Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
OREN
My phone buzzes just as I’m fluffing my pillow. The name on the screen makes my chest go hot all over.
“Hi,” I breathe when I answer.
“Hi, kiddo.”
Keane’s voice rumbles low and deep, wrapping around me.
“You all settled in?”
“Mmhm. Jammies on, teeth brushed. Socks too,” I add, grinning even though he can’t see me.
There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a smile. “Good boy.”
Fireworks. Every time.
Then he sighs. “I wish I were there. Curled up beside you again. Feels strange not to have you wiggling at my side.”
I clutch Quackers tighter. “I miss you too.”
There’s a silence, comfortable and heavy with wanting. Then I blurt, “Can you… maybe tell me a bedtime story?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” His voice warms with amusement. “Alright. Once upon a time, there was a prince in overalls who had a duck for a best friend.”
I giggle immediately. “No, make him a sorcerer, with sparkly socks of power.”
Keane chuckles. “Fine. A sorcerer prince with enchanted socks. And one day he—”
“—met a very handsome knight. With, uh… really strong arms.”
He laughs again, richer this time. “Interrupting storyteller syndrome, I see. Shall I continue, or do you want to finish?”
“Both,” I whisper. My cheeks are hot, my heart pounding.
So he spins it out, weaving silly with sweet, letting me swap in bits of sparkle and heat, until I can’t hold it in any longer.
“Can I be your boy?” The words tumble out before I can think better of them. “Full time. For realsies.”
The silence stretches for a beat, and then his chuckle comes, low and fond.
“Yes. A thousand yesses, Oren.”
My heart somersaults. “Can we start right now?”
His laugh is warm thunder through the line. “How about this—starting tonight, you still give me water reports and sock updates. But we add one more rule: shut off electronics thirty minutes before bed. Help that super-creative brain of yours wind down.”
I bite my lip, smiling so hard my cheeks ache. “Yes, Daddy. Except… starting tomorrow, since we’re talking right now.”
He groans a playful protest. “You’re already testing limits, huh?”
I giggle. “Goodnight, Daddy.”
There’s a soft exhale on the other end, as though he’s holding me even from miles away.
“Goodnight, kiddo. Sweet dreams.”
I fall asleep with his voice echoing in my head, the word boy etched across my heart.
I wake up to sunlight on my face and one thought so loud it drowns out the birds outside my window: I’m his boy.
For real. Not pretend, not just for the weekend or just online. Keane said yes. A thousand yes’s.
The memory makes me squirm under the blankets until I’m tangled up like a worm in a sock. Which… appropriate. Because socks are first on today’s agenda.
I kick free, bounce out of bed, and make a ceremony out of picking the pair. Yellow with smiley faces. Bold. Cheerful. Obviously perfect for a first official day.
My phone buzzes just as I tug them on.
Keane: Morning, kiddo. Water report?
I grin, snatch up my glass, and chug half in one go, cold water dripping down my chin. Then I snap a triumphant pic of the glass and my socks together.
Hydrated feet!
Three dots appear.
Keane: That’s not how that works.
Keane: But I’ll allow it. Good boy.
The words make my chest feel like a balloon someone just filled too full of helium. I float through brushing my teeth, through pouring cereal, through logging into my work computer.
Except work doesn’t look the same today.
My desk is still crowded with plushies and crayons, my half-finished Hedgehog manuscript still staring at me, but it feels different now.
Like every silly thing I do is secretly linked to him.
I’m not just a guy in slipper socks writing about snack-obsessed animals.
I’m his boy. And he wants me hydrated, rested, and—
“Oh God,” I blurt out loud, “he’s gonna check if I ate breakfast!”
I shove a banana next to my cereal bowl just in case.
Somewhere between my spoon clinking and my inbox dinging, I catch myself grinning again. This is it. Day one of being his. Not a trial, not a story in my journal.
And I can’t wait to see what Daddy has planned for me next.
A few hours into my day—mid-zoom-meeting, mid-sentence, mid-thought—my phone buzzes on the corner of my desk. I sneak a peek to see it’s Keane, then pretend to be very invested to my editor who’s watching me closely through the screen.
Keane: Favorite snack report. Try something new and tell me all about it. Give me a full review. Texture. Flavor. Would you recommend it to others?
I snort-laugh at my screen and whisper, “Yes, Daddy,” to no one in particular.
After the meeting wraps, I do the grown-up thing and ditch work to sprint to the grocery store’s cereal aisle.
I come back with a ridiculous purchase: a bag of sea-salt caramel corn drizzled in dark chocolate with the word gourmet in tiny font, and a solitary package of those fancy grapefruit gummies because my brain needs contrast. I set them out as if I’m staging a tasting menu.
I grab the popcorn first because, duh, chocolate. It’s dangerously good. I close my eyes like a fool and send Keane a picture of my hand, a triumphant fist over the open bag, and my second sugar coma inducing cold brew just out of sight.
First impressions: Crunchy, then sweet. Salt is salting, but not loud.
Chocolate is sophisticated. At first bite, the caramel corn snaps like tiny applause, the salt pokes through the sweetness, and the chocolate melt is a warm ribbon that coats the roof of my mouth.
Would I recommend? Only if you promise to share.
Three dots dance across my screen. He’s reading. I pace like a nervous ninny and grab another handful of popcorn.
Keane: Sounds dangerous. Is it messy? Need to plan for nap protocols?
Slightly. You must have a nap plan. I recommend warm socks and a back rub.
His reply makes me grin before it lands.
Keane: Noted. Share?
Always. For you, first dibs.
He sends a thumbs-up and then, because he’s relentless, another message:
Keane: Good review. 8/10 for life-changingness. Next snack: try something green and mysterious.
I almost choke on a kernel. Green? Mysterious? My brain immediately goes to seaweed chips. Eww, gross.
Yes, Daddy. Green mystery tomorrow. I’ll be brave.
Then I laugh and type,
Also, takeout for dinner? I’m low on healthy choices unless you count gummy citrus as fruit.
His answer is instant and mercilessly domestic.
Keane: I’ll pick you up at seven. Don’t eat anything that ruins your appetite. And change your socks.
I stare at the screen and feel soft and ridiculous and very, very seen.
My day’s been hijacked into the best kind of project: being delightful for someone who already thinks I am.
I suck my salty fingers clean, thinking about how small rules such as water, socks, and snack reports have somehow made my whole life feel more secure and more sparkly at once.