Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
KEANE
Ipark in the same spot I did the night I dropped him off and check my reflection in the rearview mirror—suit still sharp, tie loosened just enough—before going up the steps.
Oren’s waiting on the stoop with his same bright but shy smile I’ve come to expect from him, but something about him is different.
He’s standing straighter, shoulders back, not the shy little figure who peeked around corners.
Camp did something to him. Made him braver, somehow. Made him look, suddenly, very grown-up.
He sees me and grins, and of course the grin is contagious. Oren kicks one foot forward and gives me the full reveal: lime green socks with tiny storm clouds.
“Like?” he demands, all flourish and embarrassment fused into one perfect package.
“Like,” I say, because what else is there to say? He looks ridiculous and wonderful all at once. The socks clash terribly with his black chinos and blue polo, and if his pants didn’t ride up every time he moves, you could almost believe he’s a perfectly ordinary, boring adult.
We eat at a small place not far from his building—no fuss, just warm lighting and food that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.
Conversation starts off easy with a camp recap and highlight reel.
Oren answers in bursts, cheeks flushing when he laughs.
His usual nervous energy surrounds him, but it’s slightly subdued now.
It’s… appealing, endearing, and dangerous.
Halfway through my third forkful of something perfectly unremarkable, he sets his fork down and stares at me with mock seriousness.
“Okay,” he says, leaning in with his elbows on the table, eyes bright. “Tell me all the important stuff I need to know about you.”
I blink. “Important stuff?”
“Yeah. Like—” He rattles them off, fingers counting in the air. “Boxers or briefs. Favorite cereal. How you take your coffee. When you were little, what was your favorite stuffie?”
I laugh because it’s impossible not to. He’s both entertaining and impossibly earnest; the combination should be illegal.
“That is a very selective list of essentials.”
He pouts, pleading. “I need to know. You can’t just be mysterious forever.”
“All right.” I set my fork down, fold my hands on the table, and give him the kind of measured look I use on witnesses—firm, amused, direct. “Boxers,” I say. “Loose, not boxer-briefs. I prefer the freedom.” He snorts, and I qualify it with a smirk. “White, usually. Boring, but serviceable.”
“Ooh—excitement!” he says, deadpan, then giggles at his own joke. “Roomy boxers means you need room for your big di—”
“Oren,” I sputter, checking to see if the couple seated beside us overheard. “Favorite cereal?” I continue. “Shredded wheat with almond milk. It’s practical and fills you up without pretending to be candy. There’s a protein version I buy when I’m on trial prep and need to survive the day.”
“Protein,” he repeats, as if it’s a spell that will make him taller. “Grown-up Keane choices. Noted.”
“How I take my coffee?” A faint smile touches my lips. “Black in the office, never sugar. At home, I enjoy a little cream, but never flavored syrups. I prefer the taste of coffee. I don’t need a dessert in my cup.”
I shoot him a pointed look. He thinks I don’t know about his coffee habit, but I’ve caught accidental glimpses of his whipped creations in the background of several of his sock report pictures.
He nods solemnly, then presses the point. “And the stuffie? Which one?”
My throat warms at that one. “A ragged bear,” I tell him. “His name was Rupert. He had one button eye and a stitched smile. I brought him on my first cross-country move because I was more terrified than I cared to admit.”
I can see the image flicker across Oren’s face—softening, understanding.
He leans back, eyes shining. “Rupert. I like Rupert.”
We fall silent, and I tip my head at his uneaten food. Oren dutifully picks up his fork and stabs a bite of chicken, making a face.
“Okay, your turn,” I say, and he launches into a rapid-fire of his own—favorite superhero (Captain America, he confesses in a sheepish whisper), a childhood camping disaster, and the exact number of stuffies he owns (an obscene number that makes him laugh when my eyes widen.)
We trade small truths like currency until the plates are empty and our conversation has stretched somewhere softer and deeper than casual. Every time he laughs, I want to memorize the sound. Every time he looks at me, I want to be the reason he keeps looking.
When we stand to go, he bumps my hip with his, casual on the outside, urgent on the inside.
“So,” he says. “Was that everything? Or did you have secrets left?”
“Secrets,” I admit, looping my arm through his, “are more fun when they’re discovered slowly.”
Oren hums, satisfied with that, and I can’t help thinking of his secret—filthy fantasies tucked away inside a fuzzy blue journal.
The lime-green socks peek out as we walk, ridiculous and perfect, and I tuck the small, private list of his answers into a tidy corner of my head: Captain America, Randall, his middle name, his favorite color red, and frosted animal crackers with colored sugar sprinkles, his favorite snack.
Details to keep me going on days when I need reminding of what I’m working toward earning.
When we reach his door, I’m ready to let him go with just a hug goodnight, but Oren hovers there, twisting his keys in his hand as though he’s not ready for the evening to be over.
