Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
OREN
The group chat explodes the second I set my cereal spoon down.
Lane: Post-camp depression is real. I miss you losers.
Theo: Solution: mini-camp. But with pumpkins. And cider. And maybe haunted hayrides.
TinyTim: And hot cocoa with marshmallows bigger than my head.
I grin, already picturing it.
Lane: So… a fall retreat? Apple orchards, corn mazes, hot Daddies in flannel.
Theo: Correction: hot SINGLE Daddies in flannel.
TinyTim: I’m bringing Counselor Hottie. You’re all welcome.
I laugh so hard milk almost comes out of my nose.
Camp is once a year. But… a fall day trip? I could maybe swing that.
Lane: YES. Oren votes yes.
Theo: Unanimous. Meeting adjourned.
I set my phone down, cheeks warm. Keane’s name sits at the top of my screen like a little beacon, but I don’t text him. Not yet. He has work. I have… well, my own work, which I just turned in last night. A whole book, done and off to my editor. That deserves a prize.
So after breakfast, I reward myself with my favorite kind of treat: a trip to the bookstore. Nothing fancy, just the little shop on Main with the crooked overflowing shelves and the owner who always smells like coffee grounds.
I wander the aisles, fingers trailing over spines, already feeling lighter. Shielded. As though nothing can touch me here.
Until it does.
“Oren.”
The sound of my name in that voice makes me freeze. My stomach drops as if I missed the last step on a staircase.
I turn, and there he is. Vince. Looking exactly the same—tailored jacket, sharp smile, and that faint cologne he always wore, expensive wood polish and leather. He hasn’t changed at all.
And me? I feel nine years old. Small. Trapped.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.” His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Still chasing fairytales?”
My fingers tighten on the nearest book, gripping it like a shield. I take a careful step back, putting a shelf of picture books between us like a flimsy barricade.
“Uh… hi, Vince,” I manage, voice a little tighter than I intended.
His gaze zeroes in on the book in my hand.
“Let me guess, treating yourself after a new release?”
His eyes flicker with interest, but also something else—as if he’s trying to gauge whether I’ve leveled up or still play by his rules.
Damn, I hate how he knows my habits. “Yeah. Just submitted it yesterday.”
He tilts his head, faintly impressed, or pretending to be.
“You’ve been busy. Good for you.”
I nod, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “Yeah. Busy.”
A beat passes. Then he smirks. “Still… dreaming big, huh? Fairytales and little worlds.”
I stiffen. There it is. The subtle jab, the “You’re still a kid” comment wrapped in charm. I clench my jaw, counting my breaths.
“Yeah,” I say carefully, “but I like them. They’re… mine.”
He used to like that about me too… until he didn’t.
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, then nods, almost approvingly.
“Alright, Oren. Keep your worlds. Just… be careful which ones you let people into.”
If only someone had told me that before I started dating him, but I swallow, unsure if he meant it as a warning or a tease.
“Right,” I say, gripping my book tighter. “Take care, Vince.”
He flashes that same smile—too perfect, too smooth—and turns, leaving me standing there, heart still racing.
A breath whooshes out of me. Small victories. I survived the encounter without tripping over myself or giving him anything to use. I’m fairly sure my Daddy would agree that I earned a whipped cold brew!
I wander the aisles, letting my fingers trail over the spines, savoring the smell of fresh pages and coffee lingering in the corners.
Somewhere in the middle of the new releases, a familiar name catches my eye.
I pull the book from the shelf and glare at the cover, scrutinizing every detail.
My jaw tightens, and I mutter under my breath without thinking.
“Seriously? Nobody cares about your stupid anteater, B.L. Spears.”
A kid clutching a box set jumps back a little, eyes wide, and scurries off down the aisle.
“Oops,” I murmur, clearing my throat. Great. Way to intimidate the audience.
I glance around, hoping nobody noticed. But the thought makes me smirk a little.
