🍂

“The Miller boys are comin’ home”

Christ help us all.

“When?” you answer Judith from your seat right next to her at the bar. 

The older woman seems to stifle a chuckle as she admits, “This Monday.”

“Jesus H,” you scoff, “How long’s it been now? Years?” “Maybe since you’ve seen them! C’mon now, those boys love their mamma, they’ve visited since they enlisted.” Judith nudges you gently with her elbow.

She’s right; Benny and Will did take care of their mom when they could, even while away. On one of your many Friday bar and music nights at the Basque place on Main Street, Judith, who’s good friends with Ms. Miller, had told you someone named Frankie, who knew the Miller boys, had moved and settled over from California recently. He’s been here about a year now with his wife and young daughter. You’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him.

You’d kept to yourself mostly for the past few years.

Judith had been one of the few exceptions after your mom died. She was one of your mom’s best friends and simply refused to leave you to care for the ranch with no guidance.

She’s been a godsend, you have to admit. 

And boy, does it take a lot to admit. 

You pull your drink a bit closer to you. 

“Well,” Judith stresses, taking a sip of her own cider, “I heard Ben’s lookin’ for work.”

Your shoulders tense. You can sense it from a mile away. “Not Will?” You try to deflect.

“Nope, sounds like he’s got a gig. Might be here for a bit, but I think he travels for it,” she explains.

The silence hangs like dead weight you wish you could chuck off your shoulders.

“Y/N,” Judith sighs gently; she knows you know what she’s about to ask. Your head drops to look at your lap, suddenly finding the fraying on the inseam of your jeans way more interesting than anything else. “You need the help.”

You open your mouth to refuse, but she beats you to it. “No, honey, you do. Business is good for you! And that’s great! It also means you can’t do it all by yourself anymore!”

“But you know how the Miller boys are—“

“Were, Y/N, were. It’s been years, they’re all grown up now. They may be troublemakers, but it’s none of the trouble that causes any actual heartbreak. If the government trusts them with guns, maybe you can trust Ben with some goddamn cattle.”

She makes a good point. 

“Judy-“

“His momma would appreciate it too,” she adds. Another good point. 

You take a long sip of your drink. The condensation from the glass starts to drip down your thumb from gripping the thing too tight. It lands back on the bar with a quiet clink as the drink coats your throat with the bitter feeling that Judith is entirely right.

“I’ll think about it.”

…

Before you knew it, trouble was walking up the driveway to your house.

Goddamn Judith and her persuasion skills.

He looks…

Well he looks fuckin’ beautiful. Tall and handsome and built like a draft horse. Which…is probably exactly what you’re looking for, and definitely a far cry from the Benny you knew in high school. 

But the shine of those blue eyes hasn’t changed somehow, neither has that smile. 

That smile could charm anyone in their right mind. You’re already starting to pray they don’t get to you. 

And now Benjamin Miller is sitting at your dining room table, looking over an employment contract. 

“Do I need to have my lawyer review this?” he asks, holding up the front page in the air. 

“I mean, by all means you’re welcome to,” you tell him in sincerity.

He chuckles and shakes his head, “That was a joke, Y/N.”

Your shoulders tense at the awkward air now in the room. “Right,” you whisper out, teeth clenched. 

“I mean, I don’t even know any lawyers,” he says with a playful shrug. This pulls a quiet chuckle from you, and for some reason Ben feels proud of himself at that.

“I guess that’s a good sign, then,” you respond. He hums in agreement before looking back down at the contract in front of him. 

You give him a few minutes to look it over. He asks a few questions here and there but it’s simple. Nothing he can’t handle. He worked on a cousin’s ranch for a bit before enlisting. You’re both sure he’ll pick it back up again in no time. 

“You have a place down here yet?” you ask, the thought suddenly hitting the forefront of your brain. 

“I was gonna figure that out eventually. Paycheck needed to come first I guess,” he pauses. That smile again. Then, his features turn softer, more sincere as he speaks, “Thanks for this…really.”

Your chest tightens at his words.

As you look at him from across the table, you’re not sure he’ll be trouble at all. 

“Of course, Benny-“ You watch his smile turn a little bit warmer at the nickname, you try to shake off the feeling it lights in your stomach. “It’s no problem,” you assure him. 

Silence settles over the room as he nods at you once more. The only interruption being the quiet scratch of his pen along the dotted line.

“Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“I have a spare room, if…if you need a place. If nothing else works out.”

Benny shrinks back in his chair, and you quickly catch the barely-there flash of hesitation in his eyes. Oh, that was way too forward of you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ you reach a hand out in a gesture of explanation but he stops you with one of his own.

“No, it’s okay. I uhh…I’ll keep it in mind.”

…

“How’s the job?” Will’s voice cracks through the speaker of Benny’s phone. 

“It’s uhh…interesting.” Benny’s got his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear while he sits in his mom’s old lounge chair. It threatens to fall at any moment as he ties the laces of his boots. 

“Now…is the job interesting? Or the girl?” Fucking hell.

“Shut up man-“

“Don’t dodge the question, Benny.”

The younger brother sighs, his hands dropping the now-tied laces. He grabs his phone from its precarious position now that he has a free hand. He’d use the speaker, but he’s not sure if his mom is awake yet. 

Will sits in silence on the other line, content to wait for whatever his little brother comes up with as an answer.

“Job is…normal, it’s a ranch, it’s not that complicated. One of the horses does not like me, though….little fucker,” Benny whispers the tail end of his sentence. He and Will have never been ones to curse in their mother’s earshot. 

Will hums at his brother, waiting for the real answer. 

“Well…uh…She’s…different from how I remember her.”

“How?” 

“She used to be a lot more…,” Benny’s thoughts peter out as he looks for the right way to describe you. As he ruminates on it, he walks down the hallway to the front entrance to the house.

Something catches his attention in his periphery. 

It’s a frame with two photos; him and Will, sitting tall with a cap and gown draped over them, their high school’s insignia stitched onto the front right side of the gown. 

It hits him.

“Do you remember…my junior year, there was that party in the hills?” Benny starts.

“Gonna need a bit more than that in terms of description—“

“Fuck off,” Ben whispers again. Will did always know how to strike that little sibling nerve in him. “It was the one where that guy had that police radio? We’d pick up and move the party over county lines to fuck with their jurisdiction rules?”

“Oh…yeah,” Will recollects, “That shit was smart, crazy, but smart.”

“Yeah, that was her idea,” Benny scoffs with a smile, walking past the picture frames and to the closet by the front door.

He still..to this day…does not know how you came up with that, and how it worked.

“And now she’s….she handed me a contract to sign, and I’ve been working for 3 weeks and I’ve barely gotten a sentence out of her that isn’t about the ranch.”

Will hums at his brother’s words.

He can sense in Benny’s voice that, even if he isn’t explicitly asking for it, he wants advice. Benny’s a talker. And Will knows that you barely making a peep in the face of Benny’s many many attempts to get you to say more is driving Benny up the goddamn wall. 

“Maybe just…keep talking about the ranch? Something is bound to catch.”

“I don’t know, man I—“

“Benny, You’ll get her talkin’,” Will assures. “If anyone can break her back out of her shell, it’s you.” 

Benny sits in the silence after his brother’s words. 

“Thanks, man.”

“’S no sweat, Benny.”

Benny finally opens the coat closet, grabbing his jacket from the inside. He’ll have to remind his mom that she doesn’t need to hang his coats up when he uses the same one every day. 

“Well,” Ben huffs as he grabs his keys from the hook, “Anything on your end? Any women to be worried about?”

“If you count Pope talking my ear off about being in town soon, then yes,” Will chuckles.

“A match made in heaven,” Ben teases as he swings the door open. The crisp early-spring air hits his face, knocking out any sense of drowsiness that may have lingered. He hopes you have coffee for him again this morning, though. Even though he doesn’t need the caffeine, it helps with the cold. 

A chuckle from Will pulls him out of his train of thought, “That it is, brother. I’m sure he’ll all tell us when he plans to grace our humble town with his presence.”

“Can’t wait,” Benny smiles.

Will and Benny converted Frankie to this place. So far the pilot loves it, and the brothers are on a mission to get Tom and Santi here too. 

One step at a time.

“Well, I gotta get to work.” The door shuts quietly behind Ben as he speaks, and he begins his walk down the driveway to his truck parked behind his Mom’s car.

“All good, man. Me too,” Will replies.

“Talk later?” Benny asks. 

“Will do.”

“Love ya’.”

“You too.”

…

“Got it?”

