things don't always go according to plan.

They know Ben Miller the MMA fighter, Ben Miller the soldier.

But they also know him as Benny Miller the troublemaker, as Will Miller’s little brother Benny.

“Hey, Ben,” they call and he glances over his shoulder to flash that famous Benny grin, hyena wide and begging for trouble. 

The breeze carries the scent of Benny’s soap and cologne to you. Though he’s in jeans and a t-shirt, you can tell he’s just finished up at the gym, the edges of his hair still damp beneath his usual backwards ratty cap. 

“Hey babe,” he coos at you, dropping a battered copy of the last book you’d loaned him onto the counter before rounding the bar to envelope you in a hug that nearly knocks you out of your seat. 

“Easy,” you remind him even as you fold one arm tightly around him, smoothing your fingers down his spine, that clean soap and earthy smell that’s distinctly Benny wrapping around you. “Hey, pretty boy.”

He clings onto you, his nose pressed against your temple, for just a tad too long. And you have to tap his back with a laugh when your lungs feel like they might collapse. 

He skims his lips across your forehead before releasing you, grinning big and wide at you as you snap your own book closed to give him the attention you know he's about to demand. “Miss me?” he asks as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the counter. 

“You don’t give me much of a chance to miss you, Miller,” you say, raising a brow at him. “We see each other almost every day.”

“And ya miss me every single day,” he confirms to himself with a nod, nudging the book he deposited on the counter closer to you. “I liked this one.” 

“Really? I’m a little bit surprised,” you pick the book up and flick through your worn copy of Stephen King’s Carrie. “Why’d you like it?” 

“Big fan of goin’ out with a bang,” he grins, leaning over the counter to brace his forearms against the bar and drop his head. You can hear his leg shaking where he bounces it against the floor on the other side of the bar. 

You shake your head and take the book to stack on top of your own. “You want another one or are you good for now?” 

“Sure, what d’ya got for me?” 

“Why don’t you come over to my place and you can pick something yourself?” You offer. “And you know you don’t have to get something else right away? You can take a break.” 

In the months you’d known Benny, he’d never struck you as a reader. But a couple of weeks ago he’d suddenly asked for a recommendation. Benny, you’re almost positive, has undiagnosed ADHD, so his sudden interest in something like reading had surprised you, though you'd been happy to recommend something to him. You were more than happy to have an excuse to invite him over to your place, if only to look through your book collection.

Benny preferred motion and action to something like sitting down with a book - MMA, fishing, running - literally anything but sitting down for hours on end. Stillness and silence did not suit Benny and you almost wonder how it was that he was getting through your books so quickly. 

Whatever the reason for his foray into reading, you're glad for it, glad to have someone to talk with about books.

“Nah, I’m good,” he laughs. “I got you to keep up with now.”

You roll your eyes, “Do you have to be competitive about everything?”

“Yeah.” 

“You want anything today? Or are you just bored again?”  

“No,” his eyes flick over you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Just knew you’d be missin’ my company.” 

Benny never orders anything, not since the day you met him and not unless he hung around long enough for the dinner crew to start drifting in. He mostly just came in to keep you company - as he put it, or annoy you - as you’d put it. 

“That so?” You can’t help but grin, shifting in your seat to cross your arms over your chest, “And who told you that, huh?” 

He smiles wider at you. “You always gotta be so mean to me?” He jokes, lifting his gaze and peering at you from beneath his lashes, eyes wide and open and so pretty it makes your breath stall.

You glance away from him, skimming your thumb over the pages of your book instead, to avoid meeting his eyes, a gaze that hid absolutely nothing from you. “Any other thoughts about Carrie?” 

“Not about her, no.” 

“What about then?” 

“Thinkin’ about how I’m so smokin’ hot you can’t even look at me.” 

You flash your eyes back up at him, “Careful, Ben, I might think you’re flirting with me.” 

“Oh, honey, trust me, I’m trying.” 

You reach out and touch a yellowing bruise at the edge of his temple. He winces against your touch. “Maybe. Good thing I think you’re pretty when you’re a little rough around the edges, huh?” You try not to think about how he leans into your hand, reaches up and holds your hand to his face, even when you press your thumb harder into the bruise.

Benny Miller had stormed into your life for the first time a few months ago. It had been raining, a temperamental, torrential rain that had the bar’s parking lot flooded in minutes. 

He’d swung through the door mad as hell, his lip split, his cheek cut and bruised, soaked to the bone. His t-shirt had clung to him in all the right places, ridges of muscle and padding visible beneath. Cerulean blue eyes had been nearly eaten up by the black of his pupils. 

A bandage had been wrapped around his upper arm, partially undone and spooling down his bicep, boots thumping against the worn floorboards as he closed in on you at the bar. 

You had wondered for a half a second if you should be afraid of him, alone in the bar as you were, even the regulars kept away by the horrible weather. 

But he’d only sat at the counter and brusquely ordered a beer. Those blown out pupils - so easily mistaken for fury, had held something deeper. 

Fear. 

He had been terrified of something, fingers drumming nervously on the bar, a shake in his hand. 

“Little early for that, isn't it?” You’d asked, watching his brows tilt up as he ran a hand through locks dampened and darkened by the rain. “Rough day?” 

“Sweetheart,” he’d said, his voice low and graveled with just a hint of a twang. It was a voice that had made you melt, that softened everything inside you into mush. “You have no fuckin’ idea.” He sounded exhausted, breathing hard and fast like he’d just got done running a race. 

You’d raised a brow at that and handed him the beer you poured from the tap. For a few long minutes, you only watched him sip his beer.

Veteran, you’d marked him out easy. 

And he needed a distraction - so you chatted at him, telling him about how you’d rewatched Top Gun recently, mindlessly talking as the tension slowly rolled out of his shoulders and his grip on the glass loosened until his fingers weren’t quite so white with pressure. 

You still wouldn't be sure, even months later, if he’d heard a word you said that day. But your voice alone had seemed to be enough to ground him.

“I got a first aid kit here. Want me to take care of that for you?” You had eventually offered when his breathing stabilized, nodding at his busted cheek. “So you don’t go home with an infection. Gangrene or something.” 

He’d barked out an unexpected laugh at that. “Don’t think I’m at risk for gangrene,” he snorted. 

You shrugged. “Want me to or not?” His only answer had been a sheepish nod, an offering of his face to you with a jut of his chin. 

He hadn’t told you what happened and you hadn’t asked. You had only moved around the counter, cleaned the cut and stuck a butterfly bandage over it, dabbed the blood from his split lip where he'd worried a wound open with his teeth. You had changed and rewrapped the bandage on his arm. The gauze was old and clearly hadn’t been changed in awhile. 

And while it looked like he’d been shot, you hadn’t mentioned it. 

“What’s your name, honey?” he’d asked you when you finished, his voice saccharine to your ears, slow and sweet and so low, like gravel wrapped in sunshine. 

And, oh, you’d liked that. Liked how he sounded when he called you honey. Liked the slow, sweet drip of it.

You gave him your name, and he’d repeated it back to you, like it was something vital that needed to be committed to memory, your hand still on the curve of his bicep, your body still very close to his. “Ben,” he’d informed you, even though you hadn’t asked for his name in return. “Benny Miller. You knew around here?” 

“Been in town just a couple months. But just started workin’ here.”

“And you always patch up customers like this?” He’d asked, the last dregs of  anger and fear lingering around him dissipating fast, a smile that you would come to know as his signature look spreading over his face. 

