Then Daddy Benson steered them toward a tiny Mexican restaurant tucked between a thrift shop and a gas station. The place smelled like roasted peppers and spices, and the walls were painted in warm reds and yellows. They sat in a booth by the window, sunlight spilling across the table. They ordered their meals, which didn’t take very long.
Kyle picked at his food, appetite gone. Daddy Benson reached across the table and took his hand.
“Look,” he said gently, “I know I’ve been talking about Michigan. And I know that probably messed with your head. But I need you to hear this. Whatever happens, wherever we end up, I want you with me.”
Kyle looked up, eyes already stinging. “You say that now,” he murmured. “But what if you change your mind? What if you go back and I’m just…left?”
Daddy Benson squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere without you. I don’t know where we’ll end up. It could be California, Michigan, or some tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I want us to figure it out together. But I know one thing for sure—I don’t want to live apart from you. Not now. Not ever.”
Kyle’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe it. God, he needed to believe it. But that old fear clung to him like a shadow. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered. “To be left. To have no one. When I aged out of the shelter, I didn’t even have a place to sleep. I didn’t have anyone who cared whether I was alive. I don’t bounce back from that easily.”
Daddy Benson slid into his side of the booth, wrapping an arm around Kyle’s shoulders. “I care,” he said, voice low and steady. “I care so much it scares me sometimes. You’re smart, and strong, and you’ve got this quiet fire in you that I admire more than I can say. You matter to me, Kyle. You’re not just someone I picked up on the road. You’re it for me.”
Kyle couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and silent. Daddy Benson brushed them away with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, like he had all the time in the world.
Kyle melted into it, heart pounding, walls crumbling. He kissed back with everything he had, clutching Daddy Benson’s shirt like he was afraid he’d disappear.
When they pulled apart, Kyle rested his forehead against Daddy Benson’s. “I’m scared,” he whispered.
“I know,” Daddy Benson said. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in a long time, Kyle let himself believe it.
Chapter Twelve
Benson
New Mexico
Benson figured they’d both been staring at asphalt and taillights long enough. The trip could wait a day or two—hell, the Christmas presents could wait too. He’d already made the calls, moved the delivery dates around. No rush. What mattered wasgetting out of the truck, breathing some fresh air, maybe shaking off the heaviness that had settled between them.
They’d pulled into a sleepy little town in New Mexico, the kind with a single gas station, a diner, and a lake that looked like it belonged in a postcard. Benson killed the engine, glanced over at Kyle.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going on a hike. Need to talk.”
“It’s cold.”
Benson reached behind and grabbed his winter jacket. “Wear this. Gloves and a beanie are inside the pockets.”
Kyle smiled faintly. “Thanks.”
When Benson helped him into the jacket, his fingers brushed over Kyle’s shoulders—just long enough to feel some of the tension in them.
The trail wasn’t much—just a dirt path weaving through low pines and sagebrush—but it led them to the edge of the lake, where sunlight danced across the ripples. They walked along the shore, the smell of wet earth and pine mixing with the faint scent of motor oil still clinging to Benson’s jacket. Neither of them said much at first. The quiet was comfortable, broken only by the sound of their boots on gravel and the occasional cry of a bird overhead. He knew things between them had to be better for Kyle to relax and trust him.
When they spotted a small rental shack, Benson nodded toward it. “Boats for rent?”
Kyle gave a half-smile, like he wasn’t sure but didn’t hate the idea. Benson rented the boat from an old man sitting in a chair. A few minutes later, they were gliding across the water in an old rowboat, the oars creaking in rhythm. The lake was still except for the ripples they made, the shore a blur of gold grass and weathered rocks.
Benson leaned back, letting the boat drift for a moment. “You’re important to me,” he said, voice steady. “Whateverhappens at the end of this trip…it’ll include you. You don’t need to worry about me walking away.” He met Kyle’s eyes so he’d know he meant it.
Kyle looked at him—really looked—and Benson reached out, resting a hand over Kyle’s where it gripped the edge of the boat. Their fingers lingered together.
Kyle stared out over the water for a long moment before speaking, voice quiet but sure. “There’s something I haven’t told you…about my past.” He took a slow breath, as if pulling the words up from somewhere deep. “I grew up in group homes and shelters. That’s all I’ve ever known. No family stories, no baby pictures. Just a name and a birth certificate. Some of those places were…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “Some were abusive. I got into trouble a lot. Ran away more times than I can count.”
With the oars resting in Benson’s hands, the boat rocked gently. Instead of speaking right away, he shifted closer, his knee brushing Kyle’s. He took Kyle’s hand fully in his now, thumb tracing over his knuckles.
“That sounds like hell,” Benson said with no pity in it. Just truth. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”
