Chapter 12 Kaleb
Kaleb
Was it all a dream?
It was so damn good, it must have been.
Wait, am I still dreaming?
I grimace as I slowly come around. Sunlight sneaks through the lace curtains, soft and golden, painting stripes across the quilt. I blink awake slow, my body heavy in that good way—sated, relaxed. The bed’s warm where Taron was curled against me all night, but he’s not there now.
“Baby boy?” I ask, still half dazed from my deep sleep.
I prop up on one elbow, scrubbing a hand over my face. There he is—at the little writing desk under the window, tapping away on his laptop. He’s swapped last night’s clothes for a lime green romper, the kind with short sleeves and legs that show off his deliciously thick thighs.
Soft. Curvy. Adorably sexy.
Taron’s hair is messy but still shining healthily, which makes his bedhead just too sweet. And right next to the laptop, propped against a mug of coffee, is his stuffie, Lightening watching him work like a faithful sidekick.
Damn.
He looks like something out of a dream. My dream. Focused, tongue peeking between his lips, fingers flying over the keys. Every so often he pauses, chews his bottom lip, then dives back in.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pad over quiet on bare feet.
The floorboards creak once, but he doesn’t notice—too lost in whatever world he’s building.
I lean down, hands on his shoulders, peek at the screen.
Words jump out: thrust, moan, Daddy’s cock.
This is steamy as hell.
Taron suddenly yelps, slams the laptop shut. His cheeks flame red. “Kaleb! You scared me!”
I chuckle, kiss the top of his head. “Morning to you too, darling.”
He spins in the chair, looks up at me with those wide hazel eyes. Still blushing furious. “How long were you watching?”
“Long enough.” I grin. “Steamy scene, huh?”
He covers his face with his hands. “Oh god. Yeah. I… I’ve never written one before. Not really. Pace always pushed me to, said it’d sell better, but I hated the idea. Felt forced. Fake. But now… now it’s on my terms…”
I pull his hands away gently, crouch so we’re eye level. “Pace sounds like a total asshole.”
He laughs—a small, relieved sound. “He is. Was. But now… I don’t know. After last night…” His blush deepens. “It feels different. Real. I want to try it. For the story. For me.”
I nod. “Then go for it. If it feels right, don’t hold back. Your words, your rules.”
He smiles, soft and grateful. “Thanks. It’s scary, but… exciting.”
My stomach growls—loud, obnoxious. We both laugh.
“I’ll tell you what sounds exciting to me,” I chuckle. “Food.”
“Hungry much?” he asks, a sweet smile on his face. “I guess it’s my fault you’re so hungry. That second time in the middle of the night was… wow.”
“Yup, it sure was,” I say as I stand and stretch. “I could eat a whole stack of Miles’s pancakes.”
He glances at his laptop. “Give me ten? I’m almost done with this chapter. Then breakfast. Promise.”
I ruffle his hair. “Take your time. I’ll wait.”
I climb back into bed, prop myself against the headboard. I watch him dive back in—fingers flying again, that focused glow on his face. He’s a hard worker. I can totally get on board with that.
Life’s never felt this good.
Simple. Right. Like everything clicked into place overnight.
Him here. Me here. Us.
But I’m going to need some food sooner rather than later or the grumpy old version of me might come back to the fore in short order…
The woods look like perfection, the sun filtering through the trees in lazy beams that light up Taron’s face in a way I can only describe as magical.
Damn, am I getting soft? Whatever. Right now I wouldn’t even care if I was.
Racer’s off-leash, bounding ahead then circling back, tail a blur. Taron’s beside me, hand in mine, steps matching my longer stride easy now. He’s changed into hiking boots and jeans, that red jacket tied around his waist in a way that accentuates his physique’s curves.
We’ve been walking an hour—easy trail, no rush. Talking about nothing and everything. His book. My next felling job. How Racer once chased a squirrel up a tree and got stuck barking at it for an hour. All the usual topics.
It’s good. Natural.
I squeeze his hand. “Hey. Tonight… you wanna stay at the cabin? Let me repay the favor from last night.”
Taron looks up, surprised but pleased. “Really?”
“Yeah. With Robbie coming tomorrow, we can drive to the bus station, pick him up. Head straight out for camping after.”
The boy’s face lights up. “That’s perfect! Yes. I’d love that.”
I nod. “Good. Racer will be thrilled too.”
He laughs. “And what about you?”
I pull him close, kiss his temple. “Thrilled doesn’t begin to cover it.”
We keep walking—hand in hand, Racer scouting ahead. The trail winds gentle, birds calling overhead, leaves crunching underfoot. The sun warms my back, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in my chest.
Tonight. At my place.
I picture it: Taron in my space, my bed. Maybe a real Little routine—bath time, story, tucking in. His calling me Daddy, all soft and trusting. His body curling against me under the quilts.
The thought hits deep. It’s a warmth I’ve never felt, not truly. It’s more than lust. Deeper. Like home, but better.
I know I shouldn’t say it or even think it. But I can’t deny what’s going through my mind any longer.
Taron is my Forever.