“Only the pretty ones, Miller.” Without realizing it, you’d gravitated so very close to him, his thighs bracketing your body but not touching you as you worked on his face. Something warm had bloomed between you then, that made you step back and look away, that made you take your hand off his arm where his skin was so warm it burned. 

Something bloomed between you that would make Benny hang around for the rest of your shift, that made him walk you to your car, and come back the next day and the next day and the next…

“Not pretty,” he'd disagreed. “Handsome? Yeah. Hot? Fuck yeah.”

You laughed, watched him beam with pride at the sound. “With eyes like those? Ben, you’re pretty.”

And ever since that day, he’s made a point to stop in the bar during the afternoon. He claims he has time with the way his training schedule works out and you can’t really complain. Benny makes good company. He’s a good storyteller, loud and energetic and fun, and always interested in whatever you have to say even if he doesn’t always remember what exactly you say. 

He’s become a constant presence in your life, a fast friend that stuck. And soon enough, it became hard to imagine your life without him, without his regular appearances at the bar. 

More often than not he hangs around until your shift ends, walks you to your car, still talking, before asking you to take a drive with him. 

And you always find yourself saying yes. 

Benny can talk. He chats constantly about anything and everything - MMA, baseball, anecdotes from his time in the military, his little family of friends. Lately, he talks with you about the books he borrows, movies you watch and rewatch together. 

The military thing comes up suddenly and without preamble, like it's something everyone already knew about him, ingrained into his identity. And although he openly tells you about his service, there’s a pain that lies beneath, something that he’s not yet come to terms with, a crinkle in his brow that concerns you. 

Some days, his hands shake a little. 

Some days, his breathing isn’t ever quite even. 

Benny is going through something, and you think he hasn’t told a soul about it. 

You quickly felt at home in his passenger seat, going too fast down country roads, listening to him talk, radio all the way up, windows all the way down. 

Sometimes you go to the lake, sometimes to an empty, open field that Benny seems to know well - sitting in the back of the jeep with the seats down until the stars come out. 

You’ve spent almost all your free time with Benny over the last few months. You go to baseball games together on the Fridays he doesn’t have an MMA match, and spend most Saturday mornings fishing together. His face is usually stained yellow and green from the previous night, broken blood vessels blooming purple and red, a cut to the cheek and above his brow. You always call him pretty and he always pretends to hate it. 

You’ve gone to Topgolf together more than once and been kicked out each time for being too loud and rowdy and drunk. He’s taken you to the shooting range and taught you how to handle a weapon though you insist it's not knowledge you want or need, while Benny insists that it is. 

He somehow becomes your best friend, worms his way inside your heart, in such a short period of time that you can’t imagine your life without him, especially not in this town. 

Now, Ben leans back when you pull your hand away from his face, flexing not so subtly. You can tell by the way he sits, the bunched coil of muscle in his forearms twisting as he settles more fully in his chair, chest puffed out.

You roll your eyes at the display. Ben’s flirting is about as subtle as a hammer to the head. 

“Well, actually, babe, I have a bone to pick with you.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Invited you to my fight and you didn’t show. You’re making a bad impression with my buddies. They’re starting to think I made you up.” 

He says it so casually, almost like it’s a joke, a megawatt smile still on his face, but you can tell Benny is hurt. Your heart gives a painful thump and you cast him a small smile in return. “I told you I wouldn’t be able to make it, didn’t I?” 

“Sure ya did,” he whines, leaning forward again, “But I thought you meant it in a faking me out kinda way so I’d be surprised.” Before you can respond, he continues, fidgeting with a loose bit of wood on the counter. “What was so important anyways? You have a date or somethin’?” 

You slap his hand away from the wood before he can damage the scarred bar more than it already is. Benny never stops moving, fidgeting, usually destroying napkins and paper drink coasters and straw papers in droves as he talks to you. “Yeah, actually. And what happened to that fidget thing I got you? The pop-it?” 

And the stress ball, you think. To help with whatever he was bottling up inside, waiting for the emotions to shake up and erupt in a bout of anger instead of dealing with them beforehand.

Benny ignores your question and goes deadly still, the vibrations echoing through the floor from his bouncing leg ceasing. “You serious?” 

You feign nonchalance, twisting the liquor bottles in front of you so their labels face out. “Yep. So serious. We fucked in the parking lot and he bought me Taco Bell after,” you deadpan.  

Ben laughs, the sound loud and unapologetic, so very Benny it makes something in you ache. But there’s something else in that laugh too - relief. “Really, though.” 

“For real,” you say.

You had gone on a date, but it had been a bad one. One in which you had been bored out of your mind. One in which your date talked at you and not with you. He had been so low energy - or maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe you’d just been comparing him to Benny, who made everyone seem low energy. 

You’d had dinner and left. There hadn’t been any random detours to the batting cages or a race against time down back roads, no here, honey, lemme show you this ice cream joint by the water-

It had been a date where you thought of a different guy the entire time, wondering if Benny was looking for you at his fight, wondering if he was getting his ass handed to him or making some money with a win.

The truth is - Benny terrifies you. 

You’re terrified of him, you’re terrified of the way he makes you feel, of the heart pounding, blood warming way he looks at you. 

And you know that he wants something from you. 

And it's something you aren’t really willing to give. 

Benny is a flirt, a curl of energy that bounced from thing to thing with surprising ease. The only constants in his life were his family and the military and fighting - and you do not fit into any of those spaces. 

Benny loses interest in things at a rapid rate, and you’re sure you’re just another stepping stone, something that would only hold his attention briefly. 

And you do not want to become just another thing that Benny Miller lost interest in. 

You don’t want a night with him, especially if it meant losing him after, of losing these conversations, these moments, all the things you’d done together and shared. You don’t want to lose his friendship. 

Friendship for Benny is made of much sturdier stuff, long lasting and fierce. 

And if Benny wanted more than that, he’d just tell you. He’s one to take the things he wants, or at least ask, instead of letting them fall into his lap. 

So you keep him at arm's length, knocking him back a step or two each time he hints at something besides this thing you have with him now. And meeting his friends, going to one of his matches, feels too close for comfort, feels too personal and raw and vulnerable. 

You would lose Benny and the things truly closest to his heart if you were to let that happen. 

Besides, you’ve been left alone before and you aren’t keen on it happening again.

He rolls his eyes at you, “Uh huh, sure.” Benny drums his fingers against the bar, though he doesn’t sound particularly convinced. “Listen, I get it's intimidating -,” he starts when you scoff at his assumption, “Hold on! Let me finish! I know it's intimidating but I’m always fine. And it would mean a lot to me. And the guys.” 

You soften. That he thinks you don’t want to go because you don’t want to see him hurt, makes your chest ache. 

“Oh believe me, Ben, I’d love to watch you get your ass kicked.” 

He flashes a smile at you, yanking the ball cap off his head to toss onto the counter. You lift a brow at him as he laces his fingers together against the back of his head, arms wide. “Oh yeah? Perfect opportunity right in front of you then,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “But I’m usually the ass-kicker.” 

You’re always surprised at just how much room Benny takes up, the space he occupies without a care in the world, summer gold skin washed out in the low lighting of the bar. You also really don’t mind the pull of the band of muscle in his arms, or the way his shirt rides up so you can see the flat of his belly, the dark trail of hair. “Of course you are,” you roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus only on his face. 

