Chapter
Two
OREN
Iwake up already embarrassed.
Not because of the mess on my sheets—though, yeah, that too—but because of the dream that rode me down into it. My ridiculous brain stitching together bedtime smut like some perverted fairy godmother.
I roll over, groaning. Sunlight cuts through the blinds and spotlights my face as though it knows exactly what I did last night.
Congratulations, Oren. You’ve officially become the guy who can’t keep his fantasies in his pants long enough to sleep through them.
My phone dings on the nightstand. I snatch it up before I can think better of it.
Keane: Morning, kiddo. Sock report?
My stomach flips. Great, he remembers. Of course, he does—Keane never forgets a task. Not the “drink water” ones, not the “brush your teeth before bed” ones, and apparently not the “pick out socks” one either.
I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering. The memory of last night heats my cheeks. The way I’d squirmed in the dark, writing down every filthy detail so I wouldn’t forget… not for him, I tell myself, for me. For astory idea.Sure.
I type back:
Uh…socks are striped. Red and blue. The ducks did the job.
Did the job? Oh, brilliant. Why not just mail him a copy of my fantasy journal while I’m at it? Three dots appear… vanish… reappear. I hold my breath.
Keane: Good boy.
Fireworks spark in my belly. Two stupid words. That’s all it takes. I press the phone to my chest as though I’m twelve and just got a text from my crush.
It’s not just about the socks. It’s not even about the tasks. It’s the way Keane says things likegood boyand somehow makes me believe them. Makes me feel as though I’m more than a lonely guy with a questionable Google search history and an overactive imagination.
I toss the covers back and swing my legs over the edge of the bed with a sigh. Coffee. That’s what I need. Maybe then I’ll stop replaying the dream.
Except I know I won’t because I wrote it down. And because Keane asked about it. And because somewhere deep down, I want him to ask again.
In the kitchen, I grab a tall glass, fill it halfway with ice and cold brew coffee, then add a caramel drizzle around the exposed edge and finish with three kinds of flavored creamer: Pumpkin, Hazelnut, and white mocha. Why should I limit myself? Life is too short to deny my body sugar.
But why stop there? I grab the can of whipped cream from the fridge and top off my glass, and for good measure and an added boost of happiness, I garnish with colored sprinkles and another swirl of caramel syrup.
Breakfast of champions!
I bet if I texted a picture of this to Keane, he’d have a lot to say about starting my day with unhealthy choices, which is why my coffee preference is my best-kept secret… behind my classified smut stories… and my predilection for sleeping in sticky undies… and how when?—
Okey-dokie, that’s enough, Oren!I blame the sugar overdose.
I set the glass down and reach for my notebook. The one with the dog-eared pages and coffee stains where I’ve scribbled character names and half-sentences. Glancing over my half-formed thoughts from last night, I embellish the details until I’ve fully fleshed out the fantasy… I meanscene. The weight of the socks over the ankle, the little tug of fabric when Daddy’s fingers slide it up, his warm breath kissing the skin through cotton.
Details make a story feel true. Truth makes a story keep breathing when you close the book.
My pen scratches, and my handwriting gets messier the more honest I try to be. I start with the basics—Socks. Lap. Praise—then let the scene grow. Of course, I give the Daddy a voice that’s both soft and crisp, a lot like I imagine Keane’s voice sounds. I give the boy in the story fumbling fingers and chipped nail polish and a stupid habit of humming when he’s nervous. Then I write the line where Daddy says, “Show me how proud you are,” and the boy lifts his foot as if it’s the bravest thing he’s ever done.
I surprise myself by writing the moment that made my chest unclench in sleep: a quick bite at the ankle, not vicious, just enough to mark territory and make the boy laugh and squirm. Then the praise after—the realest part—where Daddy namesthe boy’s small brave things, and the boy believes him for one delicious, fragile second.
The page fills. My cheeks heat, and the pen slows. I add a humiliatingly specific sensory detail: the scent of the cotton after it’s been warmed against skin. The slight tingle as that foot brushes against the Daddy’s thick bulge. As ridiculous as it sounds, it’s the thing that made me press my face into the pillow last night. Sensory anchors make fantasies stubbornly memorable. I know this because I’m an author and because my brain is annoyingly efficient at turning arousal into plot points.
Halfway through a paragraph about how Daddy tucks the toes back in and tugs the blanket up, my phone buzzes with a message that, of course, is not from Keane but from my group chat.