“What do I look like to you, Miller?” you ask Benny as you watch him make it to the bottom of the stairs. You’re on your way to the same steps, a hefty cardboard box in your hands. It’s heavy, yes, but you do your fair share of lifting around the ranch. 

“A capable woman,” he quips back at you. Always one to keep the mood light. 

It gets a chuckle out of you, though, as you decide to quip back, “Damn right,” with a smile. 

Benny’s almost ever-present smirk stretches into a smile at your words.

He’s slowly wearing you down. Your tone is much more casual with him, you no longer act like he’s going to bite you. Yet, you still barely talk. Slowly but surely. 

As you whisper a quiet, “Thank you,” when you pass by him, Benny feels more and more secure in his decision.

Initially, at your first offer of housing, Benny had felt like a burden. You’d already basically handed him a job on a silver platter; housing on top of that? It would be too much. 

But then about two weeks ago, you both had been sitting on the back porch of your house, looking out at the sunset just dipping below the mountains. 

Benny had been nursing the cup of hot cider you’d brought him.

For the cold, you had said. 

Benny had sat there, looking at that sunset with you…confused. He just couldn’t seem to get you to relax around him, not fully. You always had this tension in your shoulders, you always looked like you could say something, but chose not to.

But then you would save him a cup of coffee when he got to the ranch, you had given him cider for the cold that night, a pair of old work gloves that were your dad’s. 

He didn’t get it. He got it even less so when out of nowhere you’d asked, “So, you still with your mom?”

Benny shuffled around in his seat at the unexpected question. 

“Yeah…finding a place has been uh…hard,” he admitted.

He loves his mother to death. That was not the problem.

He’s just a grown-ass man. And no matter how much you love your parent, living with them as an adult for any period of time does inflict some psychological damage.

You had sat in silence, as you tended to do in conversation with Benny over the past month.

The cool spring breeze whistled through the empty spaces of the wooden porch railing. Your rocking chair squeaked along the deck as you moved. Benny heard the distant bells of the cattle ringing as they swayed along to wherever they so pleased.

It was peaceful, beautiful, warm despite the loss of the rays of sunlight behind the silhouette of the mountains.

Your voice had cut through and disturbed Benny’s peace in a way that he had soon become so appreciative of, in a way that only you could.

“Why don’t you just take the spare room? Just…we can work the rest out later, but…you can just get settled.”

The voice in the back of Benny’s psyche had immediately reared its ugly head.

You’re taking too much already, you’re taking too much, you don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve it.

“It’s easy, for both of us,” you took a slow sip of your cider from a well-loved 4H mug, “It’s uhh…nice having you around, Benny.”

Benny felt like he had nearly choked. For a second, not even a full one, Benny saw the tension ease in your shoulders. His lips curled into a smile.

“It’s nice being around, Y/N.”

One step at a time. 

And now he’s watching as you lift another box of his belongings out of his truck and carry it into your own house.

You don’t deserve this, it’s too much, it’s too nice, it’s—

“You okay?”

He realizes he’s paused at the doorway, looking right at you. 

“Y-yeah,” he manages. You can see straight through him; something is bugging him, hiding right behind his eyes. So you do what you can.

“Two more boxes and we fix up some lunch?” 

Benny feels like he can take a full, deep breath. How do you do that?“I’d love that,” he says softly. 

“Alright, let me just haul this upstairs then,” you respond with ease, squinting up at him through the bright rays of sunlight that make it through the branches of the Cottonwood trees as you start walking towards the front door again.

You’re almost past Benny when you hear a gentle call of your name. You turn to the tall man beside you. His gaze is magnetic, but nevertheless, softer than you would’ve expected.

“Thank you.”

“‘F Course, Ben.”

… 

Benny almost gives himself whiplash with the force that he launches upright in bed. His heartbeat is beating at his ribcage, the muscle threatening to break loose from his chest.

Sweat drips down his forehead, he’s panting like a fucking racehorse. Benny’s head is threatening to crack under its own internal pressure.

He has to tell himself where he is.

Even in the dark, he can see the white-painted paneling of the walls. His eyes drift over to the open window, the moonlight from the half moon pouring through it providing the only hint of illumination. He sees the cottonwood tree outside; its gentle leaves shift in the breeze as it flows through to the branches to the thin, blue curtains. The fabric ripples like water. He’s home. He’s not there. He’s home. His breath starts to slow. He’s home. The ache in his chest slowly eases. He’s not there. He’s home.

He’s….in your home. 

It’s…his home too, he has to remind himself. It’s taking some getting used to but…it feels the closest to a home compared to what he’s had for the last several years. 

The bed is so comfortable.

Too comfortable. For the first time in forever, Benny hadn’t woken up with the perpetual ache in his back that’s a given when sleeping on a cot—or Will or Santi’s couch.

And sometimes, on a night like tonight, it bothers him.

Ben has accepted that when his brain wakes him up like this, lingers on the fear and the discomfort and the now-normal abnormal that he’s been getting used to, sleep will evade him.

So, Benny swings his legs out of bed. His feet meet the cold wood of the floors. They creak as he stands. Old ass house. The man’s arms swing up above his head, reaching for the ceiling in a stretch. As his arms settle back at his sides, he tries to take a deep breath. And again. And again. He manages it half-way– his heart rate starts to calm, but the air doesn’t reach into every crevice of his lungs. It leaves him unsatisfied, yet unsurprised. 

Ben’s feet lead him as quietly as he can manage to the door of his bedroom. His fingers wrap around the brass doorknob, and he opens the door at the precise speed he discovered would not make it squeal like a prized hog at auction. 

He steps slowly, still a little disoriented from his sudden alertness, towards the bathroom door when his periphery catches something.

The light is still on downstairs. You never leave the lights on, something about saving on the electricity bill any way you can. 

What the fuck are you doing awake at this hour? Time for Benny to find out, even if it’s none of his business.

His hands smooth down the wood of the railing as he descends the stairs. The light from the kitchen floods his vision as he gets closer, and then he finally spots you. Sat at the kitchen table, you’ve got your computer in front of you, a mug of tea next to it, and about 3 stacks of paper surrounding you. 

You turn your head towards him, having heard the stairs as they creaked under his weight. 

“Benny?” He hums back at you. “What are you doing awake?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he responds, notably dodging your question in replacing it with his. 

You stifle down the urge to scoff at the obvious deflection, but you decide not to push it.

Benny walks over to the counter, and, grabbing a water glass, haphazardly fills it under the sink. Taking a sip that eases his dry throat, he shuffles over to the chair across from you and plops down into it. You squint your eyes in what Benny is pretty sure is confusion or maybe even uncertainty as he sits. 

“Working on my books,” you finally admit quietly, your eyes flitting back down to the spreadsheet open on your computer. 

Benny nods in acknowledgment. Now that he’s facing you, he looks you over.

Your hair is down but unkempt, surely from your restless hands raking through it. Your shoulders are curled in, but they still remain too close to your ears with tension. The warm light from the hanging lamp above is only highlighting the dark circles settling under your eyes.

Benny’s chest aches for just how tired you look. So he’s made his decision. 

“I’m not great with numbers, that was always Will’s department,” Benny chuckles, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table. 

You take your eyes off the screen in front of you once again.

“Benny…”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you company. I wasn’t sleeping anyway—“

“I really don’t need you to-“ you start, leaning back in your chair, your hands dropping to your side for a moment in a twinge of exasperation.

“Well, too bad,” he states, shrugging his shoulders up. Like a thorn in your side, he continues with, “We can either sit in silence, or we can talk.”

He knows what option you’ll pick.

You don’t say a word, you just stare back at him blankly for a few seconds. You make a point out of turning your attention back to your work by snatching a paper from one of the stacks and placing it in front of you between you and your computer. You place your forehead onto your palm, hiding from Benny’s strong gaze. 

“Okay, Silence it is then,” he scoffs. 

That doesn’t last long. Not with Benny Miller. 

“Why don’t you wanna talk to me?” he starts. His tone is earnestly curious, but with a twinge of defensiveness.

“I thought we decided on silence,” you say. You know it’s a last-ditch effort as shoving off his request for candidness from you. 

“See?” he scoffs again, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration, “I get…nothing from you. Surface level shit but nothin’…nothing deep,” he leans forward again, his tone softening ever so slightly. The air in the room is getting thick. “I mean, hey, I’d like to be your friend but if you wanna tell me to fuck off and just be your coworker-slash-roommate then that’s fine, but at least put me out of my misery, sweetheart.”

The nickname strikes a chord with you. You’re not entirely sure which one or what its pitch is conveying. Your gazes are locked, and god, his eyes are intense.