Benny’s expression splinters, his smile fading for just a second, brows tilting down. “Is it something else? Why don’t you -,” 

He’s interrupted when the front door blows open and your name is called. You cringe, John’s horrible son Victor violently thrusting into you and Benny’s safe little world. You'd hated Victor before you met Benny, for the way he looked at you, the slimy innuendos he made, but you hated him even more after. 

He and Benny had gone to high school together, hated each other then too. And Victor never lets Benny forget that he thinks he’s trash. 

“Oh, and Miller is here too. How wonderful,” he snaps, the smile he’d been directing at you turning to a scowl when his gaze lands on Ben.  

Benny bristles immediately, standing up and knocking his stool back but not over. “What the fuck is your problem?” He asks loudly. “You always got some shit to say to me.” 

“Just wondering how you can get drunk in the middle of the day, everyday. Don’t you have a job?” Victor’s eyes flit over Benny’s broken face, the bruises that never quite faded. “Oh. Right. You get the shit kicked out of you for a living.” 

“Better watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he snarls, the converstaion of the regulars in the corner coming to an abrupt halt. Benny’s never afraid to defend himself, and he certainly wasn't afraid to make a scene while doing so. “I don’t lose much.” 

You hold out a hand when Benny starts around the counter. “Benny,” you say gently, “C’mon. Stop it.” 

Victor stops next to you, his hand going to your hip and you force yourself not to jerk away from his touch, as he intentionally tries riling Benny up. “Yeah, Miller. Stand down. We all know how good you are at following orders and not using your brain.” 

Benny’s chin tilts down, eyes on Victor’s possessive hand against your waist. Something goes dark in his gaze and this time he does come around the bar. 

You move quickly, grabbing Benny’s hat off the counter and both your books before shoving Victor’s stupid ass behind you as he laughs. “Fuckin’ idiot, it's like you want to get the shit kicked out of you,” you mutter at him as as you step in front of Benny. He's fuming, leaning against you, pushing with a gentle strength, unwilling to hurt you to get to Victor.

Benny would never hurt you, but he looks like he’s considering shoving you out of the way. His eyes go cold as he watches Victor over your shoulder and you don’t turn because you don’t want to know what gesture he’s doing behind you. You press into Ben, leaning hard against his solid frame, laying one hand flat against his sternum. “He’s not worth it. Let it go. For me, Benny?” You plead with a calm you don’t feel, “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. Leave this asshole to man the bar.” 

He smirks at that, sliding an arm around your shoulders, holding you hot and tight and close against his chest. You swear you can feel his heartbeat. “Anything for you, sweetheart,” he says, the lilt of fury still lingering in his voice. You pull out of his arms and he follows you out of the bar easily when you tug him after you. 

“You always do everything you’re told, Miller?” Victor calls after your retreating backs. 

“Fuck you,” Benny snarls over his shoulder. “Only when she’s the one asking.” And he sounds almost proud. 

Proud that you chose him, proud that you commanded him.

Something in you shakes, that this hot headed man listens to you. 

You keep one hand behind you, tucked into Benny’s elbow so that he doesn’t get any ideas about bolting back to give Victor the beating he very much deserved. 

“I hate that fucker,” he says when you finally pull him outside to cross the parking lot towards his jeep, his hand trailing down your arm to lace his fingers with yours. “Always have. Made all the girls uncomfortable in school. And the way he fuckin’ talks about you-,” 

“I hate him too, Benny,” you interrupt. “But he’s my boss’s son, what am I supposed to do?” You pause by the driver’s side door and reach up to tuck Benny’s hat back onto his head, cradling your books against your chest as you stroke some stray hair back from his forehead. “Go easy, darlin’. He shouldn’t fuckin’ talk about you that way either. Fucking snob.” 

“I’m used to it,” he says, breaking your heart just a little bit. “But you don’t hear the shit he says when you aren’t around. I should have knocked his teeth down his throat weeks ago.” 

You close your eyes briefly, hearing every horrible thing Victor has ever said to you about Benny. Namely that he was stupid and mean and not worth the time you spent on him. “Yeah, well, ditto,” you say bitterly, blinking up at him, the last argument fresh in your mind. 

“He’s a loser and he always has been. He’s lucky he has Will for a brother and feels like he needs to play catch up and get out of his shadow or he wouldn’t have made it out of high school.”

Benny watches you, eyes darting between the bar’s door and you, his expression souring by the second as he monitors you. “Don’t,” you warn. 

“Not gonna,” he says innocently. 

“Liar.” 

“Why don’t ya wanna come to my matches?” He asks abruptly, remembering what you’d been talking about before you were interrupted. 

You sigh, “It's not that I don’t want to. I’m just-,” you fidget on the spot, trying to decide how to put it, wiggling your fingers at him. “-I just worry about you.” 

It isn’t untrue, just not exactly the reason you didn’t want to go. 

“Bullshit,” he says, calling you out. 

“Benny,” you say gently, ducking your head to avoid his eyes. “I-,”

He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it. I got you.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just what I said. I got it. You don’t want to,” he yanks open the door and you’re forced to stumble back a few steps as he climbs in. The engine roars to life and Benny rolls the window down to look at you. “Forgot. Got this for you. Meant to bring it in with me,” he says, handing out something rectangular, wrapped in pink paper. 

You take it from him, peering up at him before you abruptly tear the paper and he groans, “Don’t open it now.” 

But you just keep shredding the wrapping paper until a book is revealed to you, a limited edition of one of your favorites. “Oh,” you say, running a finger down the cover. You’d been looking for this particular edition for over a year. “Oh, my God! Benny, how’d you find this?” 

He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it. You like it?” 

You clutch it to your chest. “Fuck. Yes. Thank you.” You stare at Benny, and he stares back at you, the sweltering heat pinching at your skin. Since when did Benny go hunting for obscure books? Since when did he read in his limited free time?

“Fuck, Benny. Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I just don’t know how to explain it right. Can I ride along? Lemme go tell Victor to fuck off and we can go to my place for your book. Dinner on me?”

You know John won’t mind, not if you leave a note that you needed to leave an hour early and that his useless son came in before he was supposed to. 

The grin that cracks open Ben’s face could end wars. “Never gonna say no to that.” 

~

Benny really isn’t sure what it is about you that drew him in, like a moth to a flame, that first time he met you - dripping wet and mad as hell when he stormed into the first bar he came to. 

He’d just freaked out in a gas station convenience store - panicked and panicked and couldn’t fucking breathe for a full minute before he was able to leave - all because someone was too close to him and he was trying not to put his hand through a freezer door or through the guy’s fucking head. 

He hadn’t. 

He hadn’t and had been proud of that fact until he was back in his jeep and that tightness in his chest still wouldn’t go away, even though he was safe, even though he’d never not been. 

Benny had had half a mind to call Will, to ask him to come pick him up because he didn’t think he could drive, felt like maybe he was having a fucking heart attack. 

But then the anger set in, the irritation that now, after everything - this was happening to him. 

It was just another thing to add onto the shit that just kept stacking up. He’d heard about guys going through this when they came home. Fuck, he’d seen Will go through it. 

But why him?

Why now? 

After all these years? After he’d been home for so long?

Just because of the Colombia trip? It wasn’t even close to being the worst thing he’s been through.

Just because one of his closest friends, a man who was like his brother, had been killed in front of him? 

Fuck off. 

It’s not the first time - it hadn’t been that bad - 

For a while he hadn’t realized what was happening to him - why his chest would go tight and the air in the room felt like it had suddenly evaporated. 