His voice is soft when he says, “You… wanna come in? Just for a minute? Maybe tuck me in?”
I should probably decline. Should probably remind him I’ve got an early morning ahead, that this is a dangerous habit to start. But then he flashes those storm-cloud socks again, and all my rules crumble.
“Yeah,” I say, following him inside. “I can do that.”
His apartment smells faintly of laundry detergent and the vanilla candle he forgot to blow out. Oren heads straight for his bedroom, dropping his keys on the counter. He glances back at me with this shy, tilted grin before tugging his T-shirt over his head. My pulse stutters.
His skin is pale and smooth under the lamplight, creamy-soft, his belly flat, and two small brown nipples that make my mouth go dry.
He doesn’t seem self-conscious—if anything, he moves with a kind of quiet trust, as though stripping down to his briefs in front of me is the most natural thing in the world.
I force my gaze higher, but it betrays me, dragging down again to the lines of his body. Heat prickles at the back of my neck. I tug my tie loose and clear my throat, trying to cover the rasp in my voice.
“Need help finding pajamas, or you’ve got it?”
He grins, holding up a pair of ridiculous sock-print pajamas before shimmying into them. I take in one more flicker of that smooth chest before he’s covered.
“Okay,” he says, flopping onto his bed and tugging at the covers like he’s not a grown man in his twenties. “Tuck me in.”
Only then do I sit on the edge of his bed and smooth the blankets for him, telling myself to get a grip. I’m not here to devour him. I’m here to tuck him in.
But God help me, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to devour anyone more.
I take my time, straightening the sheets, smoothing the blanket over his chest. His eyes go heavy-lidded as I brush caramel brown hair off his forehead. I lean down just enough to murmur, “Comfortable?”
He nods, cheeks pink. “Bedtime story?”
I settle on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting casually over the covers near his arm.
“All right,” I say, my voice dipping into that low register he likes. “Once upon a time, there was a boy who always thought he was too much—too loud, too messy, too silly. But one day, he met someone who thought every bit of that was perfect.”
Oren’s eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Perfect how?” he interrupts.
I chuckle. “Perfect like… the way his laugh lit up a room. The way his socks made people smile. The way he could make someone forget all the heavy things in their head just by being near.”
“That’s nice,” he says, shifting closer under the blanket. Then, my mischievous boy shows his true colors. “But, um, stories usually get… steamier.”
My brows lift, but I don’t stop. “Steamier, hm?”
He nods, lip caught between his teeth. “Yeah. Like maybe… the boy got kissed by his someone. Or maybe they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.”
I feel a flicker of heat move through me, not because I’m pushing the story that way, but because he is. He’s leading me there, testing me, trusting me.
“All right,” I say slowly, my palm brushing the blanket where his arm lies beneath. “Maybe the someone leaned in… close enough for the boy to feel his breath. Maybe the kiss was soft at first, and then… deeper.”
Oren swallows audibly, lashes fluttering. “Mm. Better.”
I let the pause hang, savoring it. His voice is unguarded, raw in its simplicity. It tells me more than any bold declaration could: he’s letting me in, step by step. He wants me to notice. He wants me to follow.
I clear my throat softly, and finish the story in a gentler tone. “And when the boy finally fell asleep, he did it knowing he wasn’t too much at all. He was just right. And his someone couldn’t wait to see him again.”
Oren lets out a soft, pleased sound and rolls onto his side, facing me, lids heavy.
“That’s my favorite story,” he mumbles.
I lean down, brush a kiss against his temple, and whisper, “Goodnight, Oren.”
As I pull away, I can’t help the thought that curls low in my chest: his stories may be getting steamier, but it’s the trust threaded through them that makes me ache to stay.
God, he’s bold when he wants to be. It’s his strange mixture of shyness and forthrightness that has a chokehold on my heart.
When his breathing evens out, I linger a second longer than I should, brushing a hand over his hair.
The lamplight highlights his freckles and soft mouth that makes him look younger than he is.
I tuck Quackers under his arm for safekeeping, then stand, tugging my tie the rest of the way loose.
At the door, I pause. He’s curled small under the covers, trusting me to guard his dreams.
I pull the bedroom door shut with care. In the quiet apartment, I resist the urge to tidy his messy desk and lock the front door softly behind me.
The drive home is a blur of streetlights and empty roads, my hand tight on the wheel. Every mile, I’m thinking of him—smooth chest, small brown nipples, the way he looked at me like I was the most trustworthy man in the world. My throat tightens.
I should be replaying depositions and prepping for court tomorrow. Instead, I’m replaying Oren shimmying into his pajamas, Oren’s laugh under his breath, Oren asking for another story.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I already know—I’m in deep.