I shouldn’t have lethim order the triple scoop, but the way his eyes lit up when he sawSuperhero Swirlon the menu, I didn’t stand a chance. Now I’m stuck across from him at a picnic table outside the shop, pretending to listen while he licks his cone like it’s a full-time job.
“So my object was easy,” Oren says between swipes of his tongue over blue, then red, then neon-yellow ice cream. “It’s my weighted blanket. Not because it’s trendy. It just… makes me feel like someone’s holding me. Less lonely, I guess.”
I nod, but my attention snags on the way he tilts the cone, chasing a drip down the side with a quick dart of his tongue. Christ.Focus, Keane.
Oren squints at me, catching me staring. “You’re not listening.”
“I am,” I say, rougher than intended. I clear my throat. “Blanket. Makes you feel grounded. It’s good.”
“Mmhmm.” His grin is sticky-sweet. “You just like watching me eat this.”
He isn’t wrong.
“I like hearing you talk,” I counter, leaning forward on my elbows, “but I’ll admit, the cone’s… distracting.”
He giggles, and the sound makes me want to drag him into my lap right here, crowd of families be damned. Instead, I watch his cheeks go pink as he takes another slow lick, clearly milking it now.
“My turn,” I say before I lose my patience. “Safety object? My dad’s old pocketknife. Worn handle, blade dull as hell. I carried it everywhere as a kid. Still do. It reminds me there’s always something solid in my pocket, even when life’s a mess.”
Oren hums as though he’s filing the answer away, but then his tongue dips back into the swirl, lips closing around the top scoop. My knuckles tighten against the table.
“Careful,” I mutter, voice dropping. “You keep licking like that, we’re gonna skip straight to bedtime story territory.”
His blush deepens, but he doesn’t stop. Just flashes me a look that says he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing.
By the time Oren polishes off the last drippy swirl of his cone, his fingers are tacky and there’s a smear of blue near the corner of his mouth. I hand him a napkin as we head back to the car, but he only makes a halfhearted swipe before tossing it into the trash.
When we stop at the curb outside his place, he lingers with the door half open, grinning at me as if he’s up to something.
“What?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he leans in and presses his lips to mine. Sweet, cold, a little messy—like cotton candy melted on my tongue. He tastes of sugar and trouble, and when he pulls back, my mouth’s sticky too.
“Now we match,” he whispers, smug.
I laugh, shaking my head as I reach up to brush his cheek. “Go inside, sweetheart. Start your wind-down before bed.”
He nods, still glowing, still licking the corner of his lip as if he’s replaying it.
“I’ll call at bedtime.”
“Okay,” he says, almost bouncing as he slips out of the car.
One last wave, one last flash of his silly socks, and then he’s gone, leaving me with sugar on my mouth and a thrum in my chest that feels an awful lot like falling.
I get home, drop my keys in the dish by the door, and hang my jacket on the hook. It looks like the end of any other day, but my head isn’t here—it’s stuck replaying Vince’s smirk across my desk, the way his words curled around Oren’s name like barbed wire.
I loosen my tie, roll up my sleeves, and head into the kitchen. Dinner is nothing fancy—chicken and vegetables tossed in a skillet. I’m on autopilot, chopping, stirring, pouring myself a glass of water. It’s fuel, nothing more.
While I eat, my laptop waits on the counter. Eventually I give in, sliding the plate aside and opening files I shouldn’t be digging through this late at night. Background checks. Public records. Anything I can find on Vincent Marlowe that might give me leverage. The man’s smart, polished—but too polished. Men like that always have cracks in the marble.
I tell myself I’m doing this because I want to be ready for him, for whatever stunt he tries to pull next. But if I’m honest, I’m also doing it because the thought of him circling Oren makes my stomach knot.
I close the laptop after an hour, promising myself I’ll pick it back up tomorrow. The clock says it’s late, but my body feels restless. I shower, shave, and lay out my clothes for work. Every part of my routine is sharp-edged and efficient, but underneath is a steady rattle of distraction.
When I finally stretch out on my bed, the room quiet and dim, my hand brushes against the drawer of my nightstand.Inside, tucked in a plastic bag, are Oren’s socks from camp and a little red piece of him I haven’t washed. It’s ridiculous, sentimental, but it steadies me. Makes the tension drain from my shoulders.
I check the time. Not long until his bedtime. Not long until I hear that soft sweet voice again. Vince might have his claws, but I’ve got something stronger—trust. And I’ll protect it with everything I’ve got.