Fuck, he doesn’t want to be having panic attacks, doesn’t want to think about what he went through, doesn’t want to think about why this was suddenly happening. 

And if he doesn't look at it, it can't hurt him. If he doesn't look at it, it would go away. 

So he ignored that it was happening at all. Even though it was happening more and more frequently. 

Still, that day, his chest was tight, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might explode. 

The anger suddenly burned up the tightness, made him so pissed off at himself for being so weak, that he knew he’d be no good in training, and decided to go for a drink instead. 

No, he hadn’t punched anyone that day.

And that was good, something to be proud of. 

Everything else? Shit. 

The cut on his cheek was from an unregulated fight in some fucking parking lot the day before, the bandage around his arm unchanged since he got home from Colombia two weeks before. 

Nothing had felt right since they got home. It was worse than before, worse than when he was discharged from service.

Fighting in parking lots? He hadn’t done that shit since high school. Everything felt like it was twisting down and away, the tentative grip he held on his life slipping away with every second. 

His first instinct was to do something stupid, to go find a fight or break a speed limit. 

But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

And so the bar it was. 

And you had been there - an unsuspecting buoy in a restless storm, so calm and rock steady, his exact opposite in so many ways. 

The immediate sharp burn of your presence, the steady way you’d looked at him, unfazed by the roll of anger that he tried to keep a lid on, how you’d not asked him a damn thing about what happened to him - why he was so torn up and spaced out and mad. 

He probably wouldn’t have been able to answer you anyways.

You talked to him as he nursed that beer, told him about a movie you’d rewatched recently - something old and he wishes he could remember now what it was - Top Gun? Back to the Future? 

No idea. 

Then you’d asked if you could help him out - one nonsensical, calm brow raised.

He’d known in that moment, that he’d never be able to quit you, so suddenly and quick, like a flash of lightning - something inside him locked into place.

But Benny had always been that way with his loyalty, a gut instinct that he trusted implicitly. 

He knew you were a person he should keep.

It was like when he’d known that his life would never be the same five seconds into his first day of basic training, like he’d known fighting was what he wanted to do the second he stepped into the ring that first time. 

He knew. 

Benny knew you were for keeps, that you were going to stick inside him like a burr, something that would be painful to rip out - just like fighting, just like the military, just like Delta.

You’re something he can’t quit.  

You’re something unchangeable and steady in his life. You become one of his constants only hours after meeting you. 

And he doesn't want you to quit him. Benny wants you to want him too. He wants you to hold on tight, to claw your way into him and make a home there.  

But fuck, do you make it difficult.

You are adverse to him making a move, knocking him back again and again. If you hinted that you wanted more he’d shoot his shot but you don’t indicate that. 

And that’s fine, it really is. 

He’ll be friends with you and nothing else if that’s what you really want. 

But that thing you lodged in his heart? It has sharp edges and its starting to fucking hurt, to ache, to bleed.

He spends all his time with you - you’re like a drug he doesn’t want to quit. 

And when he’s with you? That’s when he finally breathes normally again, when his blood settles down and he feels like Benny again - he can forget about what happened in Colombia, he doesn’t have to think about the spray of Tom’s blood when he was shot. 

He starts spending all his time with you, you become his best friend so suddenly it's almost shocking.

He stops fighting in back alleys and parking lots, and he can tell Will is relieved by the set of his shoulders when the bruising on his face actually gets a chance to fade. He can tell that you are relieved, because you note how his hands aren’t as shaky, you note that the bruises fade and that he doesn’t space out as much, breathing like he’s run a fucking race completely out of the blue. 

That fucks him up so bad too, that you’ve noticed the panic. 

Still, you don’t come to his matches, you don’t meet Will or Santi or Frankie. 

Maybe he’s just something temporary to you even though you have become a constant to him. 

And that’s never happened before, and it terrifies him. 

He’s always been the one to call the shots in his own life - he’s never had to wait for someone to decide on him. Benny has always been the temporary thing, jumping from relationship to relationship with ease. 

And fuck if he isn’t trying to tell you, to light the path so he can shoot his fucking shot. He started reading, and even though he’s coming to enjoy it a little - just because you light up like the goddamned sun when you get to talk about books - it's not easy for him. It takes concentration and frustrated brain power. He thinks for a while maybe you don't get it - but fuck if him taking up reading isn't a flashing neon sign of attraction, of trying to impress you and relate to you, he doesn't know what is.

He looked for a fucking book for you with an intensity he reserved for fighting, for missions, hunting and bidding and cajoling until he got it. Until he felt like he won a fight when he found it. 

For you. 

Now, he watches you unlock the front door of your apartment. He holds the screen door open for you as you fiddle with your keys, eyes locked on the curve of your jaw as you talk, intoxicated by the scent of you, the movement of your mouth, the flash of your teeth.

He’s pressed close to you, the heat of your body radiating into his as he leans into you. 

One thing he really appreciates about you? You’re good with how he expresses himself - the too loud way in which he lives his life, the way he likes to touch. 

Too many relationships had soured early - not that he was planning for the long haul but still - because he was too much. 

Too loud, too brash, too quick to temper. 

You’ve never told him he’s too much, never told him not to be the way he is. You say gentle things like easy to remind him not to squeeze you too tightly in a hug but that’s it and sometimes he needs the reminder, forgets his own strength. 

But you never tell him to stop, you never say that he’s too much. 

“Jesus, Benny,” you say now when the door finally swings open and you lurch inside. “You’re heavy.” 

He grins and toes his shoes off by the door as you do the same. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all, tucking himself behind you as he follows you to the kitchen. 

He loves your little studio, loves that he can see everything about you in one room, your bookshelves and your pink sheets patterned with tiny little strawberries, your vintage coffee table saved from someone’s trash and the stickers you’ve pressed into your kitchen cabinets. 

“I’m going to cook something.” 

“We can definitely just get takeout though,” he says, throwing himself down onto your couch with a groan. 

He doesn’t need to look at you to know that you’re rolling your eyes. “Ben, one day you’re going to be old and all that shit is going to catch up to you.” He hears you shuffle closer, and then you lean over the back of the couch, peering down at him, “And then you’re going to come to me and complain that I didn’t warn you and feed you better.” 

“You still gonna be hounding me when you’re old and gray?” 

For a second, your face cracks, an unreadable expression crossing your face before you smile again, some of the light gone from your eyes. “Sure,” you say, voice careful, “Someone’s gonna haveta.” 

“We can order pizza,” he says, trying to decide why the look on your face, that flash of uncertainty, made his chest tight, why panic is starting its slow unpredictable crawl up the back of his throat.

Maybe because it reminds him that you’re temporary. Maybe that’s why it's hard to breathe, why Tom’s face and the flash of blood imprints into his mind, why Will’s face stark white while blood drips down his side darts behind his eyes. 

Maybe you wouldn't be around to remind him, maybe you aren't planning to be.

Benny relies on very few permanent things, always moving, going, tracking forward and leaving most things behind. 

But there are essentials - fighting, Delta, the military - and now, you.

He wants to ask why you’re looking at him like that but the tightness in his chest is rising and he can’t speak. 

You place a hand on his chest, and it's heavy and good and it steadies him. His breathing stabilizes. “No pizza. I’ll make spaghetti.” You nod at your bookshelf, “Anything you want is yours, okay? When you’re ready.” 

And you walk away, back to the kitchen counter, searching through the fridge for ingredients. 

He’s glad you leave him, struggling to find the right rhythm in his breathing even though the breaths come easily. 

