We eat in quiet companionship, fire crackling, stars wheeling overhead. When the flames die to embers, he spreads a blanket outside the tent. We lie back, side by side, my head on his shoulder.
Kaleb’s arm wraps around me, pulling me close.
"Snuggle approved?" I tease.
He grunts. "Just this once."
I smile into his shirt, inhaling pine and smoke and him.
The town glows distant below, stars infinite above.
I know that I’d love to go all the way with Kaleb. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d let him do anything and everything to me, no questions asked. But for now, this is enough.
More than enough.
Chapter 10
Kaleb
Morning light filters through the pines, soft gold on the dew-soaked grass. The fire’s long dead, just ash now. Taron’s still curled in the sleeping bag, cheeks flushed from sleep, his hair a little messy.
He looks peaceful.
Small.
Mine.
I hate waking him. But the day’s waiting—work for me, writing for the boy. I crouch beside him, brush a thumb across his cheek.
“Little,” I say. “Time to move. We need to get our asses in gear.”
He stirs, blinks up at me with sleepy hazel eyes. Smiles slow and sweet.
“Morning, Daddy.”
That word hits low. Every damn time.
I lean down, kiss him soft—lingering just long enough to taste last night’s marshmallows. “Morning. Let’s get you back.”
Taron stretches like a cat, yawns, then sits up. Hair a mess, lips swollen from yesterday’s kisses. He’s simply beautiful.
We make the hike back and pack the truck in silence—efficient, practiced, and contented too. Racer’s already in the bed, tail thumping. Taron climbs into the cab, still in yesterday’s clothes, jacket zipped against the chill. I crank the heat, pull onto the dirt track.
The drive back is quiet too. Comfortable. No need to talk nonsense or make unnecessary effort. His hand finds mine on the gearshift, fingers lacing. Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to.
Oak Lake B&B appears too soon. Fairy lights off now, porch empty except for Miles watering the pansies.
I park, kill the engine.
Taron turns to me. “Thank you, Daddy,” he says. “For last night. For everything.”
I cup his face, thumb tracing his lower lip. “Anytime.”
He leans in. We kiss again—deeper this time, slower. His hand fists my flannel. I groan against his mouth, pull back before I drag him back to the tent.
“Tonight,” I say, voice rough. “Woody Hollow. Seven. Dinner. You and me.”
His eyes light up. “It’s a date.”