Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
KEANE
Istare at the pile of nylon, poles, and stakes spread across the grass. The tent bag had promised “Easy, five-minute setup.” Lies. Absolute slander.
Beside me, Oren is holding one pole as he would a lightsaber, swishing it around and making whoosh-whoosh noises.
“Serious question,” I say. “Do you think this thing’s supposed to stand on its own, or are we just building modern art?”
Oren giggles, then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth like he wasn’t supposed to let that slip. “It’s, um… definitely supposed to look like a tent.”
I bite back a grin. “Thanks, architect. Any idea which side is the floor?”
Ten minutes later, we’ve managed something that vaguely resembles shelter. Oren beams at it as though we just raised the flag on Iwo Jima. I’m sweating through my shirt, but his smile makes it worth it.
“Alright,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Time to stake this thing down before a sudden gust of wind claims our masterpiece.”
Oren grabs a corner of the tent as he would a precious artifact, hopping slightly on his tiptoes to reach. I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes me.
“You sure you’re not part squirrel?”
He blushes and waves me off, trying to act nonchalant, but I can see it—the thrill, the excitement of doing something new. It’s contagious.
We kneel side by side, hammering stakes and looping cords. I notice how methodical he is, how carefully he watches each movement I make. It hits me how protective I already feel of him.
Once the tent is upright—miraculously—I step back to admire it. Oren claps softly, and I raise my hands in mock victory.
“Now for the sleeping arrangements,” I say. “We need a good strong base, or we’ll wake up looking like wrinkled pancakes.”
He dumps his sleeping bag on the floor and peers at me, brows raised.
“Where’s Quackers going?”
I crouch and pat a clear spot right at the front. “Right here, of course. Place of honor.”
Oren’s eyes go wide, and he kneels to carefully tuck the duck in.
“He deserves it,” he murmurs. “Been with me on every adventure since I was nine.”
I nod, understanding more than he realizes.
We’ve just finished fussing over proper lantern placement when Timmy’s shout cuts across the clearing.
“Theo! Your tent looks better than mine!”
Theo’s waving his arms like a proud general, and I glance over to see his orange nylon wobbling dangerously.
Then a panicked yelp followed by “I need a Daddy!”
Timmy’s tiny tent has collapsed right on top of him, and he’s flailing under the nylon heap.
Lane, of course, is sitting smugly under a perfectly staked tent, cackling like some tiny overlord surveying his domain.
Oren pipes up immediately, puffing out his chest. “You can borrow my Daddy! There’s nothing he can’t do!”
I feel my cheeks heat as every little eye swivels toward me. “Uh—well…” I glance at Oren, and he beams at me, eyes sparkling. “Come on,” I say, shaking my head with a laugh. “Let’s get Timmy unburied before he starts crying for real.”
I stride over, carefully lifting the collapsed nylon off the boy, who clings to a pole as though it’s a life raft. Oren trails beside me with way more confidence in my ability than I have.
“You see?” Oren whispers, nudging my side. “Trial Daddy or not, you’re a hero.”
I swallow, trying to ignore the way my chest tightens. A hero. To him. And somehow, just the idea of living up to that is both terrifying and… completely worth it.
Once Timmy’s tent is upright again, I stand and glance at Oren. He’s watching me as if I’ve just performed some magic trick, and I can’t help but grin.
“Are you ready for the rest of camp?”
He nods. “Yeah. But only if my Daddy’s with me.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Guess I’m stuck, then.”
And in that moment, I realize just how fast this little guy got under my skin—and that I’m not sure I want to ever get unstuck.
The counselors herd us toward the main lodge, a cheerful building painted in bright reds and yellows.
Littles scamper ahead, their laughter ricocheting across the clearing.
I fall into step beside Oren, keeping a hand lightly at the small of his back.
He leans into me just slightly, and I feel… anchored.
The activity director—a guy in cargo shorts with a whistle dangling from his neck—claps his hands like a drill sergeant with a grin.
“Welcome to Camp Haven, Littles, Middles, and Daddies alike! Let’s get started with a few rules before you run wild in the woods.”
I recognize him from the club. He’s usually a bartender and fills in as a dancer on certain occasions.
Oren’s fingers brush mine when we pass a log bench, and I squeeze gently.
One of the rules, the buddy system, is repeated three times, and I make a mental note to never let him wander alone.