“I-...” You start to stutter out.

You don’t know where to begin. You don’t know how to tell him. It’s like he has the ability to force every emotion up from your chest until it all gets lodged in your throat and you try to swallow and shove it back down, because you’ve managed this long like that.

“I haven’t…” you start, your heart pounding in your chest with the pressure of finding the right words to say. You shrug your shoulders as you try to explain, “I just…haven’t had anyone in my life like…like this,” you gesture towards him, “in a long time.”

Benny scoffs, “What do you mean? I saw all those boyfriends you had in high school?”

“No like that,” you snap, “I just…” you close your eyes for a moment, taking in a sharp breath before you feel like you have to reach down into the lump in your throat and pry the words from your lips yourself. 

Why is it so fucking hard to admit?

“I didn’t have anyone after my mom died. There’s Judy but she isn’t my friend, she was my mom’s; she’s family…someone else..not mine.”

Benny watches as your fingers on the table look like they’re itching to fidget with something, your jaw is clenched with tension, and your voice is small…smaller than he’s ever heard from you as you say, “I’m not used to relying on someone else.”

Oh. 

It’s as if a light goes off in Benny’s sleep-deprived brain, and suddenly he gets it. He’s been there, not wanting to let people in. When you let people in, it becomes real, you carve a part of yourself and offer it up, one that you can never recover. 

Benny had to force himself to do that when his life literally depended on it, but he remembers a time when it was only his brother who ever knew what Benny truly felt. 

And by God, it was a rough way to live. 

But maybe…Benny can be that for you. 

He can sit with you while you work on finances, he can laugh with you on the porch as you exchange stories about your parents, he can comfort you, he can give you all that you need. He can give and give and—

A quiet sniffle breaks his concentration. Your head is now down and you try your best to subtly swipe underneath your eyes. Benny knows you won’t want him to acknowledge it.

He finds himself with a tiny taste of regret on his tongue. He does tend to come out strong sometimes.

But his eyes meet yours again, and they don’t hold obvious contempt for him. Thank god. He wants to reach over, take your hand in his and caress it in comfort.

One step at a time, Benny.

So he decides a quiet, “I know what you mean,” will do.

Your shoulders drop a centimeter or two away from your shoulders. Benny wants to savor the moment.

You sniffle once more, but your gaze stays set on him. There’s a glint in the (somehow still so) vibrant blue of his eyes. For the life of you, you cannot read it, but you see a storm brewing past the surface.

You obviously end up staring too long.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you hum quietly, the noise accompanied by a slow, hesitant nod of your head. 

Another beat of…admittedly comfortable silence. 

“You know I’m here, right?” He says, leaning further into the table. His voice is low, as if he fears you’ll startle like a deer. 

Your brows quirk, not sure if he means it. 

“You can rely on me?” 

Something blooms in your chest.

“Yeah,” you find yourself saying with a soft smile. “Thank you, Ben.”

He feels your warm tone wash over him, wrap him up in a blanket with a softness he hasn’t felt in…in forever.

How do you do that?

“No, problem sweetheart,” he smiles.

Your smile grows wider, and you let out a soft chuckle at the nickname. You drop your head as you laugh, not wanting Benny to see the tinge of heat on your cheeks.

“Now,” he says, leaning back and smacking his hands against his thighs. His back creaks as he stands— He really needs to get you some cushions for these chairs. He manages to stand tall as his feet shuffle over to your side of the table. His arm leans over your right side and gently closes your laptop. He sees you take in a breath, about to protest, but he beats you to it. 

“How about you rely on the fact that I’ll take care of the chickens in the morning, you can finish this then, and get some sleep now?”

You smile wider. How does he do that? 

“You—You’ve—“ your words are interrupted by a short yawn. You watch Ben’s I told you so look that he throws you. 

“You’ve got a deal, Miller.”

“Alright,” he smiles, the word seasoned with the hint of a twang in his voice. 

You stand to meet him, rising as high as you can manage against his over 6-foot frame. 

“Lead the way,” he gestures his hand towards the stairs, and you start your way to them with him right behind you. 

You make it up one, two, three stairs before you pause. Benny doesn’t have time to ask why.

“You wanna come on the rodeo cattle drive with me?”

He responds as if he was ready yesterday, “You know it.” You exhale with a smile, satisfied with his enthusiasm, and start back up the stairs.

You both soon reach the top, and you pause, turning to him to say a soft, “Goodnight,” before you two split to go to your separate rooms. He responds with his own, “Goodnight.” 

But you’re halfway through your bedroom door when you turn back to him.“Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“Why were you up?”

Ben’s shoulder slump, not quite sure how to respond. “You uhh..wouldn’t want to know.” He decides that’ll get his point across.

He’s right, you probably wouldn’t want to know. “You okay?” you still ask softly. 

“Yeah….yeah, I am.” 

For the first time in recent memory, Benny sleeps soundly. 

…

The dust is relentless, but it’s all worth it. It’s beautifully cold at night, despite it nearing the triple digits during the middle of the day.

You’ve been around dozens and dozens of people for 3 days and even more cattle, so the solitude of the fire in front of your tent is a welcome sight. 

You know it won’t last long, but you don’t mind. You haven’t for a while now.

“You want coffee?” a low tone asks from behind you. 

“At this hour?” you scoff as Benny comes into view from behind you. “I forget you’re nuts, Miller.”

“I don’t know how you forget it,” Benny jokes back at you as he sits himself down in the chair next to you. 

“True, that’s my own damn fault,” you say as you watch him lean from his chair to grab a longer stick next to the fire pit. He pokes the already charred and splintered tip into the flames. Sparks and embers sizzle as he rearranges the logs. One pocket of hot coals opens up, and you feel a gush of intense heat to your face. 

Before it becomes too much, Benny covers it up with the old black kettle. 

“I’ll take some tea though,” you say as the words come to mind.

“You got it,” he says low under his breath.

Benny’s frame twists to the bag behind his camping chair; he digs through its contents and twists back around with a packet of instant coffee and one of tea. He holds it up and asks, “Will this do?”

“Perfect, thanks,” you tell him as you reach your hand out to take the packet from him. 

“So,” Benny starts as he cracks the lid of his thermos, “how you holdin’ up? Your knee doing okay?” You hold back a chuckle at the motherly concern in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you smile regardless. “Knee is okay. Not sure why it was actin’ up the other day, but since we were on flatter ground today I think it helped give it a rest,” you explain, stretching out the still-slightly-sore knee in front of your chair. 

“Good,” Benny nods, pouring his instant coffee powder into the thermos carefully balanced between his knees.

“How about you?”

“What do you mean?” He says, smiling knowingly. One thing you’ve learned about Benny, he loves to tease. 

You scoff at his response, “You know what I mean, little shit, answer the question.”

“Alright woman!” Benny feigns innocence, throwing his hands up with his words, but he finally relents. “I’m alright. Kinda missed sleeping on the ground…” he says. 

You look over to him. His eyes are trained on the flames licking at the dark above it. “Really?” you ask, wanting him to continue. 

“I’m serious,” his eyes flit over to you. “It’s…it’s stupid but…I did it for so long that it just feels…nostalgic in a way that I’m sure is probably fucked up.” There’s a glint in his eyes. One he always gets when he talks about this kinda stuff. You’re never quite able to crack it, but you try your best to manage. 

“It’s not stupid,” you try to assure as casually as you can. You get a sense he doesn’t want to make a big deal of it. 

He just hums in response, but you know he’s thankful. 

You catch the kettle beginning to whistle. You beat Benny to it, standing up and grabbing a towel near your chair. With your hand wrapped in the cloth, you carefully grab the hot handle and lift the kettle from the burning coals. You take a step towards Benny and he stretches out his thermos to you. 

“And…Shit, I tell you what, it’s way better sleeping on the ground out here,” he starts. You’re not entirely sure what he means, and you quirk a brow at him to get that point across as you begin filling his thermos with the boiling water. You step back to your own thermos waiting in the cup holder of your camping chair. Once yours is filled, you place the now nearly-empty kettle next to the rock border of the fire pit.

“Well,” Benny starts his explanation. “In Afghanistan, they have these things called camel spiders. Awful fuckers the size of your fuckin’ head,” he holds his hands up to show the scale he was talking about. You shiver at the thought of an insect that big, letting out a short, audible Eugh. “If you weren’t careful, they could get into your Conex box, and let me tell you, you do not want to cuddle up with one of these things.”

“Fuck, I’ll take your word for it,” you throw a hand up in disgust. 

“We used to—“ Benny manages between his laughter, leaning back in his chair, “We used to have a fuckin’ tally as to who had taken the most out.”