Since when did people leaving scare him so fucking bad? Since when did anything scare him this fucking bad? 

He wonders why you hold him at arm’s length, keeping yourself away from the most important parts of his life, of himself. 

Maybe you know you’re too good for him. 

He hears what that fucker Victor says about him, that you’re too good to be keeping company like Benny, that he’s an idiot and always has been. 

Benny isn’t sure how much of it you believe. 

When the pain eases, he stands and pulls himself to your bookshelf, scanning for the most battered copies. 

You abuse your books, but only the ones you like, the ones you read again and again, filled with notes and tabs and folded pages, covers shredded to bits. That’s how he knows you love roughly and hard, and it makes picking something out so easy. 

The cover of Carrie had been picked apart. 

He thumbs out one of the more ruined books and glances at the title - Howl’s Moving Castle. Something clearly for kids. Even better - it’ll be easy to get through. 

When he shows you, you smile - “There’s a movie too! We can watch it when you’re done.” You turn back to the stove, “You always have a way of reading my favorites.” 

God, the things you don’t realize. 

~

Hours later, when you’ve eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, settled onto the couch with a bowl of popcorn, he decides to try to ask you again about why you didn’t want anything to do with the things that were really important to him. 

“Be straight with me for a minute,” he says, turning onto his back so he can look up at you, his head pillowed on your thigh. “Why don’t you wanna come to my matches? Why aren’t you keen on meeting the guys? You don’t have to but I want a reason. It’s important to me. They’re important to me. You're important to me.” 

You look startled at his admission but quickly recover, shaking your head as you press your fingers down the center of his chest, tracing slowly back up to his shoulder, across his collarbone. He bites down the urge to say something about just how much you liked to touch him.  

“Can you try?” He pleads. 

You pause, and Benny waits, even though he’s never really been a patient person. But for you, he'll try.

“I’ve just never been good at being close to people, Ben. It’s hard for me not to feel like the rug is going to be ripped out from under me,” you card your hands through his hair. “I moved here alone. I’m always alone. It’s easier not to be so attached.” 

“You think I’m gonna cut and run?” 

You don’t answer for a moment and the only sound is that of the movie playing quietly on the TV that neither of you have paid attention to in a while. “No,” you say eventually, carefully. “You aren’t one to abandon your friends.”

Benny, he tries to understand, what that meant you thought about him, that you don't want to come any closer than you already are. 

Friends. 

He would have to be okay with that. 

But it’s late and he’s tired and your hands feel nice when they thread through his hair. “I kept the pop-it,” he says suddenly. “I know I ribbed you about it but I kept it and it helps. It’s actually starting to fuckin’ fall apart because I use it all the time.” 

He uses it when he reads your books, so his hands are busy. 

“I’ll get you a new one,” you say, like the fact you would means nothing. 

~

You barrel through the front door of the bar, the crash of music and laughter and pool balls clacking together assaulting your already delicate ears, a headache lingering from the day you’ve had. 

Benny hadn’t come in during your afternoon shift and you’d been stuck alone with Victor for a majority of that time, your pleas for help via texts to Benny going unanswered. 

“Thanks for coming back in,” John says when you meet him at the bar. “Some fucking fight just let out and Sal’s is closed tonight so we got their usual folks too. Promise this is a one time thing,” he adds.  

“No problem,” you say with a smile, swinging through the office door to drop your stuff and clock in. You catch sight of Victor as you pass back through the kitchen but avoid his gaze. “Hey, where d’you want me? Bar? Floor?” You ask John when you meet him back by the bar, tying your apron around your waist. 

“I need you to take those tables over there,” he points to the far corner. “They haven’t been served yet.” 

You nod and cross the bar, trying not to think about Benny, about how goddamned much you’d missed him and how any effort you’d made not to let him worm too closely into your heart had been severely thwarted. 

Your Benny hangover coupled with the amount of time you’d been forced to spend with Victor alone has you on edge, tired and unhappy. 

You take care of the couple sitting quietly together and a group of chatty girls before you move on to your last table, a group of guys. One of them, a blond with close cropped hair and a beard, looks strangely familiar. He tilts his head at you, like he knows you too and can’t place you. 

Ignoring the feeling, you plaster a smile to your face, the pounding at the base of your skull increasing in intensity. 

“Hey, sorry for the wait,” you start, laying down some napkins. “We’re a little bit understaffed tonight. What can I get for you?”

One of them, a man with fathomless, dark eyes and gray streaked brown curls, opens his mouth when a familiar voice says your name. 

You start to turn just as Benny slams into you from behind, knocking the breath out of you. You jolt into the table as he wraps an arm across your chest, one of your hands coming up to hook at his elbow, to steady yourself. “Benny? What are you doing here?” You turn your head to find him grinning widely down at you, beaming at you like a ray of sunshine, happy to see you beyond what is reasonable. 

“Could ask you the same thing, honey. Weren’t you here all afternoon?” 

“I was but we’re understaffed so I got pulled back in. What are you doing here?” You ask again. 

Benny’s face is a masterpiece of pain. He’s bruised up again, a scarlet cut above his cheek and near the line of his jaw, violent violet bruises starting to turn a painful shade of black and green. “Celebrating. I fuckin’ won tonight! Knockout within a minute,” he crows, looking proud. “And our usual place was closed.” 

And John’s words come back to you - some fucking fight just let out and Sal’s is closed tonight so we got their usual folks too. “Congratulations,” you say softly, realizing who the people at the table must be, realizing why Benny had been absent that afternoon.

Normally he told you when you had a fight but you don’t remember him saying anything about this one. He always made a point to invite you, even if he knew you’d say no.

Embarrassment pools in your belly, realizing how long you’ve been letting him hold you, how you’ve only looked into his eyes, his grip so comfortable to you that you hadn’t noticed.  

You frown as Benny finally releases you to sit down beside the man who looked familiar to you before. You suppose he looks familiar because he is. He can be no one else but Benny’s brother, Will. “I take it you’re who Benny’s been spending every minute with.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” you try to joke, trying not to bolt away from the lot of them, as the careful separation in your mind between your Benny and Benny’s real life crashes down. “Ben’s got so many friends.” 

“Not friends like you though,” says the man with those dark eyes, something unreadable brewing in his expression, his voice like ice. Benny shoots him a look that says fuck off. 

Ben introduces you by name and then says, “My brother, Will.” He slaps the blond man he’d slid into the booth next to on the back. “Santiago,” he points to the salt and pepper haired man and then the man with the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, “and Frankie. Better known as Pope and Fish.” 

“Nice to meet you,” you manage to say. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“So have we,” Santiago says, his tone still crisp. “Nice to know Ben hasn’t been hallucinating you these past few months.” 

You suddenly feel like a mouse caught in a trap as you glance at each of them, the hardness in their gazes as they look back at you. 

Of course they wouldn’t be keen on you. Benny is like their little brother and you’ve been avoiding what is essentially his family for months, for no good reason at all, at least not in a way that made sense to anyone but you, though Benny had tried to understand. 

Your throat tightens and you open your mouth to respond when Benny cuts in, loud and gruff as he always is, “Fuck off, Pope. Leave her alone. Tell her what you want so she can get back to it.” 

You glance at them apologetically, avoiding looking at Ben, ignoring his outburst. “Beers? First round is on me.” 

“You don’t haveta do that, sweetheart-,” Benny starts, his voice infinitely gentler when he addresses you. 

“Yeah, I do,” you interrupt him. “Anything else?” 

