I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to grin at the screen.
You’re impossible.
Oren: And you love it.
Damn kid’s got me wrapped around his finger and he knows it. He makes a game of it. But behind that joke is the truth I’m starting to see clear as day—Oren trusts me enough to play, to tease, to test the edges of what we’re building. And that’s almost better than hearing him flat-out say the words. Almost.
My phone buzzes again.
Oren: Decided. My codeword is gonna be eggplant socks. Since that started it all.
I hold my breath in my lungs, fighting a laugh. Trust him to turn a carefully thought-out protective measure into something that’s going to light my brain on fire every time I see it.
Eggplant socks is not subtle.
Oren: Exactly. You’ll know.
Pretty sure everyone in the office will know if that pops up on my screen when I’m in court.
Oren: Then you better keep your notifications private, Daddy.
I shove my chair back from the desk, running a hand down my face, half amused, half exasperated, and entirely his. Damn him.
I stare at the ridiculous code word still glowing on my screen. Eggplant socks. Christ.
Pack a bag. Meet me at my place.
Oren:Sleepover??
Exactly.
When he shows up at my door three hours later, he’s juggling a backpack, Quackers under one arm and Baby Quackers wedged under his chin. A bag of microwave popcorn pokes out of the zipper like stowed emergency rations. And in his other hand, swinging proudly, is his prized bear flashlight.
He beams at me as though I’ve just invited him to summer camp.
“I brought everything important.”
“You forgot the kitchen sink,” I deadpan, taking his backpack before it splits a seam.
“Didn’t fit,” he says, cheeks pink with excitement. Then he waves the flashlight. “But I can protect us if the power goes out.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. My place hasn’t seen this much energy in years. It’s supposed to be a quiet night, a controlled environment where he can relax. Instead, it feels like I’ve just signed myself up for a one-man circus.
Still, I can’t remember the last time the idea of someone sleeping over filled me with something like this. Anticipation. Warmth. Hope.
Oren tucks himself under my arm, flashlight and both ducks crowded onto the couch as if they paid for tickets. He’s got the popcorn bowl balanced on his knees, shoveling handfuls into his mouth while the animated movie blasts across my flat screen.
I tell myself I can endure ninety minutes of cartoon chaos for him. I’m a patient man. I handle depositions that last twelve hours.
But when he tips the bowl a little too far and half a pound of greasy kernels tumble into the cushions of my expensive upholstered couch, I sigh and take a deep breath.
“Oren…”
“I’ll clean it up,” he chirps, stuffing another fistful in his mouth. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout.”
“Still counts.”