“Jesus, Ben,” you shake your head, not being able to stave off his infections laughter, “A shrink would have a field day with you.”

“Oh, I know.” 

Silence settles over you two as your laughter dies down. You try taking a sip of your tea, but lean away when you feel the steam burn your lips before they could even touch the liquid. You watch Benny take a confident sip of his coffee.

You’re not sure where the thought comes from. 

“Can I ask you something you don’t have to answer?”

“Shoot.”

“What made you enlist?”

Benny’s eyes don’t stray from the fire. You’re used to him answering right away, and the delay is starting to eat at you. Just before you’re about to abort the line of conversation, Benny opens his mouth. 

“Honestly…uhh..I was chasing my big brother,” he starts, “Well, that was most of it. I think I had some grand dreams about gettin’ out of this place. I was gonna see the world, make a difference, and fight for my country,” his hand swipes across the airspace in front of him, like painting the grand vision he had as a kid in front of his face. “And I did get to see parts of the world, the shit parts, probably made a shit difference too, but what can I do?”

He takes another sip of coffee.

“And as for my brother…we were…alright growing up, but being in the army with him? That was the best part. Brought us closer than anything else could, I think.”

“You know…I remember you and Will being pretty close, though?” you question, leaning in for a sip of your finally-cool-enough tea. 

“Oh, we were still close, it’s just..different now. You don’t really have people shooting at you in high school to help you bond.”

His comment, seemingly offhanded for him, makes everything in you go cold. Your breath catches in your throat, your chest suddenly feeling crushed at the vision Benny’s words invoke: him staring down the barrel of someone else’s gun, a bullet whizzing by his ear in a near miss. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

“I mean not literally, no, but sometimes it sure did feel like it,” you attempt to bring yourself back to the conversation with the joke, knowing full well those two things could never be compared.

“Oh yeah?” Benny’s laugh comes from deep in his chest as he looks over to you. 

“Absolutely!” you start, relieved at Benny’s laugh, “You remember our prom? That one girl…Hailey…she had the audacity to wear the same dress as me after everyone knew I had it already. And stole my date to the dance. Who does that? Shit made me mope in the corner for like an hour. Pretty traumatic if you ask me,” you shrug. 

“Sounds like you still hold a grudge after uhhh…how many years?” He squints at you playfully. 

“Don’t remind me of my age, Miller,” you point at him with a teasing smile. 

“Yes Ma’am,” he pivots to avoid conflict, hands up in the air. He drops them a moment later.

Then, something slips out of Benny’s mouth. Based on his tone alone you cannot tell if it was intentional or just a slip of the tongue, but before you know it your cheeks are running hot. 

“I thought you were so damn pretty.” 

What?

Did you hear him correctly? You absolutely did.

Your brain is yelling at you deflect deflect deflect and you do the first thing Benny will be receptive to. 

“Thought?” you chastise playfully. 

“What….” Benny cocks an eyebrow at you. For a second, you think he’s onto you. You think Benny sees right through the casual facade you’re holding up. “You flirting with me now?” he provokes. 

“You did first, callin’ me pretty!” You point at him, trying to double down on being nonchalant despite a funny feeling settling in your stomach. 

“Alright, you caught me,” he leans back, relaxing in his chair. His frame spreads out with ease, taking up space in a way that you’ve learned to admire. “I was just trying to pay you a compliment, Y/N. You can take those every once in a while, right?”

You sigh. How does he manage to do this shit with such ease? You’ve decided to tell yourself that he’s just like this with everyone. 

“I guess I can,” you relent. 

“Good, cause I meant it,” he reiterates.

“Benny—“ you start.

“Alright alright, I’ll stop,” he chuckles. It’s like he likes to rile you up. 

The crackle of the fire fills the air for a moment. 

“Do I get to meet the rest of your friends soon? You talk about them so damn much,” you chide him lightly, changing the subject. You can tell in Benny’s face he absolutely sees through you. 

“Actually,” Benny draws out the word, “They’re comin’ to the rodeo.”

You sit up in your seat, scoffing. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“What, you wanna meet ‘em?”

“‘Course I do! And I haven’t seen Will in forever!” 

“See this is why I didn’t tell you,” he says before standing up again. He reaches back for the stick to poke and prod the logs in the fire. 

“What do you mean?”

Benny keeps you waiting for his answer. He saunters over to a pile of logs a few feet away. Leaning a hand down, he grips one of the logs before turning back to the flames. They dance in the air, accepting the new fuel as Benny delicately places the log into the pit.

“I gotta keep you away from Will. Can’t have him challenging my ‘favorite Miller’ title,” he finally says.  

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” you say.

The candidness in your tone shoots straight into Benny’s veins, warming him more than the fire ever could tonight. 

“Good to hear,” he smiles at you again as he settles back in his chair. 

And what a goddamn smile it is. 

Benny can rest easy tonight, satisfied with the red tint still on your cheeks; he’s sure of it. 

…

“God, this tastes like shit,” Benny leans away from the beer in his hand, his face contorting at the bitter taste on his tongue.

“You ordered it, idiot.” A smack lands on Benny’s shoulder from the man sitting next to him. 

“Yeah, missed you too, Pope,” the younger man says, still reeling from his poor choice in beverage. 

It’s hot as hell in Reno today. The cowboy hat sitting on Benny’s head does wonders to keep the sun off him, but the sweat dripping down his back isn’t the most pleasant thing. 

He’s had worse, though; he tries to remind himself of that. Can’t be going soft, now. 

It’s hard not to feel a little soft when he’s got all his brothers around. Fish made the drive in last night, picked up Tom and Pope from the airport. Benny and Will had made the drive up to Reno to stay with the three of them that night. Benny had been hesitant to leave you, but you insisted he go have fun with his boys before you crash the party on Rodeo day. 

“I’m sure you did, Benny,” Pope says, taking a sip of his own, obviously better tasting beer. 

“Look at you,” Tom jokes from his spot across from Benny, pointing at his hat and button down shirt, “you’ve gone full country on us.”

“Tom, I’m from here,” Benny says dryly as he watches Fish and Will walk back towards their picnic table with what he’s hoping is a plate of something greasy and full of carbs. 

“Alright, what did we miss?” Fish says, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light under the tent. Will settles in next to Frankie, and across from Pope and his brother. 

They did bring carbs and grease. Thank god. 

“Nothin’ much Frankie, Just admiring the scenery,” Pope smirks.

“Oh don’t start,” Frankie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah? You like it so much you should move here when you’re done chasing your own tail in the jungle,” Will chuckles low as he takes a sip of his own beer.

“Well…don’t keep your hopes up, that’ll be a while,” Santi points at Will. “But you all know about that.” With a nod, Pope suddenly turns his attention back to their youngest sitting next to him. 

“I was also just about to ask Benny-boy here when we get to meet his lady-friend,” Pope asks, wiggling his eyebrows at Benny. 

“Why do you sound so damn excited?” Benny shoves his shoulder into Pope’s. 

“What do you mean?” Pope shrugs, claiming innocence. “I just wanna meet the woman who’s been driving our poor little Benny crazy!”

“Crazy’s a little strong,” Benny tries to cover. 

“I call bullshit,” Will says casually, and Benny suddenly feels like a kid again. That defensive itch biting at the back of his neck. But he staves it off. 

“S-sometimes, “ he admits, “but….in a good way. She knows what she’s about.” Benny’s trying to keep a cool tone as he speaks. 

“Knows what she’s about? Sounds like she’s got you by the balls,” Tom snickers. 

“So, does she?” Fish jumps in, his low, quiet tone always a contrast from Tom and Pope. 

“Does she what?” 

“Have you by the balls, either metaphorically…or literally, we don’t judge,” Fish delivers, nearly deadpan if it weren’t for the little glint in his eye. Everyone, even Benny, breaks out into laughter at the sincerity in Fish’s voice

“No, no, neither,” Benny dismisses with a wave of his hand, “She doesn’t even know I—“

“Bullshit, Ben, you’ll flirt with anything that moves,” Tom calls out. 

“If she doesn’t know by now,” Will jumps in to his brother’s defense, “It’s not for lack of trying.”

“Bullshit, again,” Tom challenges, “You’re telling me you’ve been living with this woman for what—how many months now? And you haven’t fu—“

“No, no,” Benny cuts Tom off before his sentence gets too vulgar. “I just…I’m not too upset. She’s just…I don’t wanna push too hard, scare her away or anything like that. Took me long enough to just get her talkin’ to me. I’m trying a subtle approach,” he admits. The subtle approach is hard for Benny. He’s a lot, he knows that, and he likes to take up space, but with you… he’s learning a balance between still being himself and not trying to scare you off. 

