Chapter
Ten
KEANE
Iwatch him hustle off toward the mess hall with Quackers bobbing under his arm, a tiny flag of defiance against the world. He’s motion and bright colors and happiness, and for a second I just stand there, dazed by how much of him I’ve been allowed to witness in the last twenty-four hours.
When he looks back and flashes me that grin—equal parts proud and terrified—I feel something akin to a verdict land in my chest. Guilty, I guess, of wanting him closer than I had any right to want for something so new.
“Run ahead with your friends,” I tell him, keeping my voice casual. “I’ll wash up and meet you in the mess hall in ten.”
He nods. “Thanks, Daddy.”
The way he says it again—soft, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world—makes my knees go slack for a second.
“Go on,” I say, and mean it. “I’ll be right behind you.”
He bounds away, and the tent feels too big and too quiet almost immediately. I turn to gather my things, and a corner of fabric pokes out from Oren’s duffel. The battered little notebook I’d seen him tuck away the night before. For a breath I look away and consider walking out and leaving it exactly where it is, the boundary between us respected.
But something else pulls at me. Oren gave me his truth last night. He handed me something fragile. If I’m going to be the kind of man who protects him, maybe I should know what he carries when he’s alone. Maybe insight will make me better—not a voyeur, but a guardian.
The thought is rationalized into action faster than I expect. I slip a hand into the bag, fingers closing on a worn spiral binding. The cover is smudged with ink and a faint smear of something that looks suspiciously like jelly from a midnight snack. I hate myself for the small thrill that hits me at the touch. Territory, perhaps, or curiosity.
I tell myself I’ll be clinical. I’ll skim, read only enough to understand his triggers, his comforts, what soothes him, what terrifies him. I’ll close it and put it back, and nothing will change.
A single page flips under my thumb. The handwriting is small, hurried, intimate. A bedtime vignette about socks and praise, the wording shy at places and bold at others. There’s a scene about a lap, a soft tug of fabric, the boy believing he’s good because someone says so. Not pornographic so much as personal, an anatomy of what he wants to be told and who he wants to tell him.
My first reaction is a lawyer’s—observe, file, understand. The second is more dangerous. A hot, private satisfaction that the man I’m thinking of in court terms and strategies has a boy’s secret tucked away in the corner of his life. I tap my fingers against the paper for a heartbeat, then read another line, softer, more frightened:I’m afraid he’ll think I’m disgusting if he knew.
The guilt hits harsher than cold water. I shut the notebook hard, more abruptly than I intended, because the sound was louder than I wanted anyone to hear. My hands are shaking—not from the chill in the air—but from the fact that I just trespassed into the private thoughts of a man who has no reason to let me in.
I press the notebook against my sternum for a second, an apology that can be held against the body. Then, I set it back exactly where I found it and step out of the tent. The sunlight hits my face, and everything feels a little too exposed.
I hadn’t read much, but enough to know two things with painful clarity: he trusts so little of the world, and he trusts me more than I had any right to expect.
I could make a case for why what I did was useful. But the truth is uglier and simpler. I wanted to understand him because I want to be good for him. I wanted to know how to give him what he needs before he ever has to beg for it.
Shame and a fierce sense of responsibility settle into my gut. I tuck the image of his duck-card and that shaky, brave sentence—I’m afraid he’ll think I’m disgusting—into a private folder in my head and turn it into a promise.
When I reach the mess hall, I’m calm. I fold my hands on the table and wait for him like I said I would. Inside, I’m rehearsing how to earn his trust properly. No more shortcuts. No more stolen glimpses. If he wants me to know the rest, he’ll hand it to me. Until then, I’ll be patient. I’ll be solid. I’ll be worthy of what he gives.
Oren dragshis feet back toward the tent after breakfast, cheeks pink from the way he avoided looking me in the eye all meal long. He’s quieter than usual, chewing on his lip like he’s hiding behind it.
“You promised,” I remind him gently as I unzip the flap and motion him inside.
His blush spreads to his ears. “I know.”
His fingers twitch, then drop, leaving him exposed. I can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, that mixture of embarrassment and daring that makes my pulse jump.
I drop his shorts and peel his damp underwear down in one slow, careful motion. His cock is soft at first, jumping slightly at my touch, but the heat rolling through him is undeniable. My knuckles brush him as I help him into a clean pair of swim trunks—a deliberate graze that makes him shiver.
“Better?” I ask, smoothing the waistband over his hips, my thumb lingering just a second too long along his lower abdomen. His inhale catches, quick and sharp, and I feel the surge of control and care between us.
He bites his lip, eyes darting away.
“Thanks, Daddy,” he whispers, voice trembling with a mix of relief and something darker, warmer.
I press a light kiss to his temple, not rushing, just savoring the heat radiating off him.
