Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
OREN
The campfire pops and crackles, sending little sparks spiraling into the night sky.
Half the Littles are singing along to some goofy song, the other half are toasting marshmallows so burnt they could double as charcoal.
I’m sitting in the middle of it all, knees tucked to my chest, feeling… different.
Not fixed. Not perfect. But lighter. As if I actually belong here.
I glance down at my socks—tonight’s choice is neon green with cartoon frogs—and wiggle my toes in the firelight. A couple of days ago, I would’ve hidden them. Tonight, I’m showing them off proudly.
Across the fire, Theo is laughing so hard he nearly drops his s’more in the dirt, Lane is making some snarky comment about how “At least one of us should’ve brought a guitar,” and Timmy is curled up on the hottie counselor’s lap, half-asleep.
Keane catches my eye from where he’s standing just outside the ring of firelight, arms folded, discussing God knows what with other Daddies. He’s not singing or eating marshmallows, but the way he’s watching me… it makes my heart feel full.
Later, when the singing fades into yawns and the counselors shoo everyone toward their tents, I linger. Keane lingers too. We drift toward the edge of the lake, away from the chatter and the flicker of the fire.
The stars are scattered so bright above us it feels like they could fall right into my hands.
“I don’t want it to end,” I blurt. My voice is small, but it carries in the quiet night.
Keane turns his head toward me, and his profile in the starlight is sharp and soft all at once.
“What?”
“This,” I say, gesturing vaguely. Camp. Him. The way my chest feels like it might burst. “The weekend. I don’t want it to be over.”
He studies me for a moment, long enough to make me fidget. Then he shifts closer, brushing the back of his hand against mine. Not grabbing or pushing. Just there.
“It doesn’t have to,” he says quietly. His voice is calm, as if he’s stating a fact, not making a promise he can’t keep. “I’m not going anywhere, Oren.”
My throat tightens, and I nod too quickly, trying to blink back the sudden sting in my eyes.
I look up at the stars so I don’t cry in front of him. But what I really feel is small, protected, and accepted, like maybe for once in my life, the story doesn’t have to end where I thought it would.
Keane’s words hang between us, soft as the ripple on the lake. I’m not going anywhere.
The bears in my belly stomp and charge, claws digging at my insides, too big for me to hold in. My hands twist in the hem of my hoodie, and my throat is tight, and before I can think better of it I blurt, “Then kiss me.”
Keane goes very still. Motionless in a way that makes me instantly want to snatch the words back and stuff them in my pocket.
“I—forget I said that—”
But then his hand finds my cheek, and he tilts my face up. “Kiddo,” he murmurs, voice low, “you sure?”
The bears roar, and I nod so hard I might sprain something.
“Y-yeah. I’m sure.”
And then his mouth is on mine. Gentle, not claiming or bulldozing, but warm, careful. My lips tingle, my eyes flutter shut, and the whole world tilts as if the earth itself just gave me permission to stop running.
When he finally pulls back, my breath is shaky. My heart is stampeding, my body buzzing like I swallowed fireflies.
Keane presses his forehead against mine, chuckling softly.
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Good trouble?” I whisper.
“The best kind.”
The bears calm at last, curling up soft and satisfied inside me.
We don’t talk on the walk back to the tent. We don’t need to. My hand brushes against his once, twice, and by the third time Keane just catches it and holds on. My whole arm buzzes.
Inside, Quackers gets prime real estate again, plopped in the spot of honor between our sleeping bags. I crawl into mine, still tasting Keane on my lips. My body’s practically vibrating, but my eyelids are heavy.
“Bedtime story,” I mumble, before I can chicken out. My face is hot in the dark. “Please?”
Keane laughs, low and husky. “You want a bedtime story?”
“Yes,” I whisper into my pillow. “One you make up. For me.”
He shifts, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Alright. Once upon a time… there was a very serious, very important Daddy who went on a quest.”
I grin in the dark. “Boring. What kind of quest?”
“A quest for the rarest socks in the land. Only one boy could help him find them.”
My giggle escapes before I can stop it. “Better. Keep going.”
“The boy was clever, brave… but also kind of a rascal. He liked to interrupt bedtime stories.”
“Only when they’re boring. Tell me what the Daddy did when he found the boy.”
Keane hums as if he’s thinking. “He… praised him for being so good. For being his good boy.”
My whole body tingles. “Not boring anymore.”
There’s a pause, then Keane’s voice dips lower. “And maybe, when the boy wriggled close in the dark, the Daddy kissed him again. Just a little longer this time.”
My breath hitches. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah,” Keane says softly, and leans in. His lips brush mine, slow and sweet, pulling the air right out of my lungs.
When he pulls back, I squeak out, “That’s a good story.”
“Not done yet,” he murmurs. “But the rest is for tomorrow.”
I burrow deeper into my bag, grinning in the dark, and drift off with bears in my belly, fireflies in my chest, and the warmth of Keane’s hand brushing mine until I drift off.
I wake up in the half-light, heart thudding, body warm and aching. My first thought is not again. My second thought is definitely again. My underwear is damp and clinging, my thighs tacky. A groan slips out before I can smother it.
Beside me, Keane shifts. For a terrifying second I think he’s asleep, but then his voice rumbles low.
“Good morning, kiddo.”
My face goes up in flames. “I—I can explain.”
Keane doesn’t tease. He just pushes up on one elbow and looks at me calmly, as if he’d expected this all along.
“Dream?”
I hide under my blanket. “Maybe.”
Keane chuckles softly. “Kinda figured. You were wiggling.” His hand smooths over my blanket-covered shoulder, reassuring. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I freeze. “You don’t… have to.”
“I know.” His tone is warm and matter-of-fact. “But I want to.”
I let him tug me gently out of the sleeping bag.
My face stays hidden in my hands while he kneels in front of me, helping me peel the damp fabric down my thighs.
Every brush of his knuckles against my skin makes me twitch, but it’s not embarrassment that burns; it’s something hotter, scarier, better.
He eases me into clean cotton. When he’s done, he lingers for just a second, his fingertips grazing my hipbone. Then he leans close and whispers, “You might be the perfect boy for me.”
My heart lurches so hard it hurts. I peek through my fingers at him, wide-eyed, as if I need to make sure he actually said it.
He meets my gaze without flinching, serious and soft at the same time. And not for the first time this weekend, I wonder if this thing between us might already be bigger than camp.