Kyle blinked. “Uh…yeah.”
“Scrambled or fried?”
“Scrambled,” he said, grateful for the normal question. Grateful that Benson hadn’t made it weird.
Benson nodded and flagged down their server. “Two scrambled eggs, sausage, toast for him. Just black coffee and rye for me.”
Kyle didn’t argue. Part of him enjoyed being ordered for, reminding him of before with Daddy Michael, but softer. Benson didn’t give off the same cold dominance Daddy Michael had. He didn’t bark orders or leave Kyle guessing where he stood untilthe day Daddy Michael told him it was over. Benson was quiet, intentionally. Like every word he said had been filtered before he spoke.
When the server walked away, Kyle leaned on the table, cheek resting in the palm of his hand. “You didn’t think it was weird?” he asked, voice low like they were sharing secrets under a blanket fort.
“Did I say it was?” Benson asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
Kyle shrugged. “Most people do.”
Benson looked at him with his gorgeous blue eyes. “I’m not most people.”
And that…that stuck. Like a warm breeze sneaking through a cracked window. Kyle didn’t answer, didn’t need to. He just sat there, fingers lightly gripping the bear’s ear, and let the quiet settle around them.
For the first time in a long time, breakfast felt less like a transaction and more like a beginning.
Chapter Six
Benson
Ohio
Before they were back in the truck, Benson made sure they both had a fresh cup of coffee to go.
“Our first stop is a home for pregnant teens. Sister Amelia sent me each girl’s name.”
“Didn’t their family or the baby’s daddy want them?”
“No. They cast out the poor girls like garbage. It’s a sad situation. So, I chose this home for Ohio.”
“Did they give you a list?”
“Yes, I picked a place for each stop. That’s why I have a tight schedule. I’d love for you to help me.”
“I want to help you.”
They had just crossed over the Ohio state line when Benson noticed something off about Kyle. The kid had been glued to his phone for most of the drive—nothing unusual there. But this wasn’t just mindless scrolling or goofy videos. Kyle wasn’t laughing, wasn’t sharing memes, or throwing one of his usual “look at this weird thing” comments across the cab.
Instead, his thumb kept tapping through his contact list. Then tapping some more. Block. Swipe. Ignore.
They rolled on for another three hundred miles. The road stretched out in a quiet rhythm, snow dusting the shoulders. The silence was peaceful, but the tension wasn’t.
Benson glanced over, watching Kyle with narrowed eyes. “You dodging someone?” he asked, trying to keep it light.
Kyle didn’t answer right away. Just tapped again. A call came in—he stared at it, let it ring, then thumbed it straight to voicemail.
“Somebody’s trying real hard to get hold of you,” Benson said.
Kyle shrugged. “Yeah. I’m not in the mood.”
Benson nodded, letting it ride. He would not push, but he wasn’t blind either. Whoever it was, they weren’t giving up. And Kyle? He was working overtime not to care. That kind of effort always meant something deeper.
St. Catherine’s Maternity Home looked more like a worn-out boarding school than the stone fortress Benson half-expected. The building sagged a little at the edges, its bricks faded by too many winters. But the place had charm, startingwith a wide porch wrapped around the front like welcoming arms, and handmade paper snowflakes taped to every window, curling just slightly at the edges. Kyle followed him to the back of the truck.
