Page 19 of Bedtime Stories
“I love it,” I say, meaning every word.
Because watching him like this—hesitant, then opening up under just a touch of reassurance—I feel something solid take root in my chest. Pride, sure. But also this deeper tug, dangerous in its simplicity.
I don’t just want him to feel safe. I want to be the one who keeps him safe.
By the time the counselors clap for cleanup, the craft table resembles a crime scene, if glitter were blood and pipe cleaners were shrapnel. The Littles break into some half-sung clean-up song, all off-key and mostly for show, scooping scraps into uneven piles and smearing glue across the wood. Lane tosses feathers in the air like confetti. Theo pretends a glue stick is lip balm. Timmy just puts his head down on the table and moans dramatically about ‘Manual labor.’
And then there’s Oren.
He’s got glitter stuck between his fingers, marker stains up his wrist, and a smear of glue on his cheek. His card—his duck card—is clasped carefully in both hands, as if he’s afraid it might dissolve if anyone else touches it.
He shuffles over and holds it out to me. Not to the friend it was supposed to go to, not to the pile marked “exchange,” but straight to me.
“Here,” he says quietly.
I take it carefully because it feels like more than paper and glitter. It feels like trust. As though he just handed me a piece of himself he doesn’t give away lightly.
My heart stutters. “Thanks, kiddo.” I slip it into my pocket, giving it a pat. “I’ll keep it safe.”
The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and for just a second, I catch a glimpse of the boy without all the nerves. Pure, proud, and shining.
That little card’s probably going to shed glitter all over my Henley. But for once, I don’t mind carrying the mess.
I keep the card in my pocket all through dinner, brushing my fingers over it every so often, as if I need the reminder it’s real. It’s the kind of thing that should make me laugh, but instead it pinches my heart.
Becausehegave it to me.
I’ve dated men before who either gave me expensive gifts—cologne, a watch, a leather wallet, a gadget—and I’ve dated a Little before who gave me nothing, just took from me. But I’ve never received a gift that was so priceless and thoughtful without costing a cent.
Thisis what I fantasized about when I hesitantly filled out my profile on the club’s forum. I just wish I had more experience with this type of arrangement. I sense Oren is trying to overcome a lot of hurt from his past, and I will never forgive myself if I end up making it worse for him instead of better.
By the time night falls, the counselors have rigged up a giant sheet between two trees and wheeled out a projector. Blankets and folding chairs sprawl across the lawn, Littles in pajamas piling onto them in sticky, giggling heaps. Someone hands out popcorn in paper cups, and the first preview flickers on the screen.
Oren sits close, legs curled in his overall shorts, Quackers tucked under his arm. He doesn’t make a move toward me, not at first. Just sits there, chewing on his lip, eyes darting from the screen to the crowd to me. As though he’s deciding whether he’s allowed.
So I make it easy. I shift, draping one arm behind him. Not an invitation exactly—just space.
Two minutes later, he leans in. His shoulder brushes mine. His head tips, hesitates, then settles against me like he’s been doing it his whole life.
I breathe in slow, careful, as though one wrong move might spook him.
The movie plays—some animated classic about friendship and woodland critters—but I barely watch. All my attention is wrapped up in the way Oren relaxes by inches, the way his bodyfits against mine, the way Quackers ends up propped on his lap like a third member of the cuddle pile.
He smells soft and sweet and warm, and I wrap my arm around his shoulder and squeeze him a bit tighter. Halfway through, he yawns and lets his weight sag against me fully. My hand twitches with the urge to adjust his blanket, to tuck him in, to do more than I have any right to.
Instead, I slip my hand into my pocket and press my palm over the lumpy card. Glitter flakes catch on my skin. Mine, it whispers.
For tonight at least, he’s mine.
The movie ends in a wave of applause and sugar crashes. Littles scatter to their tents, yawning and dragging blankets like sleepy ducklings. Oren sticks close to my side on the walk back, with Quackers tucked under his arm.
Inside the tent, he freezes. His bag sits in the corner, pajamas poking out, and I can feel the tension roll off him. He fiddles with the hem of his overalls, avoiding my eyes.
“You want me to step out while you change?” I ask gently. Then, because honesty matters: “Or… do you want help?”
His head snaps up, cheeks pink in the lantern glow. A long beat passes, his throat working. Then, almost too quiet to hear, he whispers, “Help.”
I swallow thickly. “Alright, kiddo.”
