The final exercise of camp is supposed to be a test of teamwork. Each Little has to dismantle their tent using only their Daddy’s voice for instructions. No helping hands, just listening and following directions.
I kneel in the grass, pursing my lips in concentration as Keane calls out directions:“Undo that clip first, sweetheart… now fold the pole toward me… careful, don’t pinch your fingers.”His voice is calm, patient, as if it’s no big deal that I’m fumbling half the time. Every word makes me want to do better for him.
Across the lawn, Timmy is whining. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right,” he keeps repeating to his counselor, bending over so much it’s a miracle he doesn’t topple. “Maybe if you came closer and showed me…” His tone is a little too sweet, and Lane cackles as though he’s watching a sitcom.
I roll my eyes, but Keane chuckles under his breath, the sound warm and private, meant only for me.
By the end, my tent’s in a heap that barely fits back into the bag, but Keane claps his hands as if I just performed a magic trick.
“Perfect job, Oren.”
We load the car together, the sun slanting low through the trees. I carry the cooler; he hefts the bags. When he thinks I’m not watching, I see him scoop something from the shadows of our tent bag—my undies from this morning, balled up and obviously sticky.
My breath stutters. He tucks them carefully into his own bag, as if they’re something valuable, not embarrassing.
A flush rushes through me, hot and tingly, right down to my toes. My underwear. My mess. Keane wanted them.
I can’t look straight at him when he slams the trunk shut, but I don’t need to. My body already knows the truth: I’ll be thinking about that moment every single time I picture him.
The courtyard is a storm of voices, hugs, and promises. Littles cling to each other like it’s the last day of summer vacation, which, for some of them, it kinda is. Timmy’s bawling so hard his shoulders shake, Theo keeps saying“We’ll group chat, we’ll group chat, I swear,”as if we don’t every day, and Lane is already writing names and numbers on everybody’s arms like a tattoo artist gone rogue.
I’m swept up in it—squeezed, tugged, kissed on the cheek, and handed half a dozen sparkly trinkets that might’ve started life as craft supplies. Everyone’s loud, messy, and too much. And perfect.
“Happy you came?” Lane asks, voice teasing but eyes soft, like he already knows the answer.
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight. I hug him, then Theo, then even Timmy with his wet face pressed against my shirt.
“Yeah,” I say, louder than I expected. “Thank you. Really. For making me come.”
They cheer and squeeze me tighter, and my chest aches in that way that feels good. Over their heads, I spot Keane waiting by the car, arms crossed, patient as ever. He catches my eye and tilts his head—my anchor in the chaos,myDaddy in a sea of Daddies.
The noise swirls around me, but in the center of it, I feel grounded.