A chorus of no’s resound and you nod without looking at any of them before briskly walking away. Your hands are shaking as you pour the beers, deciding at the last second to put in for a plate of nachos too. You’d hoped to avoid them, but you should have known better, that in a town so small you’d be bound to run into them at one point or another. 

You just don’t want it to hurt when Benny moves on, or for it to at least be as painless as possible.

But that’s not what it looked like to them, not what it looked like to Benny.

Fuck, he must think you don’t give a shit about him, not really. 

It wasn't like it fucking mattered anyways, the hurt is coming for you whether you let the closest parts of his life sink into yours or not. 

Benny has charmed his way inside you, his friendship like the serrated edge of a knife, cutting deeper and deeper until removing it would be to sentence you to death. 

You swipe at your eyes though you aren't in danger of tears and shuffle the beers over on your tray for the nachos before starting back across the bar. You’ve halfway there, paused near one of the wooden support beams so a large group can pass you on the crowded floor when Victor stops by you, awkwardly leaning against the pole and blocking your way. When the group has passed, drunkenly shouting their way out of the bar you grit out, “What do you want?” You're irritated that you’ve had to spend so much time with him today, and that he’s still bothering you.

“Miller’s here,” he says, an accusation in his voice, like you personally invited Benny just to piss him off. Jealousy drips off him. “And you got his table.” Like you'd plotted that too.

“Yep. Won his match. They’re here to celebrate,” you start to move away when Victor leans into your free arm and forces your shoulder back against the beam. 

Your breath flutters in your chest as you look up to meet his eyes. “What’s your problem, huh? Why do you hate me so much?” 

“You know why. You talk shit about my best friend,” you snarl up at him, something feral rising up in you and chasing away the calm you were known for.

But Victor has pushed you to your limit over the last couple months and you can see the glee in his eyes at getting a rise out of you. You were rapidly approaching your breaking point with him.

He barks out a loud laugh, and it's not pleasant the way Benny’s is. A couple of people turn to look at you but quickly go back to their own conversations. You squirm, trying to get your shoulder out from under his weight. An ache has started to creep up your arm. 

“Best friend. Right. Like Miller wants anything but to fuck you. You’re just a conquest, sweetheart.” 

“Fuck you,” you say lowly, not willing to admit how that bites at you, how that is exactly what you’re afraid of. 

Victor clocks it though, sees the break in your expression that confirms his accusation. “Haven’t put out yet have you? He’ll get bored eventually,” he says, finally pulling his weight off of yours, an ache twisting down to your wrist. “He’s always been that way. I know you’re new to this town but trust me, he tricks everyone with the golden retriever act. Hell, just fucking look at him. Military, Special Ops, can’t stop fighting to save his life. Always in trouble and looks to his brother to tell him up from down.” 

You can’t help it, you glance over at their table, Victor’s breath hot on your cheek when he leans in to whisper. “Not exactly stable. Never has been. How long til he does something like that to you?” 

Benny and his friends are staring at you across the dark bar. Will has a hand on Benny’s arm, keeping him in place, his fingers white with the effort.

“See, even now he’s itching for blood.” 

You wrinkle your nose and turn your face into his, refusing to look away from Victor’s beady eyes. You’re so close your noses almost touch, but you refuse to back down. You bare your teeth at him and grit out, “Another word. One more word against him, and Ben will be the least of your problems. You think Benny’s temper is bad? You’ve been fuckin' trying me all day and I got nothin’ to lose.”

You step closer and grip your tray in both hands to shove into his stomach hard. The glasses rattle but don’t fall. He makes a soft oof sound but doesn't look away, doesn’t back down.  

It takes a minute but his eyes drop and he steps back. “You’ll find out the hard way what kind of fucking people they are. All of them.” 

The fucker can’t even look you in the eyes as he says it. 

You roll your eyes and move away. “Fuck you, coward.” 

Your hands are shaking again, but for a completely different reason as you approach the table. 

Victor’s starting to get bold, and it's starting to worry you. How long until his obsession with you and your relationship to Benny becomes unhinged? It already kind of is, the way he follows you and watches you, the way he’s been trying to turn you against Ben for months now, the touches and the passing remarks - it's all headed to something unsafe. 

For all Victor’s talk, Benny has never made your shoulder ache, has never crowded you or tried to intimidate you or made you uncomfortable. 

No, it's not Benny you have to worry about. 

You pass the beers out, the plate of nachos, when you stop at the boy’s table. “All on me,” you say more cheerfully than you feel, unconsciously stepping closer to Benny where he sits at the end of the booth, pressing the back of your hand into his bicep, reassuring yourself that he’s there and real. “Yell if you need something else, okay?” 

“Hey,” It's Will’s voice that stops you from pulling away. “You okay?” 

You glance around as Benny covers your hand with one of his and squeezes your fingers reassuringly, gaze turned toward the bar, eyes tracking something.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “What, Victor? He’s a piece of shit but he’s harmless,” you say with more conviction than you feel. 

“Hell of a stare you got,” Santiago says, sounding impressed.

Frankie chuckles and meets your eyes, “Yeah, wouldn’t want you lookin’ at me like that.”

And fuck, you wonder if they heard. If Victor’s voice could have traveled that far. You pull away from Benny’s hand when he tries to tangle your fingers together and say, “Well, I just get protective sometimes.” 

You tuck your tray under your arm and turn to walk away when Benny tugs you back, “Sure you’re okay?” 

“Golden,” you answer with a smile but he doesn’t look convinced.

And when you glance at the others, you know they overheard you and Victor, because all hostility is gone. They watched you go toe to toe with an asshole for Benny, and now they know they’re missing some vital piece of the picture as to why you hadn't been around, the thing that really kept you away from them and Benny’s matches. 

And they’re too skilled, too observant, not to pinpoint exactly what it is. 

Benny might not know you’re in love with him, but his buddies suddenly do. 

~

Victor continues to bother you throughout the night but you try not to let it affect you, you try to stay calm despite your earlier threat, if only so there won’t be a scene and Benny can enjoy his win. 

The boys, when you stop by their table, have warmed to you entirely. They joke with you, rib you just like Benny does, and the fold you’ve been trying to avoid being dragged into has engulfed you in seconds. 

So when the bar finally clears out and their table is the only one left, Frankie gestures you in. “Sit down here for a minute, you’ve been workin' your ass off.” 

“Wasn’t too bad,” you say, slipping into the booth next to Benny and Will. “But it's definitely the busiest this place has ever been.” 

“So how come you don’t come to the fights?” Santiago asks.  

“Pope-,” 

“Maybe you guys intimidate me,” you say with a shrug of your shoulder. “I know how important you are to Benny.” You nudge an elbow into Ben’s ribs, “I’m just some waitress.” 

They laugh and you feel better, like maybe they might even like you. Benny scoffs loudly at your declaration, and you kick yourself for never meeting them before. Even if you lost Benny, you don’t want to hurt him now. “Just some waitress?” Benny rolls his eyes. “Honey, fuck off,” he says fondly. 

“So tell us how you ended up in this shithole town,” Will says. “And how you got this one so whipped,” he locks an arm around Benny’s shoulders. 

Benny doesn’t try to deny it, looks a little bit smug, almost happy at the accusation.

“I’m from a small town, different one, did the big city thing, fucking hated it. Ended up here.” You ignore the other question, not really sure how to answer it anyways, but you don’t comment when Ben drapes his arm across the top of the booth behind you.  

