Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
OREN
My phone buzzes just before dinner.
Keane: Gotta work late tonight.
My stomach sinks. It shouldn’t hit me that hard—we’ve only had a weekend and a couple of nights—but it does. I was already picturing curling up on the couch with him, pestering him for another story while I half-dozed against his shoulder.
I toss my phone on the couch and flop down beside it, staring at the ceiling as if it owes me an explanation.
Another ping comes through. Not a text. A recording.
I sit up fast, pressing play. Keane’s rich voice fills my tiny living room.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy who was brave enough to go camping with his Daddy, even though he was nervous. And this Daddy—” His voice dips, heat curling through the words. “—thought the boy was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.”
God, I’m so tempted to keep listening, but I pause the recording and save it for bedtime, when I need to hear his voice most.
I make my way through dinner and a shower, check in with the guys, and when I finally climb into bed, I reach for my phone and pull up his recording.
The story weaves from silly to sweet to…
warmer. Not filthy, but there’s a current in it, a weight in the pauses, like he knows I’m lying here blushing so hard my ears are on fire.
I bury my face in Quackers’s soft belly while it plays, biting my lip.
By the time it ends, my smile is out of control. My Daddy’s imagination is growing in a direction I like. A lot.
Before I fall asleep, I listen to his story six more times, drifting off with Keane’s voice in my ear.
The next day, though? No chance of focusing on anything. The group chat is lit up from the moment I wake.
Theo: Soooo. Daddy report. Spill.
Lane: Did he tuck you in?
TinyTim: Omfg guys look look [attached: a very shirtless photo of Counselor Hottie, mid-workout]
I choke on my cereal.
Theo: Timmy you stalker
Lane: Ok but damn. If I’d had that in my tent…
TinyTim: Don’t be jealous
The notifications keep coming, a nonstop chorus of needling questions, demands for “Daddy stats,” more pics of counselor hottie’s Instagram exploits, and way too many heart and eggplant emojis. I type half a reply, delete it, then end up muting the thread before my head explodes.
All I can think about is Keane’s voice from last night, still lingering in my chest. By lunch, I can’t stand it anymore. The chat’s been going nonstop every few minutes with another question, another meme or thirst trap, another not-so-subtle attempt to pry me open like a clam.
I unmute the thread and type fast before I lose my nerve.
Fine. One detail. He drinks his coffee black. No sugar, no cream.
I hit send and immediately regret it.
The typing bubbles explode.
Theo: OHHH COFFEE DADDY
Lane: Black like his soul. Fitting.
TinyTim: I bet he’s one of those guys who pretends not to like dessert but secretly eats half your cake when you’re not looking.
I snort.
Theo: MORE. What's his cereal?? Shoe size?? Fave movie?? Give us crumbs at least!!
Lane: Yeah, come on. We’re starving here.
I toss my phone face down on the counter, grinning helplessly. One detail and they’re already spinning entire fanfiction universes out of it.
And the wild part? A secret little part of me loves it—loves knowing I’ve got something they all want to hear about. Something that’s mine.
Something that’s him.
The phone buzzes again.
Theo: Ok but imagine him making you breakfast.
Lane: Shirtless. Frying eggs.
TinyTim: But burns them bc he’s distracted kissing your neck.
My face burns hot.
You guys are the worst.
Theo: Admit it tho. You’re imagining it now.
Lane: Don't forget to ask him boxers or briefs. Vital intel.
TinyTim: (Spoiler: briefs. Gray. I can FEEL it in my soul.)
Ha! You wish, TinyTim. My Daddy wears loose boxers to let his monster cock breathe. Your counselor hottie can suck it.
I toss the phone onto the couch and stomp off to the kitchen before I combust. They’re relentless.
I open the fridge, eyeing my usual snack lineup of leftover mac and cheese, some sad celery, and a carton of blueberries. I remember Keane’s rule: eat something real, kiddo. Not just sugar.
I grab the blueberries, wash them, and pop a couple in my mouth, then reach for my phone again.
Snack report, Sir. Blueberries. Juicy, sweet, little explosions in my mouth. I give them 4/5 stars. Docking one point because they stain my fingers purple and now I look like I murdered a Smurf.
I stare at the screen after sending, stomach flipping. My friends can chatter all they want—this right here is the message that matters.
The phone buzzes almost instantly.
Keane: Blueberries, huh? Good boy. Four out of five sounds fair. Maybe I should taste-test next time… just to make sure you’re honest in your reviews.
I can practically hear his chuckle in my head. My fingers hover over the screen, but I don’t type. I just sit there, cheeks hot, thinking about the way he always manages to make me feel like the one being spoiled.
Keane: And hey… make sure you wash those hands before you touch anything else. Don’t want a smurf massacre in your bedroom too.
I laugh aloud, thinking of texting him back a picture of my blue dick. The chat with my friends can wait. Right now, it’s just me and him, and the little blueberry explosions I get to tell him about.
That night, while deep in sleep, my brain decides it’s time for taste testing—only, of course, it’s Keane who ends up in the experiment.
I’m curled under the soft glow of the campfire, but instead of marshmallows, Keane’s holding a bowl of blueberries.
His fingers brush mine as he hands me one, and my stomach twists in a delicious, nerve-tingling way.
“Taste test,” he murmurs in a teasing voice, and I nod, heart hammering.
The blueberries are sweet and juicy, exploding over my tongue in a burst of tartness—and somehow, everything else about him is sweeter.
I lean closer, imagining his lips grazing mine, the heat of his body radiating as I nibble the fruit.
My hands wander, brushing over his shirt, feeling the firm line of his chest beneath.
He smiles, a teasing grin that makes my knees weak.
My lips are still sticky from the berries when I realize I’m pressing against him in ways I’ve only dreamed about, tracing imaginary trails down his arms, around his waist. He chuckles softly, hand ghosting over me in a way that leaves shivers trailing behind, and I can’t stop myself from moaning—quietly, thankfully, or so I hope—into the night air.
The dream twists and turns, his warmth against me, his voice guiding me, coaxing me, making my body respond before my mind even fully wakes.
I wake with a start, heart hammering, sticky in all the wrong places.
The sheets trap the echoes of the dream against my skin.
My cheeks flame even before I remember what happened.
I grab my notebook from the nightstand, fumbling a little in the dark, and scribble down every detail before it slips away. The tang of blueberries from my bedtime snack lingers faintly in my mouth, a reminder that my brain is hopelessly mischievous.
By the time the pen lifts off the paper, I’m flushed, shaky, and already imagining how—someday, maybe—I might read it to him.
For now, though, it’s guarded in the notebook.