“The subtle approach?” Pope smacks Benny on the back again, astonished. “Well I’ll be damned, boys. Benny Miller’s gone soft!”

“Shut up, Pope—“ Benny nudges Santiago’s hand off his shoulder, but he can’t help the almost-bashful smile on his face. Will’s own smile grows wide at the scene across the table. Oh, his brother’s got it bad.

Will understands, though, because when he sees you arrive, Benny relaxes in a way he hasn’t seen before, he has a sweeter tone, he’s making sure you’ve got a seat in the shade and a drink in your hand as you all sit down for the start of the rodeo.

Benny is a goner.

And Will’s curiosity may get the better of him, but he’s provided an opportune moment not even an hour later.

“Anyone want anything?” you offer, standing up from the cold metal of the grandstand bleachers. You stretch your arms up briefly, reveling in the opportunity to do so with a break in the action. Your back is starting to ache with no support, and you’re feeling a bit peckish anyway.

That and…Benny’s friends are nice, you’re happy to get this glimpse into the most important people in his life, but… you just… need a second.

You feel like you’re under a microscope and four former green-berets are on the other end. 

“I’ll go—“ Benny shoots up from his seat so fast it almost makes Will’s balance falter just looking at him. 

You smile softly and wave the big man in front of you off, “No Benny, tie-down is next and I know you don’t wanna miss it.”

Benny opens his mouth to protest, but Will’s hand claps him on the shoulder

“Do what the lady says, Benny. I’ll accompany her, I need a refresh anyway,” the older Miller holds up his empty cup.

Will looks at you, then nods his head towards the exit of the row in a silent request to follow him. The two of you shuffle out of the bleachers and to the main walkway. As Will reaches the bottom of the stairs out of the grandstands, you see him glance over his shoulder. His pace slows until you’re walking side by side with him. 

”So,” you decide to strike up conversation first, “how’ve you been? Ben’s told me you’ve got a place but you’ve been traveling for work?”

“Yeah, I’ve been uh…traveling around, doing some talks for the army. I don’t mind the travel obviously—“ Will shrugs his shoulders, “but it’s been nice having my home base be home, you know?”

“I’m sure,” you nod slowly. “You enjoy the job?” you continue as the two of you finally duck under the large tent at the back of the food area. Its grand white letters— branded Jack Daniels —promise what you two are after. 

“It’s…a job,” he huffs. Something pinched in his tone tells you he doesn’t feel like elaborating. You don’t push it. No need to.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m happy you and Benny are back here,” you offer, wondering if it can ease Will’s demeanor. 

“Me too.”

You both pause the conversation for just a moment as you approach the bar. Will motions his head towards the woman at the kiosk, insisting you go first. 

“I’ll take a jack & coke please,” you tell her. She smiles, tapping away at the screen in front of her. You look down to your front pocket, dipping a hand to retrieve your wallet.

You hear Will ask quietly for another beer and the swipe of plastic against a card reader before you can manage to fetch your own card. Fuck, army stealth shit. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you assure. 

Will sends you a smile, holds up his hand and says, “See it as a small thank you for giving my little brother a job.”

“Will, there’s no need to—“

“Yes,” his tone is insistent, but he still manages to be soft with it. “I do need to thank you.” Will turns to the side for a moment, accepting the two drinks from the bartender, then holding yours out for your taking. 

You take it from him and take a quick swing. You have to suppress a cringe from your face at the taste of all the whiskey sitting right on top of the drink. Taking hold of the tiny black straw in the cup, you slowly stir its contents as you start walking back out of the tent. 

“He likes it,” Will explains. He watches you nod slowly in agreement, but your eyes squint slightly with confusion. You know Benny likes working with you, living with you; he’s told you as such, very often in fact, so you’re not sure why Will is relaying it to you now.

He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to necessarily repeat something he or anyone else already knows. 

With his lack of a follow up question or remark, it dawns on you he’s waiting for you to respond.

“It’s uhh…” you struggle with a response. You’re not entirely sure what Will is looking for here, so you try, “It’s been nice having someone around.”

Will’s face doesn’t betray him if he thinks of your response any sort of way. But his feet stop their movement, and he turns his shoulders to you. You halt in your tracks with him. 

If he sported a different look on his face, the next question out of Will’s mouth would feel like an interrogation, but his eyes hold no malice. 

“Is it nice that it’s someone around, or is it nice that it’s Benny?”

You feel like your chest is tightening. That familiar wad of…of feeling settling in your throat again, clogging everything up. The terrifying ordeal of being truthful not only to Will, but to yourself about it all, about Benny, becomes unbelievably real. 

Oh, get over yourself, you think. 

What’s the harm in admitting that Benny has wiggled his way into your life like no one else has, like you never thought anyone could, and has taught you things, brought out a part of your old self that you thought was buried alongside your mom?

You don’t know what to call it yet, but you know you can’t let Benny Miller go. 

Then…the feeling eases. The wad becomes untangled, and you feel a tension leave your body as you say quietly to Will, “It’s nice that it’s Benny. Really nice.”

Will, ever the stoic, doesn’t give much away with the soft smile he sends back at you. But he doesn’t leave you to worry too long.

“Good,” he brings a hand up to your shoulder to give it a gentle pat before settling there, “You two both deserve that.”

It’s becoming more apparent to you that Will is more elusive than his brother. That’s something you think you’ll have to figure out with time. 

You’re becoming okay with that. 

“Thanks, Will,” you tell him in earnest. He gives you one more pat on the shoulder before dropping his hand back to his side. 

“‘Course, now let’s head back ‘fore Benny thinks I’m interrogating you,” Will chuckles low.

“That wasn’t an interrogation?” you joke back at him.

“Oh trust me, those days are thoroughly behind me,” he assures as you two begin walking back to the grandstand. 

“Bit of a hard-ass, huh?”

“Little bit,” Will admits.

“Is that where you got your callsign? Ironhead?” 

“Did Benny tell you that?” Will quirks his eyebrow at you.

“He did—“ 

“Yeah, he’s not entirely wrong, but I’m sure the story got a bit twisted in there.”

“Sure, I bet,” your sarcastic tone is accompanied by a smile. “Now,” you pause, pivoting as a thought pops into your head, “Ben’s told me your callsign and the others’ but…what’s his?”

“He doesn’t have one,” Will starts, “Benny’s just…Benny.”

You attempt a possible explanation. “Just too him for anything else, huh?”

There’s a look in Will’s eye that is gone in a split second before he says, “I see you’ve caught on?”

“Hard not to.”

Will hums in agreement. You nod your head at him as the two of you settle into a comfortable silence. 

You two finally make the steps back up to the grandstands. Will pauses, letting you take the lead back up to your seats. You start moving again, but turn your head back to him for a moment.“You should come by some time, have dinner with us when you’re in town again.”

The image is conjured in Will’s head: you and Benny, all domestic, inviting him into your warmly lit home, greeting him with a drink and a good home-cooked meal. He smiles at the thought. Benny deserves that. The kid’s gone through hell, and no matter what any of the other boys or Will’s therapist says, he will always hold himself at fault for it. 

“Yeah,” Will tells you, raising his voice slightly so you hear him over the people hollering as the next event nears. “I’d love that.” 

A satisfied smile settles on your face as you reach your row. The boys greet you again, standing up to make room for you to shuffle into the row. It’s a bit of a balancing act with a drink in your hand, but you manage to make it back to your seat next to Benny. 

“You alright?” Benny asks you quietly. 

God, those blue eyes are fucking killer.

“Yeah,” you nod, “Got a refill, and I’m with you, so I’m set.”

“Alright then,” Benny mirrors your movements with his nod. 

His hand twitches. He has to stop himself from settling it on your own free hand resting on top of your thigh.

“What did we miss?” Will says, interrupting Benny’s intrusive thoughts as he settles back in his seat between Benny and Fish. 

“Was just telling these boys I may have a job for you all—“ Pope starts. 

“What kinda job?” Will asks, squinting his eyes at Pope in a warning to be careful with his word choice. Pope glances over to you then back to Will.

“Just a Recce, maybe more but—“ he waves his hand in dismissal, “I’ll tell you more later.”

And that’s that. 

A strange feeling pinches at the back of your neck. You try to push it away, but the gnawing feeling of curiosity lingers.

You try to tell yourself it’s none of your business. Maybe Benny will tell you later.

