Kristian's Kismet

Benji Slater signs up for camp because it’s easier than admitting he’s lonely.

The brochure calls it a retreat for age-play enthusiasts—cabins, campfires, color-coded lanyards. Benji calls it a chance to disappear into carefully labeled roles: Little, Middle, brat, good boy, bad boy. He’s tried them all on like costumes and none of them have ever quite fit. Too young for some, too mouthy for others, too into watersports for people who’d rather pretend that part of him doesn’t exist.

He’s used to being the one everyone wants for a scene but no one wants to keep.

Then his assigned counselor walks up: Kristian McNamara. Kris, with the steady eyes and the warm, unshakable Daddy voice that slides right under Benji’s skin. Firm hands, gentle rules, the kind of patience that makes Benji’s bratty defiance feel suddenly, terrifyingly safe. Under the pine trees and the smell of bug spray and sunscreen, Benji starts wanting things he’s never dared to picture—someone who doesn’t flinch at his switches between Little and Middle, someone who can love the boy who pushes and pokes and begs to be seen.

Kris never meant to let anyone in this summer. He came to camp with a neatly packed suitcase and even neater boundaries: no attachments, no complications, not while his whole life off-camp is shifting under his feet. But Benji’s sharp tongue and soft heart tug at every loose thread he has. The blond twink with too many labels and not enough trust becomes the one person Kris can’t keep at arm’s length.

At a camp built for play, they stumble into something messier and far more dangerous: the possibility of being exactly who they are, with someone who refuses to look away.