“Not back home?” Frankie asks you. 

“No one at home to go back to,” you say, revealing more than maybe you should. “Found I liked the company here anyways.” 

The conversation rolls along easily from there. They’re funny and loud and affectionate with each other in a way that makes your heart hurt. There’s a closeness there that makes you happy, and jealous that you're witnessing so rare a love and bond.  

And it makes you feel stupid, because they’re so welcoming to you, they tug you into the center of them and it feels like you’ve always belonged.

Eventually, John calls you away from the boys, wiping his hands on a dish towel - the exact opposite of his son, cordial and funny and kind. 

You aren’t sure what happened to Victor to make him so bitter, if he really just has a problem with you and Benny in particular.

“We should be heading out anyways,” Frankie says, laboring to his feet after Santi stands. 

You get hugs from all of them, a kiss to your brow from Benny. “We still on for tomorrow?” 

Saturday morning fishing, you would never miss it. “‘Course, always.” 

“And we aren’t invited?” 

“How about beers at Sal’s tomorrow instead?” you offer, not willing to give away your morning alone with Benny.

Santi and Will share a look that Ben doesn’t see, too busy examining the ridge of your shoulder where a bruise is forming from being locked against the beam.

“Sure, we can get you back for the beers tonight,” Will says, one big hand pressing between your shoulder blades briefly. 

“No-,” 

“Yeah, we are,” Santi says. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You watch them file out, Benny turning to hug you hard, breath pressed out of your lungs at the intensity. “Fuck. Thank you,” he says. “For putting up with them.” 

“They’re nice.” 

“Glad you met ‘em? They’re meatheads but they mean well.” 

“They do and I am.”

~

Benny is almost to his jeep when he decides to wait for you. He wants to be with you, to ride along to your place and sleep on your couch like he has so many times before - so he can see you grouchy and soft in the morning sunshine before you get ready, drink coffee with you at your kitchen table. 

God, he’s going fucking soft. 

Domestic. 

It feels weird but right.

He waits along the side of the building where the back deck of the bar wraps around to the front stairs, the lights that normally line the walkway already out. 

He watches John leave, entrusting closing to you and Victor. 

Quiet descends, the chirp of the crickets loud and sweet, the sounds of safety and home, when he hears a crash. 

Then -

“-fucking stupid. What do you see in him?” 

“Why the fuck do you care, Vic? It’s not like I would want you, if I didn’t want Ben.” 

His brain statics, not sure he heard right. You want him? Is that what you implied?

“And what’s so fucking wrong with me, huh?” 

You snarl back, “Fuck. Really? You’re an asshole and judgemental.” 

“It’s not judgement if it's right. Call it like I see it. Ben Miller is -,”  

He doesn’t get to hear what he is. “You’re crazy,” he hears you shriek. “Fucking crazy! Even if he was everything you claim, I still wouldn’t want you!”  

A rage builds in Benny, and he’s about to move, to come to your aid, when Victor starts muttering lowly again - the conversation seems to peter out into something civil. 

Then - the sound of something slamming, a rattling of drink glasses, and low talking. “Fuck off,” you growl suddenly. “You know how fucking brilliant you have to be to make it to where he did? Where all of them did?” 

“Luck. And brawn and brother that would do anything for him.” 

You let out a disbelieving laugh, “I quit. You can finish closing alone. If your dad asks why I fucking quit, you can explain it to him.” 

The front door flies open, smacking back into the wood paneled wall as you go trudging down the steps and across the gravel of the lot. 

Victor follows you, catches up to you and jerks you to a halt. “Just give me a chance,” he pleads with you. “One chance. I can make you forget about him. You’ll see what you’re missing.” 

“No,” you say. “You couldn’t. No one can.” 

Benny’s vision goes red as the hand around your arm tightens, but he freezes when Victor continues, speaking something that Benny is afraid is almost uncomfortably close to the truth of his life. 

“He’s a fuck up and a loser and would have been in jail for something stupid years ago if he didn’t have his brother trailing him around and forcing him to make something of himself. It’s a good thing that kid got shoved into the military because he never would have made it otherwise. You’re just going to let him drag you down too.” 

“Shut up.” 

“I’m serious, you’re pining away after someone that’s never gonna measure up to you. You’re brilliant. He could barely fucking read in high school.” 

You jerk out of Victor’s grip, shaking your head and stalking across the parking lot, but he follows you.

Under normal circumstances, Benny would have been across the lot and in that motherfucker’s face in 5 seconds flat, but he can’t move, he’s frozen, watching the tension in your shoulders knot up. 

God, he’s waiting for you to agree, to turn and say that he’s right.

But you don’t, you keep moving. And when Victor touches you again, snags at your elbow, every bit of restraint he has dries up. 

He lurches away from the wall and stalks after the pair of you. He saw the bruise on your shoulder, he knows that Victor is the worst kind of dangerous to you - that and you’re his fucking girl. 

No one is gonna do fuckin’ shit to you without reprecussions. 

He’s nearly reached you when -

You turn and land an elbow into Victor’s stomach, he crumbles, curves at the waist and you bring a knee up to crack into his face. He goes sprawling backwards onto his ass as you tower over him with your shoulders thrown back. 

God, that was fucking hot.

He’s so proud of you, impressed with the absolute fury contorting your features. 

His girl, a fighter. 

Of course you fucking are. You’re his. 

And he likes this mean streak in you, likes the feral protectiveness that bubbled up. 

“Fuck you,” you say and he’s never heard such venom in your voice, such protective laced violence. You glance at him suddenly, looking startled to find him standing there before you lean over Victor’s crumpled, prone form. “I warned you Ben’s temper wasn’t the one you had to worry about, didn’t I? You don’t know a goddamn thing about him. Or me. And if you ever say another word against him in my presence, you’ll get much worse than a bloody nose. Understand?” 

“What’s your fuckin’ problem, bitch?” Victor’s back is still to Benny, has no idea that he’s there. 

Benny reaches down and hauls him up by the back of his shirt, gets the satisfaction of seeing him go white with fear, of hearing a squeak pass his lips in surprise. “Just makin’ sure you’re listening to the lady,” he says, jerking him roughly into place before smoothing Victor’s shirt out carefully. He gestures to you and crosses his arms, “Go on, sweetheart. Tell him.”

You grit your teeth at him, and Benny decides yeah, he really likes you mean. “I'm a bitch, huh? Because I won’t fuck you? Fuck off. I asked you a question - do you fuckin’ understand or don’t you?” 

“Yeah, shit, I got it. You want to be Miller’s special girl so bad it makes you look stupid. He’s not the settling type, babe.” He snaps at you, refusing to acknowledge Benny. 

“Damn, so much fucking confidence for someone who’s about to have his ass handed to him,” Benny growls. 

“Fuck you, Miller, like you even need the excuse. You aren’t gonna do shit. Neutered after all these years, huh? Contained to a cage.” 

Victor yanks out of his grasp and spits at your feet before turning to walk away. But he couldn’t have really expected to do something like that and get away with it.

Running on autopilot and adrenaline and rage - Benny yanks him back by the collar of his shirt and breaks his knuckles against his teeth, breaks the nose that you weakened with your knee. Victor falls again and Benny picks him up by the front of his shirt, slams him into the nearest car.

He brings his mouth to Victor’s ear, feels the tremble and shake of fear. “Ever touch her again, speak to her again - hell, even look at her - I’ll fucking kill you. Got it?” And then lowly, barely a whisper, "She's mine."  