There’s no other mention of the job the rest of the evening. But your mind has plenty of distractions, from the roar of the crowd during the final moments of bull riding, to the boys all singing a slightly intoxicated version of Take Me Home, Country Roads, joining the speakers that blast the song through the arena at the end of the event, to the way Benny shakes his jacket off at the first sight of a chill running down your spine as you all walk to the parking lot. 

The four other men lag further behind you and Benny, Pope and Tom still singing as they get dragged along by Will and Fish. 

“You have a good time?” Benny asks, the low timbre of his voice cutting through the cold night air. 

“The best, for sure,” you look over to him, clutching his jacket a little tighter around you. “Makes me miss barrel racing. I wasn’t half bad in high school.” Your shoulders come up in a shrug. The two of you slow as you reach your truck. 

“Shit,” he draws out. “I remember you were great. Could probably make the rodeo if you picked it up again.”

The flattery has heat pooling in your cheeks. He remembered. You hope under the dim lights of the parking lot, Benny cannot see it. 

“Saw you rope that runaway steer on the drive. Looked pretty badass. You could probably make a good run yourself,” you deflect.  

“So that’s what gets you goin’, huh?” Goddammit Benny. 

“Shut up, Miller.”

“If you say so,” he shrugs as he watches you dig your keys out of your pocket. Once you locate them, you look up to meet Benny’s eyes. He’s staring right back at you already, with an intense gaze that nearly knocks you back a step.

Your gut twists as you watch him open his mouth to speak.

“Thanks, again,” he speaks softly.

“For what?”

“For all of it,” Benny admits.

Benny wants to grab a hold of you, clutch you to his chest and never fucking let go, because he’s not sure if someone like you will ever stumble into his life the way you have, the way you’ve begun to consume all his thoughts, awake or asleep. He has no idea what he did in a past life to have deserved it, or if he even does deserve it. Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t in this life, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to let go, even if you’ll never be as close as he wants you to be. Having you around is enough, but god Benny wishes it would be closer. 

Closer than you are now, closer….oh, you are closer than before.

Benny is not sure who did it, who started leaning in, who grabbed the other’s hand first, whose breath started to blend into the other’s. But there’s no way in hell he’s leaning back unless you do, no way in hell he’ll let this opportunity pass him by, no way in hell he’ll—

“You ready, Benny?” Pope’s voice comes out of fucking nowhere, and as you jump and pull away, clearing your throat and bringing a hand to cover your mouth, Benny has never wanted to strangle Santiago Garcia more in his entire life than right this second. 

Benny tries not to let out the deepest, most frustrated sigh of all time as he turns his shoulders towards his drunk friend.

“I’m not goin’ with you, idiot. I’m gonna sleep in my own damn bed,” Benny explains, his jaw still tight with annoyance as he steps towards Pope to meet him halfway. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch,” he pats Pope on the back. 

“Alright, Alright, you little shit,” Pope waves Benny off with a mischievous grin on his face, “See ya tomorrow.” 

Pope turns to you, nodding his head and bidding you a quick, but warm goodnight before he walks back towards Tom, Will, and Frankie. 

Benny hears a quiet “Something’s got his panties in a twist!” from Pope as he joins the other 3 waiting for him. The others throw out Goodnight and Nice to meet you Y/N and See you around all at once. You wave and extend the same sentiment. You can tell everyone but Pope was at least sober enough to vibe check whatever was going on with you and Benny enough to keep their distance.

Right.

Whatever that was. You don’t even know how to unpack that right now. So it’s time to put that on a shelf until you can, if you even want to. 

You clear your throat. “You want me to drive?”

“Nah, I got it, you look tired.”

“Just what every woman wants to hear, Ben.”

“You know that’s not—“ 

“I know, Benny,” you reach out to squeeze the meat of his arm for just a moment. “Just bustin’ your balls. Someone has to,” you chuckle. 

“Fair enough.”

“But really, Benny, go ahead, I trust you.” You hold the keys out for him. He takes them gently from your hand, his skin sliding against yours for just a split second, and Benny wants to savor it. Instead, he savors the smile you throw back at him as you turn around to walk to the passenger side, he savors the feeling of the soft lanyard keychain on your keys. He hops into the driver's seat of your truck, and his knees immediately knock against the wheel before he pulls the seat back. Once he settles in, he looks over to you. You’re already nestled into the passenger seat with your seatbelt on. Your eyes are already getting droopier, your shoulders draw closer to the corner between the seat and the door. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, I need my copilot,” Benny jabs, his voice full of faux seriousness. 

“Y-yeah, I’ll try.” The fatigue of the heat of the day and all the excitement is catching up to you at a brutal pace.

“Y/N, I’m kidding.” God, he wants to reach out to you so badly. To hold your hand, settle his own on the warmth of your thigh as you drive home in that kind of comfortable silence he’s gotten used to with you. 

His hands itch with the urge. He grips the steering wheel tightly instead. 

“Okay, then Mr. Special-forces-I-can-stay-awake-through-anything,” you joke through a yawn that creeps up on you. “Get us on home, then.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he sends a half-assed salute to you before leaning over to buckle his own seatbelt. 

He knows by the change in your breathing that you’re out like a light before you two even make it out of downtown.

Thank god for your affinity for deep sleep, because if you hadn’t been knocked out, Benny is sure he would’ve accidentally woken you with the slam of the passenger door as he closed it behind him. His arms were too preoccupied with you, fast asleep and bundled up in his jacket. He manages to make it up the stairs, deciding to go back for the front door after setting you down. 

As he reaches your bed, he’s able to squat down and fling the comforter open. The fabric jostles as he sets you down into it, and he’s satisfied. 

He stands back up, and very very carefully manages to free your feet from your boots before he kneels back down again at your side. He can’t help the movement of his hand as it pushes a stray hair from your face. 

Benny should’ve kissed you earlier. He should’ve said fuck-all to Pope and the others and just let them see. But for now, he settles on leaning in and placing a feather-light kiss to the top of your forehead. 

You stir ever so slightly, but nothing breaks the deep breath of your sleep. 

Ben’s knees groan as they pick him up from the wood floor. As he stands, his eyes scan over your bedroom, dimly lit only by moonlight. He sees the pictures of you and your mom, of you with a fluffy golden retriever in your high-school cap and gown, of a beautiful sunset right here from the house.

He remembers when you took that picture. You’d stalled in your driveway as he waited for you in his truck to go pick up more seed and some groceries. 

Just to the right of that frame is a receipt from the main street Basque place. He’d recognize his own shit handwriting anywhere.

You had fallen under the weather for a few days, and you’d slept in till about 10am. You never sleep in that late, but Benny didn’t want to wake you. Your body needed the rest, and he could handle himself on his own.

Scrawled on the bottom empty space at the bottom of the receipt, he’d written “Caught you slacking’ today. You owe me a late start soon. I’ll start with the chickens.”

That was weeks ago, and you’d kept it. 

His chest hurts. It aches for the way you’ve brought him into your life, given him safety. Not just the safety of basic needs, like he’s so goddamn used to, but warmth and laughter and love.

Yes, love.

That’s why it hurts so goddamn much. And Benny isn’t sure what the hell he’s supposed to do about it. 

…

Benny’s entire body feels like it’s buzzing. 

He has to remind himself that he does want to go on this job with Santi and the rest of the guys.

Shit, $17k doesn’t just come along these days. He could use it—hell, you both could use it. And lord knows he would never let them go without him. He’s not leaving them a man down for the job. 

So why is he so fuckin’ nervous? He’s been shot before, faced much worse. So what’s the goddamn problem? Well…it’s you he has to talk to.

He’s been pacing back and forth in front of the counter for who knows how long. He knows you should be home from meeting Judith any minute now. 

What the fuck is he going to tell you? 

‘I’m going to go help Pope figure out how to rob and kill a Columbian drug lord’ doesn’t really roll off the tongue. 

He tries a few more times in his head, all with varying levels of…lying by omission, because Benny knows deep down he cannot tell you. He has to shove aside the strange, but very present desire to break away from what has been instinctive for so many years.

Shove it down. Just get to the point. 

His ears perk up at the sound of the front door unlocking. He has to hold himself back from bolting to greet you right in the entryway.

Instead, he slows his pacing and settles for leaning his back against the sink to face the entry of the kitchen. 

“Hey Benny!” He hears you call out from the front door. Benny’s ears trace your movements from the shuffle of your boots into the entry, to the soft clunk as you take them off, to the rustle of fabric as you hang your jacket up. 

“Benny?” Your head peeps around the corner of the wall. Your eyes perk up as you see him. “There you are,” you greet him with a warm smile before walking further into the kitchen. “Got some leftover lamb here if you want it.” You hold up a plastic to-go bag. “How are you?”

