Chapter 7: Oliver Adler, Behave
487 Words
In the restaurant’s private booth, Oliver thawed in the heating, his pale cheeks flushing after a bowl of hot chicken soup. He polished off a large plate of rice before Ethan finally spoke.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
Oliver sipped his soup, eyes twinkling. “Your place.”
“…Pardon?”
“Kidding.” He set down the bowl. “Hotel. I’ll be good.”
Ethan gritted his teeth. This kid is more cunning than he looks.
“I’m done.”
Ethan stood, grabbing his coat. “Bundle up. I’ll take you.”
Oliver wrapped his scarf tighter, leaving only his bright eyes visible.
Ethan chuckled. “That cold?”
“Hate the cold.”
“No hat?”
Oliver blinked. “Forgot.”
Ethan’s heart skipped. He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Buy you one tomorrow.”
Oliver leaned into the touch. “We’ll meet again?”
Ethan’s breath hitched. “After work.”
“I’ll wait.”
At the hotel, Ethan deposited the suitcase. “Call me if you need anything.”
Oliver nodded, then retrieved a gift box from his luggage. “Merry Christmas.”
Ethan froze. It’s Christmas? He stared at the box, throat tight. “I didn’t prepare anything.”
Oliver pushed it into his hands. “It’s nothing.”
Ethan pulled him into a quick embrace instead. Oliver stiffened, wide-eyed.
“Thanks,” Ethan murmured, stepping back. “Sleep well. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
In his car, Ethan opened the box—a tiny sketchbook filled with Q Ethan: in elevators, leaning on doorframes, handing cake. Every moment from their resort meeting.
He traced the pages, smiling. “Nothing,” my ass.
The next morning, Ethan called Oliver’s sleepy voice. “Breakfast is here. Eat first.”
“Not hungry…”
“Oliver. Behave.”
The boy’s blush was audible. “Okay…”
At the office, Ethan’s assistant announced, “Young Mr. Adler is here.”
Before Ethan could respond, James entered with a gift. “Late Christmas present. Dinner?”
Ethan glanced at the box, indifferent. “Busy.”
James’ smile faded. “Another time, then.”
As he left, James overheard staff gossiping: “Boss is smiling today! Must be love!”
Oliver visited his mother’s grave, placing flowers in the snow. When Ethan called, his voice was thick.
“Where are you?” Ethan demanded.
“Cold… at the cemetery.”
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
Ethan found Oliver shivering by the road. He wrapped him in his coat, tucking him into the car.
“You’re impossible,” Ethan scolded, but his thumb brushed snow from Oliver’s cheek.
Oliver leaned into the touch. “But you came.”
Ethan’s resolve crumbled. He kissed the boy’s forehead—soft, lingering.
“Next time,” he whispered, “wear a hat.”
Oliver grinned. “Make me.”
Ethan laughed, heart soaring. Game on, little artist.
- Writer
