Page 8 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Four
KEANE
Cross-examination notes scatter across my desk, a rainbow of color-coded tabs screaming for order. The DA’s argument looks airtight, but every case leaks somewhere. My job is to find the crack.
I should be reviewing case law. Instead, I loosen my tie and thumb open my phone. Oren’s chat is right there, where I always leave it.
Don’t forget to take a break. Drink water. Stand up. Stretch.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, but my chest tightens as though I’ve just filed a motion that could decide a verdict. I’m ruthless in court, sharp as a blade, the guy who can smell weakness in an argument and tear it wide open until the DA is left bleeding on the floor. That’s who I’ve trained myself to be—controlled, relentless, unflinching.
But with Oren? None of that armor fits. I don’t want to dismantle him. I don’t want to win at his expense. I want him hydrated, rested, and safe. I want his socks clean, his coffeesweet, his little body curled into mine while I carry all the heavy burdens for both of us.
It’s a strange contradiction: the bulldog in the courtroom and the Daddy in my heart. But maybe it doesn’t have to be a contradiction at all. Maybe it’s just who I am.
His reply pings back almost instantly.
Oren: Done. Socks are… very ducky today.
My mouth twitches. I picture him curled at his desk with ridiculous socks that don’t belong on anyone old enough to pay taxes. I shouldn’t like that. But I do. I like it too much.
Except there’s something else in his words. The hesitation. The way he sidesteps. Kid’s keeping something to himself, and I can feel it as clearly as I read a jury.
And here’s the thing—I can cross-examine a hostile witness until they crack, but I won’t do that to him. Not Oren. Not unless he wants me to. It's the wrong approach for someone who suffers from anxiety as he does.
Still, I can’t ignore the itch that says maybe I should push. Maybe I should pry. Maybe it’s negligence, not protection, to leave it alone.
I’m due in court in twenty-five minutes, and the courtroom waits for no one. I set the phone facedown, pull my tie back into place, and slide on the mask the world expects from me.
But even as I reach for my case file, my mind lingers on Oren, on the secret he’s tucking away and the part of him that doesn’t trust me yet.
And on the dangerous truth that I want all of it.
My phone rings, sharp enough to slice through the moment. I pick it up without thinking, slipping into courtroom cadence. A new client referral. Domestic trouble, maybe civil, maybe criminal, depending on how the paperwork shakes out. Theintake notes mention harassment, control issues, and an ex who “still thinks he owns me.”
Not unusual. Too many files on my desk carry those words. Still, the phrasing sticks to me. As though I’ve heard it before. I roll the name around in my head—Marlowe—and tuck it into the margin of my notepad. It prickles, but I let it go.
By the timeI’m home, the city’s quieted down, and so have I. I loosen my tie, pour two fingers of bourbon, and sink into the dark leather of my couch. My phone lights up with Oren’s reply—late, but sweet, as though he’s been sitting on it. He's nervous.
I should let it go. Should give him space to breathe, keep things clean and casual between us. But I don’t. My thumb hovers over the keys, typing, deleting, typing again.
Tell me what you’re afraid of, kiddo.
I delete it. Finish my drink. Type it again.
In court, I never hesitate. I never blink. With Oren, I’m one wrong word away from crossing a line he might never forgive.
So instead, I hit send on something safer.
Sleep well tonight. Socks on.
And then I sit there in the half-dark, staring at the glow of my screen, waiting for him to answer as if it matters more than any verdict ever could.
Minutes crawl. I tell myself I’m not waiting. I tell myself I don’t care.
The phone finally buzzes and I breathe a sigh of relief.
Oren: Goodnight, Daddy.
Two words, and every muscle in my body goes taut. I close my eyes and let the word roll through me like a ruling from thebench I never saw coming. Daddy. My pulse kicks hard enough that I have to loosen my collar again, but this time it’s not the courtroom heat choking me.
No—this is him.
And it’s already too late to pretend I don’t want more.