He just nods and mumbles an, “‘m okay, yeah,” at you. 

You set the bag down on the kitchen table as you look him over. The warm lights of the kitchen cannot hide how, despite leaning against the sink, his back is meticulously straight with tension. And his eyes, his eyes are watching you like a trained hawk as you move about the room. 

You pause just in front of the fridge, your fingers wrapping around the door handle as you send him a concerned look. “You’re making me nervous, everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah- Just…” he pauses, the words getting stuck on his tongue. His hand comes up to the back of his neck to rub nervously at the short hair there. “Got a question for you.”

“S-sure, what’s up?” You try to keep your tone calm and casual, but seeing him all…almost timid is strange at the very least. 

“Can I take some time off?” He decides that’s all the information he can give you for now. 

That’s it? He’s looking like he’s going to keel over with nerves for that? You’re almost offended, but you quell that quickly, trying to be gentle with whatever seems to be the root of what’s bothering him. 

“Benny, you know you don’t have to ask right?” you say, dropping your hand from the fridge and taking a few steps closer to him. 

“Yeah well, you sign off on my checks, so…” he tries to lighten the mood, but he can’t help avoiding your eyes as you grow closer.

“Okay, fair, but…” you shrug at his quite fair assumption, but try to assure him with, “Just…I trust you, Ben, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine for a few days. When is it?” 

“Thursday through Monday,” he says. 

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” you wave a hand out in front of you with a gentle smile to try to get him to loosen up.

Nothing. 

“You need me to drop you at the airport or anything?” you try again. 

“Nah, Will’s got me,” he says. Benny’s eyes flick from yours to his feet, to the table, to anywhere around the room, never staying in one place for too long. He crosses his arms, squeezing his own biceps to help him get through this conversation. 

“Oh,” you try not to frown at his inability to look at you even though you’re two feet in front of him. “Boys trip?”

“Yeah,” he offers. Timid again. You don’t like timid with him. It’s not…him. “Thanks,” he says. 

You hum quietly in response. You just stand there a moment, only a foot in front of Benny, and you feel like your feet are stuck in mud, like they cannot decide whether to give up, go to bed, and let him figure out whatever this is on his own, or to reach out to him, push further until he gives you anything to work with. 

It’s not your feet that move, but your hand. It slowly reaches out to his right hand, untangling it from his own arms and firmly grasping it with yours.

You realize it’s the most you’ve ever touched him, at least intentionally. At least while conscious. You know he carried you to bed that night after the rodeo. You know he took good care of you, that he takes good care of you. 

You’re trying to do the same, even with the iron wall currently in front of you. 

You squeeze his hand a little tighter. “You know I’m here, right?” 

He nods, and finally finally there’s a hint of that real smile. 

His empty hand comes up to your face, fingers lithely grasp that stray hair that always makes its way in front of your forehead. He brushes it behind your ear. Your skin feels like it’s humming, hot to the touch with the slight brush of the tip of his finger against your cheek as it moves. 

“That’s my line,” he whispers, his eyes filled with…with affection.

There he is. There’s your Benny. 

And it’s just so like him to surprise you, to stand himself up tall and engulf you into his arms in a hug. One of his hands comes up behind you to rest gently against the soft hair at the back of your head. You feel yourself melt at the barely-there pressure of his fingers on your scalp.

The embrace is so filling, so everywhere around you that you don’t realize he dodged your question in the first place. Benny is grateful for it.

And he pulls you in closer. It’s almost too much. 

A split second later, and he’s pulling back from you. The blue of his eyes seems deeper than normal in the low light. You know there’s something still nagging at him, a storm still brewing, but once again, he doesn’t give you the opportunity to press. 

He fully pulls away, and you miss the warmth of him. 

His hand gently pats the side of your head one more time before whispering the softest “Goodnight,” before letting his hand drop to his side.

Benny’s large frame slips past you, and your gaze follows him as he pads slowly out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Benny can feel your eyes on him. And he has to fight the part of him that just wants to turn around and take you up in his arms again and just…not move until the goddamn sun comes up.

But he can’t do that. 

He reminds himself it’s just a recce, just a simple ‘how would you take out a drug lord in the jungle’ recce then he can come back to his beautiful little piece of life he’s carved out for himself. Back to you. 

It’s only a few days. You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. 

Just a few days. 

…

He must’ve lost his phone. He must have horrible reception. Every single flight for 5 days out of Colombia must’ve been cancelled.

Those have to be the answers. They have to be, because if they’re not…Benjamin Miller is dead in a ditch in the jungle somewhere and you’ll never see him again.

It’s possible you’re just crazy, and there are 15 other entirely reasonable and logical explanations that have slipped your mind and you just skipped straight ahead to he’s dead.

But something doesn’t feel right.

Something didn’t feel right when Benny told you about the trip, something didn’t feel right when he’d hugged you so tightly before he left and told you to “Be safe, okay? Please?” You’ve been overanalyzing his tone, trying to think if it sounded like he thought he wouldn’t be back. 

No, you’re certain something is very, horribly wrong. 

And you need someone, anyone to think you’re not batshit crazy.

Judy was barely any help on that front. Hell, she was help in other areas; she’d come by to help you with the extra work around the ranch in Benny’s absence, but as far as your nerves? 

She’d told you, “He’s a big boy, he’ll be okay sweetheart.”

But still…every time she said it, there was a shade in her eye, a twinge in her tone like she was trying to convince herself as well as you the more and more she said it out loud.

With each passing day, it came harder and harder to deny it. And you wish she would just fucking say it. Say the reality and the depth of the shit situation. But you know she won’t. She’s too much like your mother in that way. 

So, out of desperation, you try something you know you probably shouldn’t. But you’re fucking terrified, so you’re using that as your excuse.

You’d asked Judy for Mrs. Miller’s phone number. 

And now you’re sitting in her living room, nursing a cup of hot tea you’d insisted you didn’t need but she gave to you anyway. 

”Sorry to intrude like this, I-“

She waves a hand as she passes by you to her own chair, a mug of the same tea nestled close to her chest.

“Oh, stop, you aren’t intruding. It’s about time you and I chatted anyway.” She lets out a quiet groan at the creak in her joints as she sits down, settling into the chair. “I just…wish it were under different circumstances.”

You mumble a quiet, “Me too.”And that’s all you can manage for now. You don’t have it in you to dump all of your anxieties about her sons on her unprompted.

“When was the last time you heard from them?” she asks in a quiet voice. You know better not to misconstrue the quiet with calmness. 

You have to muster your own voice to speak. “Will picked Ben up from our place at about 6am last Thursday. I finally got it out of them that they were going to Colombia, but they didn’t tell me anything else. I got a text from Ben saying they were leaving their connection in Dallas, said reception may be spotty, then…nothing.”

Ms. Miller sighs heavily, her shoulders dropping further into the lounge chair she’s seated in.“Sounds about right. They came by the night before to visit, I’m sure you know. Just said they were taking a vacation,” she ruminates.

You can’t hold back a quiet scoff in malcontent. Some fucking boys trip this is. If Benny isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere, and he does make it back, you have half a mind to kill him yourself after what he’s putting his mother and you through. 

You sense Ms. Miller’s eyes narrow in at you, sussing out the origins of your disgruntled state.

“I wish…Ms. Miller—“

“Please, honey, Shirley is fine,” she interrupts with a sympathetic smile. 

“S-shirley,” you start, “I wish I could be optimistic for you. I just…I don’t know what the hell is going on. And I know I don’t have any right to worry as much as you but…I’m so scared.”

“Hon’,” you hear that drawl in her voice, you hear Benny in it, it makes the perpetual ache in your chest worsen. “Don’t go claimin’ you don’t have a right to worry, and that’s that.” She says it in a stern, yet comforting sort of way, the way only a mother can manage. “And I don’t expect optimism, I just...I needed you here just to….” You see the tears begin to well in her eyes. The same sting starts to itch in your own. “I just want to—“

She pauses, looking down at her lap, and then she lets out an unexpected sort of chuckle.

“You know, when they were younger, I’d let them roam around all the time. It’s good for a kid, right? Makes ‘em tough,” she starts to recall. “Well one day —they were 10 and 8 I think—, they’re playing up in the hills behind the house, and I whistle out in the backyard for them…and,“ her hand comes off of her mug to flick her fingers, “nothin’. For too long. I was frantic.” She lets out another chuckle laced with tears. “I grabbed the neighbors and called the sheriff and we looked and looked and when we found them, they were just content as could be. They weren’t even lost, just playing in a fort they’d made with pine branches, wanting to be little frontiersmen. Not a care in the world.” Her tone turns melodic towards the end, it paints the picture perfectly for you. 

