is worse.”
The server drops the check even though we haven’t asked. Small-town habit. I pull out my wallet, but Trask waves me off.
“My treat. You’re buying next time.”
I grunt. “Fine.”
We dig in. The eggs are perfect, sausage spicy, and biscuits flaky. Racer’s already cleaned his bowl, now sprawled under the table snoring.
Trask watches me over his coffee. “You gonna see him tonight?”
“Woody Hollow. Seven. You’re coming too.”
“Hey, that’s cool. But take him somewhere quiet after. To talk. Really talk.”
I don’t answer, just eat.
But his words stick.
Forever.
The word rattles around in my head like loose change.
Could he be?
The way he laughed last night, head thrown back under the stars. The way he fit against me, soft and trusting. The way he called me Daddy without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Yeah.
Maybe.
But I’m not ready to say it out loud.
Not yet.
We finish breakfast and make some plans for the forest, trees, and all the usual stuff we talk about. It’s time to move.
“Think about it, man,” Trask says. “Life’s too short to play it safe.”
I nod once. “I’ll think.”
Racer stretches, yawns, follows us out into the bright morning.
My trusty truck’s waiting. And that means work is waiting too.
But my mind is on a boy with a messy thatch of hair and a smile that could undo me.
Tonight.
Seven.
I’ll see him then.
And maybe—maybe—I’ll find the right words along with the courage to say them.
The Woody Hollow is alive tonight.
The bustling crowd is spilling over from the bar to the booths, laughter rolling over the jukebox, the smell of fried onions and spilled beer all around us.
We’re tucked in the back corner booth: me, Taron, and Trask.
Racer’s sprawled under the table, head on my boot, snoring through the noise like it’s some kind of doggy white noise.
Taron’s in the middle of telling a story about some disastrous city photoshoot Pace once dragged him on—something involving a wind machine and a feather boa—and he’s got Trask doubled over, wheezing into his beer.
I’m just watching him. The way his eyes crinkle when he laughs.
The way he gestures with his whole body.
The way the low light catches the gold flecks in his hazel eyes.
Damn, he’s perfect.
That asshole Pace on the other hand.
What I wouldn’t give for ten minutes with him…
But rather than dwell on a piece of crap like Pace, I refocus back on Taron. He’s wearing that red jacket again, unzipped over a soft cream sweater that hugs his curves just right. Every time he leans forward to make a point, my gaze drops—guilty, automatic—and I have to drag it back up.
Trask catches me.
Of course he does.
He smirks behind his pint, raises an eyebrow like you’re done for, brother.
Taron finishes his story with a dramatic flourish—“And the photographer just yells, ‘More wind! More wind!’ like I’m supposed to summon a hurricane with my mind”—and we both crack up. He wipes tears from the corners of his eyes, still giggling.
“Okay, okay,” Taron says, catching his breath.
“But seriously, Kaleb… I had an idea. My best friend Robbie? He’s the one who basically forced me to come here in the first place.
He’s dying to visit. Would it be okay if I invited him for a night?
Maybe two? And…” He turns those big eyes on me, hopeful.
“Could you maybe take us camping? Like we did last night? Show him the real woods?”
I don’t even have to think.
“Course. Be great,” I answer. “Plenty of room in the truck. Racer will love the extra company.”
His face lights up like the Fourth of July. “Really? You’re the best!”
Before I can answer, he leans over and plants a quick, soft kiss on my cheek. His lips are warm, smelling faintly of the cider he’s been sipping. Then he’s sliding out of the booth, bouncing toward the pinball machine in the corner like a kid who just got permission to stay up late.
I watch him go—his magnificent dump truck of a booty flexing in his light blue jeans—and feel that familiar tug in my chest. And my cock twitches too. I don’t know how long I can go before taking things to the next level. Taron is doing things to me that I barely believed were possible.
Trask waits exactly three seconds after he’s out of earshot.
“Jesus, man,” Trask says, low and amused. “You look at him like he hung the moon in the sky.”
I grunt, take a long pull from my beer. But I don’t deny it.
My buddy leans in, elbows on the scarred table. “Time for thinking’s over, Kaleb. You’ve been chewing on this for days. He’s not just passing through anymore. He’s talking about bringing his best friend. Asking you to take them camping. That’s not vacation behavior. That’s nesting behavior.”
I stare at the label on my bottle, peeling the corner with my thumbnail.
“He kissed you on the cheek in front of half the town,” Trask continues. “And you didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. You leaned into it. You’re gone, brother. Hopelessly gone.”
I exhale through my nose. “Yeah.”
Trask waits.
I set the bottle down. Look at him square. “I’m falling for him. Hard. Deeper than I thought possible.”
He nods, slow. “And?”
“And I’m done pretending it’s temporary. Done pretending I can just enjoy it while it lasts.” My voice drops. “I want him. For good. Forever.”
Trask’s grin spreads slow and wide. “There he is.”
Across the room, Taron’s at the pinball machine now, hips bumping the side as he racks up points, laughing every time the ball pings off a bumper. The neon lights flash across his face—pink, blue, gold. He glances back at me, catches my eye, and waves like I’m the only person in the room.
My chest aches in the best way.
“He could be it,” I say quietly. “My Forever.”
Trask claps me on the shoulder. “Then tell him. Soon. Don’t wait for the perfect moment. Perfect moments are bullshit. Just tell him how you feel. Lay it out. Let him decide.”
I nod.
But tonight’s not the night—too public, too many ears. But soon.
Very soon.
I’m going to make Taron mine.
Taron bounces back to the booth a few minutes later, cheeks flushed from excitement, waving his phone. “High score! Beat the machine’s record by two hundred points!”
Trask raises his glass. “To the pinball prince.”
My sweet, sexy boy slides in beside me, closer than before, thigh pressed to mine under the table. His hand finds mine on the seat, fingers threading through as he moves across my thigh. He looks up at me with that bright, open smile.
“Best night ever,” he whispers.
I squeeze his hand.
“Yeah,” I murmur back. “Best night.”
And I mean it.
Because he’s here.
Because he’s laughing.
Because he’s mine.
And the night’s not over yet…