City boy or not, I know that I have to make sure he stays in my life. It needs to be what he wants. I must convince him that his place is with me. But all that can wait. Right now I’m simply happy to be in the moment, enjoying each and every second.
I glance at Taron—smiling at Racer splashing in a creek, face lit gold in the light.
My beautiful boy.
The cabin fire is roaring now—big flames licking up the stone chimney, throwing gold and orange across the wide-plank floor. I built it high tonight. Wanted the room to feel safe and cozy. Like nothing outside these walls could touch us.
And with me and Racer around, the chances of any fool trying to cause us a problem is somewhere between zero and one. My cabin is a haven, and I think my boy knows it too…
Taron’s on the thick wool rug in front of the hearth, legs tucked under him, green pajama shorts riding up just enough to show the soft curve of his cheeks.
The matching top is short-sleeved, buttons undone at the collar because he said it felt too grown-up and restricting when they were all done up.
Lightening is tucked under one arm, his fox ears flopping against his cheek.
The sweet boy is surrounded by a little kingdom he built himself: wooden blocks stacked into wobbly towers, a family of painted woodland creatures arranged in a circle like they’re having a meeting, three vintage die-cast cars lined up in a perfect row like they’re waiting for a race.
He’s been playing for almost an hour—quiet little narrations under his breath, tiny sound effects for the cars zooming between the trees, gentle nudges to make the bear figurine hug the deer.
It’s adorable. There is no other word for it. And the fact that Taron feels safe to be like this in my company honestly makes my heart sing. I’ve earned his trust, and I won’t do anything to break it. Not now, and not ever.
Right about now, Taron is deep in Little Space. I can see it in the way his eyes go soft and dreamy, the way his shoulders relax completely, the way every movement is slow and trusting. No city edges. No worry lines. Just Taron—my Taron—small and safe and happy.
I’m sitting in the big armchair a few feet away, pretending to read Middlemarch, but I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Put simply, I can’t take my eyes off him.
He looks up suddenly, cheeks pink from the firelight. “Daddy?”
My heart does that stupid flip it always does when he says it like that—soft, needy, certain.
“Yeah, baby boy?”
“Can I have my bottle now? Pleeeeease?”
I set the book aside immediately. “Of course you can.”
I’d already warmed the milk—whole milk, just a touch of honey stirred in—kept it ready in the little insulated bottle warmer on the kitchen counter. I grab it, test the temperature on my wrist like I’ve done this a hundred times even though tonight’s the first. It feels just right.
When I come back to the rug, he’s already scooting over, making room.
“Yay,” Taron says, a hint of a gurgle in his voice as his innocent eyes look up to me.
I lower myself down beside him, stretch out on my side so he can curl into me. He does it without hesitation—nestling his back against my chest, head tucked under my chin, Lightening tight to my chest. His body fits like it was literally made to be here.
I settle the bottle teat against his lips. He opens right away, small hands coming up to hold it steady even though I’ve got it supported. The first pull makes him sigh—a long, contented sound that vibrates through my ribs.
“Good boy,” I murmur against his hair. “Slow sips. Take your time. Nice and easy. There you go.”
He drinks steadily, eyes drifting half-closed. Every few swallows he pauses to nuzzle closer, cheek rubbing against my forearm like a kitten.
Around us, the fire pops.
The milk bottle gurgles softly.
Racer’s snoring in his bed by the door—long, even breaths that match the rhythm of Taron’s sucking.
I wrap my free arm around his waist, hand splayed over the soft plane of his tummy. He’s warm. Relaxed. Completely surrendered to being his Little self, and I’m loving ever damn moment of it.
My chest aches in the best way.
This—him in my arms, bottle in his mouth, stuffie hugged tight, surrounded by his little toys—is everything I never knew I needed. I’ve spent years alone out here, convinced solitude was safer. Cleaner. Less chance of getting hurt when someone eventually leaves.
But Taron hasn’t left.
He stayed.
He built towers and raced cars and asked for his bottle like it was the most natural thing in the world. And I gave it to him.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Taron finishes the bottle with a tiny, satisfied sigh. I ease the teat from his lips, set it aside on the hearth. He turns in my arms, presses his face into the crook of my neck. His breath is warm and milky and even.
Within minutes he’s out… a deep, trusting sleep. Lashes dark against flushed cheeks. Mouth slightly open. One hand still clutching Lightening’s ear.
I don’t move.
I could carry him to bed right now—tuck him under the heavy quilts, slide in beside him, hold him all night.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I just want to watch him. The firelight dances over his face, turning his skin gold. His breathing is slow and deep. Every so often his fingers twitch like he’s dreaming of chasing cars or hugging woodland animals.
Perfect.
He’s perfect.
I brush a strand of hair off his forehead. Whisper so quiet even the fire can’t hear:
“Sleep tight, baby boy,” I say, my voice low. “Daddy’s got you. All night long if that’s what you need.”
And I mean it.
Tomorrow Robbie arrives. Camping. More laughter. More nights like this, I hope.
But right now?
Right now it’s just a Daddy and his brilliantly sweet, sexy, darling boy.