Page 25 of Ruined

“Are you hungry?”

Oliver tilts his head, looking up at me. “Starving.”

“You look tired.” I stroke my thumb over the dark circles under his eyes.

He hides his face in my chest again. “I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“Work?”

He sighs. “Yeah. Late shifts. Sometimes I can’t sleep when I get home.”

I keep stroking his hair, wishing I could fix things for him, but it was easier to help him with studying. Work is a different matter. I could give him money, but I doubt he’d accept it. All I can do for tonight is make him feel safe and relaxed in my home.

Reluctantly, I let go of him, and he wanders into the apartment.

“What are we making?”

“Chicken Parmesan.” I show him the chicken breasts, cheese, marinara, and pasta. We used to make this a lot back in the day, but when I go through the instructions, Oliver still listens intently and nods, like we’re about to conduct a science experiment rather than cook dinner.

With the oven on preheat, we assemble the ingredients in silence. After we’ve breaded the chicken, I chuck it in the oven while Oliver gets started on the pasta. In no time, we’ve set the table, and the mouthwatering food awaits us on the counter.

“Good teamwork.” I pull him into my side and hug him gently. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” he giggles.

I reach out to ruffle his hair, and I say it without thinking. “Good boy.”

He stares up at me, cheeks flushing pink. Realizing the inappropriate nature of my words, I clear my throat and turn away. What just happened? My brain supplied the words it thought he wanted to hear, and I was too lost in the moment to stop. I’ve said those words to other people—the young men I’ve had in my bed—and it’s beyond wrong to tell Oliver the same thing.

Fuck, my head is a mess. I should be ashamed to confuse Oliver with a potential partner, even for a second, but when he calls me “Daddy,” my twisted brain does the rest.

I take a seat, and Oliver sits down across from me. As I portion out our food and we start eating, our conversation shifts to simpler things. He tells me about his roommates—about the Italian twins and the third one, Hunter, who never leaves his room.

“I’ve lived there for weeks now, and I’ve never even met him,” Oliver babbles on. He tells me about his boss, Guillaume, the MMO game he plays on free evenings with his friend Lane, and how he rides his bike everywhere he needs to go. “It runs awesomely now,” he tells me, and I smile, letting myself just enjoy seeing him excited.

When our plates are empty and Oliver leans back with a hand on his stomach, I stand up.

“Ready for dessert?”

Oliver blows out a breath, voice strained. “Can we move to the couch? I’m so full.”

“Of course.” I hand him the remote. “Put on what you want.”

While I prepare dessert, Oliver sits on the couch, scrolling through the many streaming options. When I arrive with dessert, his eyes bulge out of his head.

“Really?”

It’s vanilla ice cream and oven-heated banana with melted chocolate on top. Too sweet for my taste, but Oliver used to go crazy for it as a kid.

He grabs his plate without hesitation and takes a bite. “Mm. So good.”

“Yeah?” I sit down beside him with my plate in my lap, but instead of eating, I watch him. The sounds he’s making—his little moans of delight and the way he licks the spoon… God, I need to look away.

After we’ve polished off dessert, we put on a movie. Oliver practically melts onto the backrest, and he gives a big yawn.

“You can lie down if you want,” I tell him, wanting him to be comfortable. I expect him to lie on the armrest with his feet toward me, but instead he leans to the opposite side and puts his head in my lap. A surprised breath leaves my lips, and suddenly I don’t know where to put my hands. Nothing seems right except to put them gently on his head and stroke his hair.

After a while, he shuffles his feet a little and lies heavier on top of me. “Mm. That feels nice.”