When he gets to the rules stating no streaking through camp, wearing clothes at all times, and no public sex, predictably, all the Littles gigglesnort.
The director launches into a lighthearted orientation, showing us where the mess hall is, the bathrooms, and the ‘Don’t-feed-the-squirrels’ zone. Every so often, a Little yelps in excitement or stumbles over a root, and I’m there with a steady hand, absorbing any surprise that comes our way.
Oren’s wide-eyed as he takes it all in, and I notice how he keeps fussing with his name badge.
“Look at all this,” he whispers, voice hushed. “It’s huge.”
“I know,” I murmur. “But I’ve got you.”
We pause at the big notice board where schedules and rules are pinned. Oren traces a finger along the printed daily activities, the itinerary making him smile. I feel proud, not for myself, but that he’s opening up enough to notice, to enjoy, to let me be here.
By the time the orientation winds down, I can see Oren’s shoulders relax. He’s still nervous, obviously, but he’s starting to trust that I’m not going anywhere.
“Come on,” I say, offering him my hand. “Next up is crafts. Let’s see that creative flair I’ve been hearing about.”
He grins and takes it without hesitation. I can’t stop the hum of amusement and affection rising in my chest. This is just the beginning, but already… I’d follow him anywhere.
The table looks like chaos with glitter scattered, markers rolling, and glue sticks losing their caps. Littles dive into the treasure trove, chatter bouncing in every direction.
Except Oren.
He lingers at the edge of the bench, shoulders tucked in, fingers twitching near the pile of blank cards. His friends are already knee-deep in feathers and stickers, but he just sits there, staring as if the whole thing’s a test he’s about to fail.
My chest tightens. I’ve seen hardened criminals with more confidence than that look on his face.
I lean down, close enough that only he can hear.
“Hey. Doesn’t have to be perfect, kiddo. Just has to be yours.”
He glances up at me. Just one glance, but it hits like a punch. Those big, uncertain eyes… and then, slowly, a breath leaves his body, and his hand finally moves.
Marker to card. Hesitant at first, then quicker, as if he’s been waiting for permission. A duck with a crown takes shape, wobbly rainbow overhead, stars scattered around. He writes something goofy—You’re quack-tastic!—and his cheeks go pink when his friend snickers.
I want to tell him it’s brilliant. That it’s more than brilliant—it’s him. But all I do is set my hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze.
“I love it,” I say, meaning every word.
Because watching him like this—hesitant, then opening up under just a touch of reassurance—I feel something solid take root in my chest. Pride, sure. But also this deeper tug, dangerous in its simplicity.
I don’t just want him to feel safe. I want to be the one who keeps him safe.
By the time the counselors clap for cleanup, the craft table resembles a crime scene, if glitter were blood and pipe cleaners were shrapnel.
The Littles break into some half-sung clean-up song, all off-key and mostly for show, scooping scraps into uneven piles and smearing glue across the wood.
Lane tosses feathers in the air like confetti.
Theo pretends a glue stick is lip balm. Timmy just puts his head down on the table and moans dramatically about ‘Manual labor.’
And then there’s Oren.
He’s got glitter stuck between his fingers, marker stains up his wrist, and a smear of glue on his cheek. His card—his duck card—is clasped carefully in both hands, as if he’s afraid it might dissolve if anyone else touches it.
He shuffles over and holds it out to me. Not to the friend it was supposed to go to, not to the pile marked “exchange,” but straight to me.
“Here,” he says quietly.
I take it carefully because it feels like more than paper and glitter. It feels like trust. As though he just handed me a piece of himself he doesn’t give away lightly.
My heart stutters. “Thanks, kiddo.” I slip it into my pocket, giving it a pat. “I’ll keep it safe.”
The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and for just a second, I catch a glimpse of the boy without all the nerves. Pure, proud, and shining.
That little card’s probably going to shed glitter all over my Henley. But for once, I don’t mind carrying the mess.
I keep the card in my pocket all through dinner, brushing my fingers over it every so often, as if I need the reminder it’s real. It’s the kind of thing that should make me laugh, but instead it pinches my heart.
Because he gave it to me.
I’ve dated men before who either gave me expensive gifts—cologne, a watch, a leather wallet, a gadget—and I’ve dated a Little before who gave me nothing, just took from me. But I’ve never received a gift that was so priceless and thoughtful without costing a cent.