Chapter 8 #2
This is what I fantasized about when I hesitantly filled out my profile on the club’s forum.
I just wish I had more experience with this type of arrangement.
I sense Oren is trying to overcome a lot of hurt from his past, and I will never forgive myself if I end up making it worse for him instead of better.
By the time night falls, the counselors have rigged up a giant sheet between two trees and wheeled out a projector.
Blankets and folding chairs sprawl across the lawn, Littles in pajamas piling onto them in sticky, giggling heaps.
Someone hands out popcorn in paper cups, and the first preview flickers on the screen.
Oren sits close, legs curled in his overall shorts, Quackers tucked under his arm. He doesn’t make a move toward me, not at first. Just sits there, chewing on his lip, eyes darting from the screen to the crowd to me. As though he’s deciding whether he’s allowed.
So I make it easy. I shift, draping one arm behind him. Not an invitation exactly—just space.
Two minutes later, he leans in. His shoulder brushes mine. His head tips, hesitates, then settles against me like he’s been doing it his whole life.
I breathe in slow, careful, as though one wrong move might spook him.
The movie plays—some animated classic about friendship and woodland critters—but I barely watch. All my attention is wrapped up in the way Oren relaxes by inches, the way his body fits against mine, the way Quackers ends up propped on his lap like a third member of the cuddle pile.
He smells soft and sweet and warm, and I wrap my arm around his shoulder and squeeze him a bit tighter. Halfway through, he yawns and lets his weight sag against me fully. My hand twitches with the urge to adjust his blanket, to tuck him in, to do more than I have any right to.
Instead, I slip my hand into my pocket and press my palm over the lumpy card. Glitter flakes catch on my skin. Mine, it whispers.
For tonight at least, he’s mine.
The movie ends in a wave of applause and sugar crashes. Littles scatter to their tents, yawning and dragging blankets like sleepy ducklings. Oren sticks close to my side on the walk back, with Quackers tucked under his arm.
Inside the tent, he freezes. His bag sits in the corner, pajamas poking out, and I can feel the tension roll off him. He fiddles with the hem of his overalls, avoiding my eyes.
“You want me to step out while you change?” I ask gently. Then, because honesty matters: “Or… do you want help?”
His head snaps up, cheeks pink in the lantern glow. A long beat passes, his throat working. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he whispers, “Help.”
I swallow thickly. “Alright, kiddo.”
I keep it matter-of-fact—unhooking straps, easing fabric down his shoulders, steadying him when he wobbles while stepping out.
His Marvel shirt swaps for a soft pajama top, socks for clean striped ones.
It’s not about speed, not about anything but the trust he’s putting in me with every tiny surrender.
I soak it all in, loving every second.
When he finally crawls into his sleeping bag, he leaves a gulf of space between us. Quackers sits in the middle like a referee. I settle into my own bag and fold my hands over my chest, giving him room.
One minute passes. Then another.
It starts with a wiggle.
Oren scoots an inch closer. Stops. Waits.
Another wiggle.
Closer. Stops again.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Finally, I reach into my bag and pull out the small box I’ve been holding onto since the checkout line at the outdoor store. I reach over him and place it in front of him.
“What’s this?” he whispers.
“A reward,” I say simply. “For courage.”
He turns towards me and opens it, eyes going wide at the bright plastic flashlight inside—yellow, with a smiling bear on the handle.
His mouth falls open. “It’s… mine?”
“Yours,” I confirm. “Figured Quackers could use backup on night watch.”
He clutches it to his chest like a treasure, whispering, “Best Daddy ever,” before pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.
My laugh finally slips free, soft in the dark. But I don’t correct him.
The tent settles into quiet except for the faint snores and giggles drifting from the other campsites. Oren wriggles one last time, flashlight pressed against his chest, and his guard-dog-in-disguise Quackers tucked under his chin.
He yawns so wide I can hear the squeak at the end of it. “G’night, Daddy,” he mumbles, words slurring with sleep.
I should correct him. Remind him I’m not—can’t be—what he thinks. Because what if I disappoint him? What if I can’t be the Daddy he needs? But the word has wrapped around me like my sleeping bag, warm and inescapable.
I lie on my back, staring at the nylon ceiling above us. My pulse hasn’t slowed since he said it. Best Daddy ever. As though it was a fact, not a wish.
He sighs in his sleep, body shifting unconsciously toward me until his shoulder brushes mine. A tiny, trusting move.
I keep perfectly still, afraid to spook him, but inside I’m burning with something equal parts fierce and fragile. Pride, maybe. A protectiveness I didn’t know I could feel this strongly.
The flashlight slips from his hand, bumping against my arm. I catch it, click it off, and set it gently between us. Oren doesn’t stir.
So I just watch him. Watch the rise and fall of his chest, the glitter still faintly stuck to his fingers, the way he smiles even in dreams.
I’ve stared down worse nights than this one. But nothing has ever undone me as much as this boy curled beside me, trusting me to protect him until morning.
Sleep doesn’t come easy, not with my heart pounding the way it is.
And Oren—God help me—he’s a wiggler. Squirming in his sleep, rolling closer until his back presses into me.
That tempting little ass brushes against my crotch, and even through layers of padded nylon, every cell in my body lights up like I’ve been set on fire.
For half a second, instinct snarls louder than reason. But I grit my teeth, press my fists into the sleeping bag, and force myself still. This isn’t about me. It can’t be.
He sighs, unconcerned, blissfully unaware of the war raging inches away. I shift just enough to give him space, though the heat of him still lingers.
Want and guilt tangle in my gut. I want him, bad enough that it scares me. But more than that, I want to deserve him. To be the man he thinks I am when he looks at me with those wide, trusting eyes.
So I breathe. In. Out. And remind myself that morning will come, and with it another day I get to try to be worthy of this boy.