Benson stepped inside. The opulence of the foyer did nothing to soften the fury burning in his chest. He didn’t sit. He didn’t smile. He didn’t pretend.
“You went through my phone,” Benson said, his voice sharp, cutting. “Then you handed Kyle’s name to Dad like it was some kind of dirty secret.”
Logan shrugged, walking toward the sitting room. “I was protecting you.”
“Protecting me?” Benson followed, his voice rising. “You invaded my privacy, judged someone you’ve never met, and handed him over like evidence in a trial. That’s not protection. That’s control.”
Logan turned, eyes narrowing. “He’s a dancer in a club, Benson. You think that’s love? You think that’s safe?”
“You don’t get to decide who I love,” Benson snapped. “You don’t get to decide anything about my life.”
The tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight. Benson stepped forward, and Logan didn’t back down. Words flew—accusations, insults, years of resentment boiling over. Then fists.
Benson swung first, catching Logan in the jaw. Logan staggered, then lunged, driving Benson into the side table. A lamp crashed to the floor, shattering. They grappled, fists landing hard, and furniture scraping across the polished wood. A vase toppled. A chair split. Benson’s knuckles bled; Logan’s lip split open.
It was chaos—ugly, raw, years of silence and superiority finally combusting.
“Enough!” Mr. Thomas, the butler, burst in, voice commanding. He stepped between them, arms outstretched, forcing space. “This is not how a family behaves.”
Benson stepped back, chest heaving, eyes blazing. Logan wiped blood from his mouth, glaring.
“You don’t get to touch my life again,” Benson said, voice low and lethal. “Not my phone. Not my choices. Not Kyle.”
He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. The cold air hit his face like a slap, but it felt cleaner than anything inside that house.
He didn’t regret the fight. Not one punch. What he regretted was ever believing Logan might understand.
Benson stepped into his home, the door clicking softly behind him. The tension from the fight still clung to his shoulders, but the quiet warmth of home loosened it. The scent of cinnamon and old wood drifted from the kitchen, and the soft hum of the porch light buzzed in the background. He heard a faint meow and turned toward the inside porch off the kitchen.
Della was there, curled on the wicker loveseat with Rusty, the orange tabby kitten, nestled in her lap as she read. The moment Benson saw them, something in him softened. The porch was bathed in amber light, and the kitchen behind them glowed like a memory—safe, familiar, untouched by the chaos he’d just left behind.
He walked over, crouched down, and scooped Rusty into his arms. The kitten purred instantly, nuzzling into his chest. Benson smiled, the kind that came slowly, like a thaw.
“Can you make a vet appointment for him?” he asked Della, stroking Rusty’s ears. “Just a check-up and see what shots he needs. Ask when he will be old enough to be fixed too.”
Della nodded, then glanced at his hands. “Your knuckles,” she whispered. “What happened?”
Benson looked down at the raw, reddened skin. “Had a fight with Logan,” he said, voice calm but edged. “Mr. Thomas broke it up before we wrecked the whole damn house.”
Della didn’t press. She just nodded again, her eyes kind, and went back to her book.
Later, Benson carried Rusty upstairs, the kitten curled like a comma against his shoulder. He set him gently on the bed andsat down, rubbing his temples. The room was quiet, dimly lit, the kind of space that invited reflection whether or not he wanted it.
He checked his phone. One missed call from Kyle. No message.
He dialed back, but it went straight to voicemail.
Probably at a wild gay club. Laughing, dancing, surrounded by people who moved like they belonged in the night. Kyle had a glow—effortless, magnetic. The kind of person who turned heads without trying.
Benson stared at the screen, then set the phone down slowly.
Maybe he was too boring for Kyle. Too structured. Too quiet. He didn’t know how to dance, didn’t know how to flirt in neon lights or make strangers laugh over cocktails. He wrote rent memos and Christmas cards. He argued over zoning laws. He fed stray kittens and drank tea before bed.
Kyle was twenty-two. Benson was…tired.
The thought circled him like a slow drain. Maybe Kyle had called out of politeness. Maybe he’d already moved on. Maybe Benson had imagined the connection, filled in the blanks with hope because it had felt good to be seen.
He lay back on the bed, Rusty curling beside him, and stared at the ceiling. The silence pressed in, not cruel, but heavy.
