Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
OREN
The grocery store is too bright for how little sleep I got last night. I keep replaying my text—Goodnight, Daddy—like a horror movie jump scare I paid money to sit through. Except it’s not scary, not exactly. It’s… good. Too good.
I push my cart down the snack aisle, biting the inside of my cheek. Healthy, Oren. Granola bars, veggie straws, something that says Look at me, I’m responsible and balanced. Except, the box of powdered donuts is winking at me from the shelf like a filthy little temptress.
Keane would probably shake his head if I texted him a picture of those donuts. Not angry—never angry—but the disappointed “kiddo, you know better.” The thought makes me warm all over. Being good for him feels better than any sugar rush.
So I compromise. Veggie straws go in the cart. Then the donuts. And then, because life is too short and my willpower too flimsy, a pack of frosted animal crackers. Pink and white with sprinkles that get everywhere. The cart’s a disaster, kind of like me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble for it, half-expecting it to be Keane. Instead, it’s the group chat.
Lane: Don’t forget to pack pajamas!!!
Theo: And stuffies!!! Omg I’m bringing all three of mine, they’d be sad if I left them behind
TinyTim: Anyone else nervous??
I stare at the screen, biting my lip. My chest tightens the way it always does when they start in about camp. Everyone’s excited, tossing emojis and exclamation points like confetti, but all it does is remind me of how not ready I am.
I could type something. I could tell them I’m thinking about it. But my throat feels tight even through text, and instead, I do what I always do—I swipe the conversation away.
Withdraw. Hide. Pretend.
Only now I’m stuck in the middle of the grocery store with a cart full of snacks, a heart full of nerves, and one impossible truth rattling around my head:
I don’t want to go unless Keane is there.
After I unpack my groceries, I curl up on the couch, laptop open but ignored. I’m supposed to be outlining a chapter book I might wanna write… someday, but the only thing playing on repeat in my head is the group chat from earlier. Pajamas. Stuffies. Camp.
So I slip it out casually in the middle of our nightly chat, like it's nothing and my pulse isn’t hammering.
My friends won’t shut up about this retreat thing. Camp whatever.
The dots blink, disappear, and blink again. Then Keane’s reply lands.
Keane: I saw mention of that in the club’s online forum. You know—
Nothing more comes through but dancing dots. Then…
Keane: Sounds like it could be fun. Two days with your friends outdoors. A chance to be small in public.
My stomach drops straight through the floor. Panic flares—nope, too much, too close—but behind it is something stickier, sweeter. Want.
I love being Little. Letting go of the constant buzz of stress and finding joy in small things.
Coloring pages. Cartoons. Someone solid beside me while the world quiets down.
But getting to the place where I can truly let myself go—where I can relax enough to fall into that softer headspace—takes work.
Doing it in public would take a miracle.
It wasn’t always this hard.
Until Vince.
My ex had a way of making me feel embarrassed for wanting to regress. Ashamed of it. Which was funny, considering it was the very thing he claimed to love about me when we first started dating.
Everything changed the moment I trusted him with it. The moment I let myself be vulnerable.
Somehow, he managed to turn Little me into something ugly.
lol no way. It’s not… It’s not really my thing.
Even as I type it, my heart’s betraying me, whispering But maybe it could be.
To steer things back to neutral territory, I send him a picture of my veggie straws and wait for the praise I so desperately crave.
Keane doesn’t disappoint.
Keane: Healthy snacks are good for a growing boy’s body. Such a smart boy!
Yeah, that does it for me. My cheeks are totally warming.
The phone dings again, but this time, it’s not Keane.
The group chat is relentless.
Theo: Come on, you gotta come! You’ll regret it if you don’t!!
Lane: Keane would totally take care of you
TinyTim: Imagine your bedtime stories by the fire tho
I bury my face in my hands. Traitors. All of them.
Even though I haven’t said I’m going out loud, I dump the snacks on my bed and sort through them as though I’m packing for a month-long expedition instead of two nights away.
Apples, granola bars, gummy bears, the iced animal crackers with sprinkles, and a family-sized bag of pretzels I already regret buying.
I line them up neatly, then line them up again by color as if it matters.
