Chapter
Fourteen
KEANE
The trunk’s full, the backseat’s cluttered with glittery craft projects that are going to haunt my upholstery for months, and Oren’s buckled in beside me with Quackers propped on his lap as a co-pilot.
He’s quiet as I pull onto the highway, watching the trees slip past. Sad, yeah, but not small. Not curled in on himself like the boy I met a few days ago. There’s something new in the way he holds himself—chin up, shoulders loose, like he knows he belongs.
I didn’t do that. Camp did. His friends did. But I got to see it. Maybe even help. And damn if that doesn’t feel like a win.
The miles roll by easier than I expected. We talk about nothing—bad food, Timmy’s “Hot counselor” obsession, the disaster that was Theo’s tent. Oren giggles, then hides his face as if laughing too hard might be a crime. I’m grinning so hard my cheeks feel sore.
It feels easy. As though we’ve known each other forever. As if we’re not just driving home from a temporary adventure, but heading toward something bigger neither of us has dared to name yet.
When the conversation lulls, Oren fiddles with Quackers’s wing.
“Keane?”
“Yeah, kiddo?”
He swallows, cheeks pink. “Can we… do this again? Not just online. I mean, like—soon.”
Something tugs deep in my chest. I glance at him, and he’s watching me with those wide eyes, hope shining through the nerves.
“I’d love that,” I say without hesitation. “More than you know.”
By the time we pull up to his building, Oren’s practically hugging Quackers into the shape of a pillow. He looks wrung out but lighter somehow, as if camp carved out space inside him for air to move.
I grab his bag before he can wrestle with it, setting it on the stoop. He lingers, hands shoved in the pockets of his overalls, rocking on his heels as though he doesn’t want to cross the threshold just yet.
“Go on,” I say, tipping my head toward the door. “Laundry and unpacking before dinner, remember?”
He pouts at me, lower lip jutting, but I know he’s already planning which socks he’ll put on first.
I reach out and squeeze his shoulder, firm but gentle.
“You did good this weekend. I’m proud of you.”
Color floods his cheeks, and he glances at me quick, then up again, braver the second time. Before I can move, he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. Sweet, trembling, all shy gratitude poured into a kiss that barely lasts a heartbeat but leaves me undone.
When he pulls back, his eyes are wide, as if he’s not sure what he just did.
I clear my throat, steadying myself. “Guess I’ll add that to my list of camp souvenirs.”
He flushes deeper, mutters something that might bethank you,and darts for the door.
I head back toward the car, keys in hand, but before I open the door, I call over my shoulder, loud enough to catch him just as he’s disappearing up the stairs, “Don’t forget to show me your socks tonight!”
There’s a startled squeak, then a muffled laugh, and I grin all the way back behind the wheel.
Yeah. This boy’s under my skin for good.
The condo is tooquiet after the boisterous weekend. No giggles drifting across the lawn, no silly songs sung out of tune, no boy with overalls and sticky fingers tugging at my sleeve. Just me and a stack of files waiting for trial prep tomorrow.
I kick off my shoes and run through the motions—dishes, email check, shower, tomorrow’s suit pressed and ready. The familiar rhythm is grounding, but tonight the order feels flat. Empty.
Because all I can think about is how badly I wanted to keep driving before I dropped him off. Just keep heading north, or south, or anywhere at all, as long as it meant Oren in the passenger seat, socked feet curled on the dashboard, Quackers wedged between us. A weekend wasn’t nearly enough. I want a week. A month. I want to take him somewhere with no checklists or curfews, just time. Time to let him play, to let him squirm, to let me learn every part of him.
With a sigh, I begin to unpack my bag, folding shirts, sorting laundry. That’s when I see them—his underwear, tucked into the side pocket where I stashed them. A quiet prize I carried home.
For a long moment, I just stare. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, bright red fabric cradled in my hand, and bring them to my face.
The scent hits me, faint but sharp with the memory of his warm skin, sweet sweat, and the evidence of dreams I wasn’t supposed to know. My eyes flutter shut, and I breathe him in.
I should wash them. I know that. But I don’t. Instead, I fold them carefully, set them aside, and let myself sigh out all the want I can’t put into words.
“Too soon,” I mutter to the empty room. “But God… I’m dying to get closer.”
Tomorrow I’ll be sharp again, the bulldog lawyer with teeth bared. But tonight, I let myself be something softer. Somethinghis.