Honestly, I’ve been doing the same thing for years in my head—silently competing, critiquing, sneaking in a little one-sided commentary about the books that sandwich mine on the bookshelves. Nothing but petty, harmless fun.
I take a deep breath, shake off the irritation, and focus back on the titles I love. Even if B.L. Spears is still somehow gracing the shelves, I have my world. And my stories. And, in the back of my mind, someone waiting for me that actually makes me feel… secure.
Also, Molly the Hedgehog puts Arthur the Anteater to shame every single day of the week!
I let myself linger a little longer, picking up a bright, cheery book that makes me grin. The cover is ridiculous, but I don’t care. It makes me happy, and right now, that’s exactly what I need.
Then I wander over to the gay romance section—the tiny, sad little corner tucked between memoirs and cookbooks. The selection is pitiful. A couple of sweet, tame romances with illustrated covers, nothing that really makes my stomach twist the way I crave.
I pick up one with a blushing cover couple and a cute title. It’s… fine. Not nearly naughty enough, but what can you expect from a bookstore? The real heat lives online, hidden in those digital shelves where the stuff nobody else can handle thrives.
I set the book down for a moment, feeling that familiar itch—wanting more, craving stories that push boundaries, make hearts race, and maybe mirror some of the things I’ve been daring to imagine myself.
I head toward the checkout, juggling my new treasures in my arms, and before I even realize it, my thumb is hovering over Keane’s name.
“Hey,” I say when he picks up.
“Hey, kiddo,” he replies, and just hearing his voice makes my chest warm in that way it always does. “Bookstore trip?”
I laugh softly, a little sheepish. “Yeah… Kind of a reward. Turned in the new manuscript yesterday.”
“That’s amazing. I’m proud of you.”
His tone is gentle, and it makes me want to grin like a nuthead.
I glance at the books in my arms. “I… I found something that makes me happy. And…” My cheeks heat. “…I wandered over to the romance section.”
There’s a pause, and I hear a tiny chuckle. “Oh? And?”
“It… isn’t nearly naughty enough.” I shrug, laughing nervously. “But I figured, hey, I’m here, so why not. The real stuff is online, anyway.”
“Good call.” He sounds amused and approving. “Maybe you can show me later?”
I bite my lip, heart thudding. “Yeah… Maybe I will.”
We chat a little longer, and I feel lighter than I have in days—as if I can expose my little private worlds, my stories, and my messy thoughts out loud to someone, and he won’t judge.
“Alright, kiddo,” Keane says, voice low and warm. “Time to get home. I’ll call at bedtime?”
“Please,” I whisper. “I’d like that.”
I wake in the dark, but the story hasn’t left me. It’s still alive behind my eyelids, coiling and warm. In my dream, the little hedgehog climbs onto Daddy’s lap—my lap, Keane’s lap, it all blurs together—and I feel the deep rumble of his voice as he reads, each word vibrating through me.
I squirm, imagining Daddy’s hands brushing my back, guiding me, steady and firm.
Maybe I’m the hedgehog, hoarding his touch instead of snacks?
My skin tingles at every word, my body responding before my brain catches up.
The hedgehog wiggles closer, shy but desperate for touch.
Daddy smiles, patient and indulgent, letting the boy find comfort—and a little thrill—in his lap.
The words, the rhythm, the imagined heat… it makes me ache. I can feel the wet heat soak my undies, my chest tight, toes curling. I try to slow my breathing, to let the story guide me, but my fingers reach for my notebook beside the bed. I have to write this down before I forget.
Even in the dream, I scribble, turning the fantasy into words, my pencil racing to catch every squirm, every whispered “Good boy,” every brush of imagined skin.
By the time I wake for real, sticky and flushed, the first morning light peeks through the blinds.
My notebook is full, a private testament to the story only I—and soon, maybe Keane—will ever know.
And as I stretch under the sheets, heart still thudding, I think: the next time he reads to me, I’ll be ready. My words, my fantasies, my little desires… all for him.