Page 64 of Bedtime Stories
We brush our teeth side by side as though we’ve been doing it for years, and he keeps sneaking looks at me in the mirror. I let him catch me once, toothpaste foam on my lip, and he laughs, wiping it away with the towel like I’m the kid here.
By the time we crawl into his bed, he’s buzzing with nervous energy, tiny tremors I can feel when I curl around him. I don’t let him hide on the far side. I pull him close, arm across his waist, my chest pressed to his back. My lips find his bare shoulder.
“See? Safe.”
He breathes the word back like it’s a vow.
I think he’ll drift, but then his eyes flick toward the nightstand. The journal’s sitting there, innocent enough, butwhen he blushes I know exactly what it holds. I tilt his chin until he’s looking at me.
“You wrote something,” I murmur. He squirms, but doesn’t deny it.
My hand covers the journal. I flip it open and scan the first page—my eyebrows climbing with each line. Heat curls low in me, but I keep my tone even and firm.
“Tomorrow. You’ll read it to me. Out loud.”
He looks wrecked at the thought, cheeks pink, lips parted. I don’t push further. Not tonight.
Instead, I kiss him. Slow, unhurried, tasting him until he’s pliant and clinging, his fingers curling in my shirt as if he’ll never let go. When I finally pull back, I press my forehead to his.
“Sleep, baby boy. Daddy’s here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhales as though I’ve taken half his weight away. And as his breathing evens out, I keep watch in the dark, my arm tight around him, knowing damn well I’d burn the world down before I let Vince—or anyone—get near him again.