My phone buzzes on the blanket beside me. The group chat is alive—little chimes popping every few seconds.
Lane: Got glow sticks! Pink, green, AND rainbow.
TinyTim: I’m packing marshmallows. Who’s got the chocolate?
Theo: Don’t forget bug spray this year. I’m not playing human buffet again. Unless its…
TinyTim:
Lane: Glow sticks >>> bug spray
I nibble my lip, thumbs hovering over the screen. I could send a picture of my snacks. I could join in the excitement. Instead, I just…watch. Their chatter is a party behind a glass wall, and I’m the kid with my nose pressed to it.
My gaze drifts back to the bag. I pick up a pair of socks—baby-blue, patterned with smiling strawberries. The kind I always wear when I’m drafting picture books. I stroke the fabric as if it’s a talisman. If I bring these, maybe camp won’t feel so impossible.
The chat keeps chiming. They’re joking about who snores, about who gets first shower rights. I can’t bring myself to add even a single emoji.
And then my phone buzzes in a different way. Not the group chat. A name flashing I didn’t expect: Keane. Incoming Call.
My stomach flips so hard I almost drop the socks. We’ve only texted. Words on a screen. He’s seen the parts of me I curate, carefully polished. A phone call feels… real.
My thumb hovers. Don’t answer. Just let it ring out. But I swipe anyway because I need to hear his voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Oren.”
His voice. Oh God, his voice. Smooth and rich. Warm honey poured into a glass. Lower than I imagined, too—softness wrapped in steel.
“Sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”
I scramble for composure. “No, uh—it’s fine. I was just—packing. Kind of.”
“Kind of,” he repeats, amused. I can hear the smile in his voice. “That sounds like code for Not really at all.”
I glance at my sad pile of groceries. “Busted.”
He chuckles, deep and easy. The sound makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Want to know a secret?”
Excitement bubbles in my chest, making me forget I was supposed to be sad.
“What?”
“I don’t think it matters if you pack the perfect snacks or socks or not. You’ll still be fine.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumble. “You’re not the one who’ll show up with boring granola while everyone else has rainbow marshmallows.”
You’re not the only Little without a Daddy, is what I really want to say.
Keane hums. “What if I went with you?”
I blink. “What?”
“Just for the weekend,” he says, gentle but clear. “No pressure, no strings. If you hate it, I’ll drive you home myself. And after, if you want to resume online interaction only, that's up to you,” he finishes, sounding a bit deflated at the suggestion.
My pulse kicks like a startled rabbit. The thought of him there—his presence, his strength—makes my lungs feel both tight and strangely lighter.
But panic swirls, too. What if the others figure out he’s not my real Daddy?
What if they notice how badly I want this?
What if he regrets stepping into my world?
“You’d—really do that?” I ask, voice small.
“Without hesitation.” There’s no wobble in his tone, no hesitation of his own. “Trial run, Oren. We’ll make rules we both agree on. Bedtime. Check-ins. Real meals. Nothing heavy.”
My throat closes. Trial run. My chest fills with quiet longing.
“Trial run,” I echo.
“Exactly.” His smile is audible. “And if the s’mores qualify as dinner, I’ll let you win that one. Once.”
My laugh is loud and bright, but it feels good.
Just picturing him there, beside me, with his thick dark beard and kind brown eyes, has my stomach settling somewhat.
Maybe he’ll reach for my hand. Drop forehead kisses at bedtime.
Mmmm, his lips, framed by that scruffy hair, tickling me, soft, warm.
Damn, my stomach’s a mess of butterflies now.
We exchanged pictures online, and I definitely liked what I saw.
Keane has that look, the Daddy look. The Sit on my lap and let me devour you with sweet kisses look.
Yeah, the butterflies just flew into my pants.
We drift into lighter things. Whether bug spray should count as an essential. Whether cute socks are valid camping gear. He says no; I argue yes, and he just keeps laughing.
When the call ends, I sit with my phone pressed to my chest. The group chat still buzzes, my snacks are still unorganized, but the air feels different now. I feel different.
He’s just a trial Daddy. An imitation of one.
But his voice, his reassurance, his promises—they don’t feel like imitation at all.
They feel terrifyingly, wonderfully real.