He drops Vic to the ground, watches him stumble back and skitter away. 

As soon as he’s rounded the corner to the back deck of the bar, Benny turns and wraps his arms around you in a crushing hug, and doesn’t let go even when you tap your fingers against his spine. 

“Benny, easy,” you breathe out but you cling onto him harder, and Benny realizes how shaken you are, how scary it must have been to have a man follow you across a dark parking lot. “What are you still doing here?” 

“Waitin’ on you, honey. Good thing too, though I think you had it handled. Hell of a swing you got.” 

He finally lets you go, your eyes going to his bloody hand and you sigh. “God, we’re both gonna have assault charges," you murmur, tracing your thumb over the broken skin.

“He ain’t gonna say shit. He’s gonna tell everybody he fucked you and went toe to toe with me over it. He’s a liar and little bitch,” Benny says, curling his arm around your waist, his blood settling when you lean into him, hand against his chest. “He’s not going to fuck with you anymore.” 

You peer up at him, your gaze still holding a lingering fear, “Thanks for having my back. You coming home with me?”

He nods and you gesture him around the side of your SUV.

When you’re both settled, you turn your keys in the ignition and the engine rumbles to life, but you don’t pull out. You turn and stare at him through the dark, the AC wafting his hair gently. “What?”

“Did you mean that?” 

“What?” 

“You said - you said she’s mine. Was that just some macho bullshit or did you mean it?”

Fuck.

He licks his lips, thinks about lying, when he shakes his head, looks down, and sniffs. He’s tired of pretending. “Yeah. I meant it.” 

It immediately feels like a mistake to say it, and the now familiar icy clutch of panic closes a fist over his lungs, like he can’t breathe, like you are going to tell him to fuck right off. 

Like you’re going to yank the rug right out from under him. 

He’s done losing constants. He’s done losing the world around him for nothing. 

His lungs seize and he feels that familiar stupidity, what a stupid fucking thing to panic over - not killing, not gun shots, not fighting - but losing people. 

“Hey,” you say, pressing a steadying hand to his arm. “It’s okay. What’s got you bothered?” 

He reminds himself that you already know about the panic even if it’s never been directly addressed, and it hasn’t been too much for you yet. 

“You’ve -,” it comes out in a gasp and so he stops, takes a minute to breathe, to ground himself against your fingers when they tangle with his. “You keep batting me back, honey. It’s okay. Just don’t leave. I meant it but it doesn't have to mean anything to you.” 

“You think I’m gonna leave?” You ask quietly, “Why? I’m always thinkin’ the same thing about you, Benny.”

His head thumps back against the headrest. “Something’s wrong with me,” he says. “Don’t know what.” One hand rubbing at his chest like it might help the ache ease. 

~

You give Benny a moment to collect himself, for his breathing to even out, for the shake in his hands that he normally tries not to let you see to stop. 

“When did it start?” 

“We - fucked up mission in - we lost someone. Ever since it's like - I start thinkin’ I’m gonna lose everyone, everything. Got better since I met you.” He glances at you, shakes his head. “Comes and goes, I guess. But anytime it feels like something’s changing or someone is pulling back it’s like - fuck - it’s like I can’t stop seeing blood.” 

“You think you’re gonna lose me?” 

Benny laughs, his hyena-like wild laugh that you’ve come to love more than anything, “Yeah. Yeah, all the time,” he says. “You have a way of just - you keep knocking me back. You don’t want anything to do with what’s important to me - like you don’t really want anything to do with me and -,” 

“Benny you aren’t exactly…you aren’t someone who stays. But you stay with your friends.” You squeeze his fingers, “I would rather be your friend - so I can keep you.” 

He stares at you, wide blue eyes tracking your every minute move, adding up what you just said in his mind. You look away from his eyes. “You have a couple things you keep close - I don’t fit into that. And I’ve lost people before. I’m alone and I don’t want to keep being that way. I would rather keep you like this.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “And what if that’s bullshit? You fit in just fine. Too well maybe. You never said shit because you thought what? I’m feeling casual about you?” He huffs out a sigh. “I spend every goddamn free second I have with you, or thinking about you. Not just anyone I’d start reading for. You know what it took for me to find that fucking book for you? God it was worse than chasing down fugitives.” 

You scoff dismissively, not willing to believe yourself special. You’ve heard that one before. “Yeah, I know how guys like you are, hon. I know.”

“The fuck’s that mean?” He says, not really a question, turning fully to you, pushing you back into your seat, hands lifting to frame your face, large and hot and calloused against your skin. “Lemme tell you something, honey, it only took me a couple hours to know you weren’t something I’d be able to forget.” His eyes flick over your face, “Nah. Never. You are one of my constants.” 

“Oh yeah? And what makes me so special?” You say with a roll of your eyes. 

“Well for one you just punched the shit out of someone for me,” he says. “And just about everything else. Everything we get up to. We compliment each other. You understand me. We have fun together and you never tell me to be quiet even when I probably fuckin’ should be. You’re my best friend too.” 

You reach up and hook one hand against his wrist, trace your thumb over the veins there, softening a bit. “Serious?”

“Yeah. Fuck, yes.” 

You nod and move your other hand to his chest. “You punched the shit out of someone for me too.” 

“Shoulda happened a long time ago.” 

You smile at that and then frown. “You should talk to Will. About the panic attacks. It’s okay that you’re going through something. We’re here for you. But no one’s going anywhere. Not me, not anyone.” 

“I’m not either,” he says, ignoring your suggestion for the moment, clearly not wanting to think about the panic attacks or his brother. “I’m not going anywhere either. Trust that.” 

And you do. 

Benny’s never lied to you and he certainly isn’t cruel. You tug him closer, press your forehead to his and breathe him in until he seems like he’s back to himself. 

The closeness is familiar. It doesn’t feel strange to be wrapped up in him like this, you and Benny are this close all the time and it’s always felt right, natural. 

“You want me, babe,” he says suddenly, only ruining the moment slightly, and you hear the grin in his voice.

“Fuck off.”

“I heard you. I know you do. S’okay, I want you too.”

When his breath ghosts over your lips and your breathing hitches hard, he surges forward to kiss you roughly. 

Its a desperate kiss, one that sears into you, that lights your veins on fire. You push your hands into silky wheat hair, tugging at the strands until Benny shoves back the center console and drags you into his lap, presses you close and tight, his heartbeat matching yours. It’s a little awkward, your jaw smacking into his nose, Benny grunting before you find a good position, giggling the whole time before he’s kissing you again, the heat of him so good around you. 

Broad hands splay over your back, trace the line of your spine as you push your hand inside the collar of his worn shirt. 

But just as quickly it softens and Benny Miller is smiling into you so hard he can’t really kiss you properly. 

“Been waitin’ for this so long,” he says, his mouth brushing yours with every word. You jerk him forward by the back of his neck, pressing him as close as you can, laughing into him. 

“Have ya?”

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, hissing when you press your thumb into one of his bruises, a bad habit you don't want to quit. “Yeah, shit, I have been. Stupid gorgeous and puts up with my shit.”  

You grin, “Sure do, pretty boy.” 

He doesn’t correct you, just fastens those cornflower blue eyes on you and asks, “So you’ll be at my next match?”

“‘Course. Can’t wait to see you get your ass handed to you.” You pull back to stroke his cheek, trace a thumb over his bottom lip. 

He kisses you again and this time it’s deep and controlled and so good, familiar and unexpected rolled into one.