He laughs. “And what about you?”
I pull him close, kiss his temple. “Thrilled doesn’t begin to cover it.”
We keep walking—hand in hand, Racer scouting ahead. The trail winds gentle, birds calling overhead, leaves crunching underfoot. The sun warms my back, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in my chest.
Tonight. At my place.
I picture it: Taron in my space, my bed. Maybe a real Little routine—bath time, story, tucking in. His calling me Daddy, all soft and trusting. His body curling against me under the quilts.
The thought hits deep. It’s a warmth I’ve never felt, not truly. It’s more than lust. Deeper. Like home, but better.
I know I shouldn’t say it or even think it. But I can’t deny what’s going through my mind any longer.
Taron is myForever.
City boy or not, I know that I have to make sure he stays in my life. It needs to be what he wants. I must convince him that his place is with me. But all that can wait. Right now I’m simply happy to be in the moment, enjoying each and every second.
I glance at Taron—smiling at Racer splashing in a creek, face lit gold in the light.
My beautiful boy.
The cabin fire is roaring now—big flames licking up the stone chimney, throwing gold and orange across the wide-plank floor. I built it high tonight. Wanted the room to feel safe and cozy. Like nothing outside these walls could touch us.
And with me and Racer around, the chances of any fool trying to cause us a problem is somewhere between zero and one. My cabin is a haven, and I think my boy knows it too…
Taron’s on the thick wool rug in front of the hearth, legs tucked under him, green pajama shorts riding up just enough to show the soft curve of his cheeks. The matching top is short-sleeved, buttons undone at the collar because he said it felt too grown-up and restricting when they were all done up. Lightening is tucked under one arm, his fox ears flopping against his cheek.
The sweet boy is surrounded by a little kingdom he built himself: wooden blocks stacked into wobbly towers, a family of painted woodland creatures arranged in a circle like they’re having a meeting, three vintage die-cast cars lined up in a perfect row like they’re waiting for a race. He’s been playing for almost an hour—quiet little narrations under his breath, tiny sound effects for the cars zooming between the trees, gentle nudges to make the bear figurine hug the deer.
It’s adorable. There is no other word for it. And the fact that Taron feels safe to be like this in my company honestly makes my heart sing. I’ve earned his trust, and I won’t do anything to break it. Not now, and not ever.
Right about now, Taron is deep in Little Space. I can see it in the way his eyes go soft and dreamy, the way his shoulders relax completely, the way every movement is slow and trusting. No city edges. No worry lines. Just Taron—my Taron—small and safe and happy.
I’m sitting in the big armchair a few feet away, pretending to readMiddlemarch, but I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Put simply, I can’t take my eyes off him.
He looks up suddenly, cheeks pink from the firelight. “Daddy?”
My heart does that stupid flip it always does when he says it like that—soft, needy, certain.
“Yeah, baby boy?”
“Can I have my bottle now?Pleeeeease?”
I set the book aside immediately. “Of course you can.”
I’d already warmed the milk—whole milk, just a touch of honey stirred in—kept it ready in the little insulated bottle warmer on the kitchen counter. I grab it, test the temperature on my wrist like I’ve done this a hundred times even though tonight’s the first. It feels just right.
When I come back to the rug, he’s already scooting over, making room.
“Yay,” Taron says, a hint of a gurgle in his voice as his innocent eyes look up to me.
I lower myself down beside him, stretch out on my side so he can curl into me. He does it without hesitation—nestling his back against my chest, head tucked under my chin, Lighteningtight to my chest. His body fits like it was literally made to be here.
I settle the bottle teat against his lips. He opens right away, small hands coming up to hold it steady even though I’ve got it supported. The first pull makes him sigh—a long, contented sound that vibrates through my ribs.
“Good boy,” I murmur against his hair. “Slow sips. Take your time. Nice and easy. There you go.”
He drinks steadily, eyes drifting half-closed. Every few swallows he pauses to nuzzle closer, cheek rubbing against my forearm like a kitten.