TinyTim: I bet he’s one of those guys who pretends not to like dessert but secretly eats half your cake when you’re not looking.
I snort.
Theo: MORE. What's his cereal?? Shoe size?? Fave movie?? Give us crumbs at least!!
Lane: Yeah, come on. We’re starving here.
I toss my phone face down on the counter, grinning helplessly. One detail and they’re already spinning entire fanfiction universes out of it.
And the wild part? A secret little part of melovesit—loves knowing I’ve got something they all want to hear about. Something that’s mine.
Something that’shim.
The phone buzzes again.
Theo: Ok but imagine him making you breakfast.
Lane: Shirtless. Frying eggs.
TinyTim: But burns them bc he’s distracted kissing your neck.
My face burns hot.
You guys are the worst.
Theo: Admit it tho. You’re imagining it now.
Lane: Don't forget to ask him boxers or briefs. Vital intel.
TinyTim: (Spoiler: briefs. Gray. I can FEEL it in my soul.)
Ha! You wish, TinyTim. My Daddy wears loose boxers to let his monster cock breathe. Your counselor hottie can suck it.
I toss the phone onto the couch and stomp off to the kitchen before I combust. They’re relentless.
I open the fridge, eyeing my usual snack lineup of leftover mac and cheese, some sad celery, and a carton of blueberries. I remember Keane’s rule:eat something real, kiddo. Not just sugar.
I grab the blueberries, wash them, and pop a couple in my mouth, then reach for my phone again.
Snack report, Sir. Blueberries. Juicy, sweet, little explosions in my mouth. I give them 4/5 stars. Docking one point because they stain my fingers purple and now I look like I murdered a Smurf.
I stare at the screen after sending, stomach flipping. My friends can chatter all they want—this right here is the message that matters.
The phone buzzes almost instantly.
Keane: Blueberries, huh? Good boy. Four out of five sounds fair. Maybe I should taste-test next time… just to make sure you’re honest in your reviews.
I can practically hear his chuckle in my head. My fingers hover over the screen, but I don’t type. I just sit there, cheeks hot, thinking about the way he always manages to makemefeel like the one being spoiled.
Keane: And hey… make sure you wash those hands before you touch anything else. Don’t want a smurf massacre in your bedroom too.
I laugh aloud, thinking of texting him back a picture of my blue dick. The chat with my friends can wait. Right now, it’s just me and him, and the little blueberry explosions I get to tell him about.
That night,while deep in sleep, my brain decides it’s time fortaste testing—only, of course, it’s Keane who ends up in the experiment. I’m curled under the soft glow of the campfire, butinstead of marshmallows, Keane’s holding a bowl of blueberries. His fingers brush mine as he hands me one, and my stomach twists in a delicious, nerve-tingling way.
“Taste test,” he murmurs in a teasing voice, and I nod, heart hammering.
The blueberries are sweet and juicy, exploding over my tongue in a burst of tartness—and somehow, everything else about him is sweeter. I lean closer, imagining his lips grazing mine, the heat of his body radiating as I nibble the fruit. My hands wander, brushing over his shirt, feeling the firm line of his chest beneath.
He smiles, a teasing grin that makes my knees weak. My lips are still sticky from the berries when I realize I’m pressing against him in ways I’ve only dreamed about, tracing imaginary trails down his arms, around his waist. He chuckles softly, hand ghosting over me in a way that leaves shivers trailing behind, and I can’t stop myself from moaning—quietly, thankfully, or so I hope—into the night air.
The dream twists and turns, his warmth against me, his voice guiding me, coaxing me, making my body respond before my mind even fully wakes. I wake with a start, heart hammering, sticky in all the wrong places. The sheets trap the echoes of the dream against my skin. My cheeks flame even before I remember what happened.
I grab my notebook from the nightstand, fumbling a little in the dark, and scribble down every detail before it slips away. The tang of blueberries from my bedtime snack lingers faintly in my mouth, a reminder that my brain is hopelessly mischievous.
By the time the pen lifts off the paper, I’m flushed, shaky, and already imagining how—someday,maybe—I might read it to him.
For now, though, it’s guarded in the notebook.