You can’t help but smile at the idea of little 8 year old Benny— you’re sure you could find a picture of him around here somewhere on the wall — wandering the woods, following his older brother as he always does, no matter where it leads him.

“I was furious with them at first,” Shirley carries on through her sniffles. “But the more I looked at them, the more I knew they didn’t do it on purpose, that they just…were off in the woods having fun, that they weren’t scared, I just couldn’t be that mad at ‘em.

“Both my boys are free spirits in ways I– I only wish I could understand. And right now…all I can do is believe in them, believe they’re out there in the woods somewhere, not a care in the world, just gone too long ‘cause they didn’t hear me whistle.”

Your emotion once stuck in your throat has moved up, tying your tongue into knots, you cannot will yourself to untie them and speak. No, instead you manage a quiet nod to her, to those blue eyes that she gifted both of her sons.

She shuffles a bit closer to you in her chair and wordlessly reaches her hand out to rest on the small coffee table between the two seats. Her palm faces up in a silent invitation.

Your hand settles into hers.

…

Benny should’ve kissed you when he had the chance. 

His feet squelch as they hit the still-sopping earth of the forest floor. The sound is a brutal reminder of where he is, but at least it’s a slight respite from the harsh scramble of the rocks down the rest of the mountain. 

He’s glad he went instead of Pope; his knees don’t need the impact of an extra day in this shithole.

Still, Benny is fucking tired.

He should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Because now there’s no fucking guarantee he’ll ever have another one. It’s why he’s wading through another stream down to closer to the village, sneaking behind trees as a car passes on the road, why he volunteered on this mini-recon journey in the first place.

Benny is sick and fucking tired of not knowing what he’s getting into, sick of having other peoples choices in the moment affect his life in a way he cannot get ahead of.

He’s not taking any more chances.

He’ll be damned if he looses his own life, his brother’s life, in addition to Tom’s over some fucking money. 

The soft pat of rain begins to drum against the banana leaves around him. Their tempo slowly but surely increases until Benny’s shoes begin to get stuck in the mud of the increasingly wet earth.

He’s beginning to hate the rain all over again. It’s incessant beating all around him cannot pull his mind away from his mission, though. Barely anything could do that. He prays to whatever god is up there that the boat is still there. He needs to get Tom home, Pope, Fish, Will. He needs to get himself home. 

He should’ve kissed you when he had the chance. 

…

The chickens are acting up. 

Their anxious clucks begin to cut through the quiet evening air, and that specific pitch stirs you quickly from sleep.

Despite the pull to stay in bed, you heave yourself up and out. You do not need another coyote getting into your chickens. 

You rub the sleep from your eyes as quickly as you can. Your hand finds the light switch to illuminate the staircase. There’s another creak outside. Its distinctness has a chill running down your spine. 

Your front driveway gate should not be creaking open.

Your feet, once they hit the wood of the first floor, instinctively carry you to your shotgun in the kitchen. Of all the things you need right now, someone breaking into your house is not fucking it. The metal of the weapon feels cool in your hands as you dislodge it from its chosen corner near the entrance to the kitchen. You grip the pump action, quickly ramming it back and forward again with a chk chk as you chamber a round. 

Your mind buzzes with a plan of action.

Sneak out the side kitchen door, head to the front, take whatever assailant by surprise from behind and run them right off your property. 

Benny would probably laugh at you, poke holes in your plan until the sun rises. But you don’t have the luxury of that right now. You shoulder the shotgun and slowly head to the kitchen door.

The front door lock snaps. 

Your body is turning faster than you thought possible at this time of night. Barrel of the shotgun raised, you point it at the now suddenly opening door.

“Not one more fucking step, I’ve got a gun!” you shout, not being able to see the assailant from your vantage point; the lip of the wall jutted out too far for you to do so. 

A shadow slowly peaks out from around the wall, not yet making its way into the light of the stairway bulb. 

“I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome exactly, but I'd appreciate if you put the gun down, sweetheart.”

You’ve never been more relieved and more furious to hear that warm drawl.

“Benny?” you question. His tall shadow slowly makes its way into the illuminated kitchen door frame. 

He looks exhausted, gaunt even. 

For a moment, you’re not sure if he’s real. If he’s some insane hallucination your sleep-deprived brain has made in his absence.

God, he’s been gone so long you’re losing it. But the gentle whisper of your name snaps you back to reality. 

“Y/N,” he walks towards you slowly. The barrel of the gun drops as your shoulders slump in disbelief. He takes a few more steps until he’s only a few feet in front of you. His hands dip low to slowly press the barrel of the gun fully away from him. 

You still feel like you’re seeing a ghost.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” You watch as his fingers slowly grip the shotgun and loosen it from your grasp. It thunks against the wood of the kitchen table as he reaches to place it there. “Now, let’s just go to bed.” 

You see it in his eyes; despite his calm tone, his eyes are pleading in their exhaustion to just lay down and sleep. His warm hand makes its way to your shoulder. 

That’s it. 

You shove his hand off of you, reeling back for a moment. “Benjamin Miller, I have half a mind to still shoot you,” you nearly hiss.

“Woah, I-“ he tries to move forward, hands outstretched again to welcome you. You deny him with another step back.

“What the fuck happened to you? You show up like this in the middle of the night? No text, no call, just ‘honey I’m home!’” you say in a mocking tone as your hands shoot up in astonishment at his audacity. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“Hey, I’m fine,” he tries to cover his fatigue with a nonchalant air. It only serves to rile you up even more, but his next words are the nail in the coffin. “Why are you so worried?”

A searing jolt of shock dances up your spine. It settles at the base of your neck, then, like a coarse rope, it wraps itself around your skull until it’s so tight you think your head will crack. 

“Miller, are you fucking delusional?” you ask, tone low but intense. Benny’s face twists into an unreadable expression. You’re not sure if it’s confusion, disbelief, dismissal, or something else. You feel tears start to prick at your eyelids. “The fuck you mean why am I so worried? You go on a boys trip and then you’re missing for five fucking days? Did you hit your head?”

Fuck him if he thinks he could return to his normal calm little life. He doesn’t get to go missing and come back like nothing happened. He doesn’t get to smooth over the fact you thought you’d missed your chance to tell him you love him because he was dead.

You want to scream at him. You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he sees reason. You want to hold him so tightly. 

“I’m. Fine,” he presses one more time. It’s like you’re trying to pry open the door that holds his true emotion on the other side. But he’s right there, doorknob firm in hand and fighting against you. “It doesn’t matter,” slips from his lips. Benny knows he shouldn’t have let it. He let his grip slip for just a moment and he reaps the consequences.

“It doesn’t…matter?” you test his words in your own mouth, your chest aching so deeply at their implication. “Of course it matters, Ben. You don’t think other people care? Your mom? Me?”

Some tether in Benny snaps, your words striking a nerve he hadn’t touched in a long time, but has been an ever-present nuisance to him. 

He can’t speak. He cannot will himself to. His jaw is beginning to ache with how tight he’s clenched it, his hands feel unsteady and he hates it. He knows if he relaxes for just a moment, it’ll all come spilling out.

So he walls himself off, his expression hardening. You watch it happen, you watch as his posture somehow gets more rigid. 

You let out a frustrated groan through still-clenched teeth. Why can’t Benny get it through his thick fucking skull? Why can’t this be easy? Why can’t he just tell you what happened? 

The anger doesn’t ease as hot tears spill over your lower lashes. As the first one falls, the anger twists into fatigue. Every nerve feels fried from this emotional rollercoaster of an evening.

But even then, the frustration and bitterness and tiredness cannot cloud just how grateful you are for the drawl of his voice, the smell of his leather jacket, the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Benny, I just…thank god you’re home safe,” you choke out, resigning yourself to the fact that you won’t get what you want out of him. Not now. “I missed you.”

Benny’s brows furrow. He’s dug himself too goddamn deep and didn’t put the shovel down when he should’ve. Because it’s easy. It’s easier to push and push and insist that it’s okay, that he’s fine. 

His arm aches. He remembers you haven’t even seen the wound yet since it’s covered by his jacket. You don’t even know he’s been shot. You don’t even know Tom is dead.

How the fuck is he supposed to tell you about all the bullshit and expect you to ever want to see his face again? He spends half his time wondering how he deserves to have you in his life, and this? This would be the other shoe Benny has been waiting for to drop, it’s the last domino to fall to show he doesn’t fucking deserve any of it. 

He watches your shoulders drop in defeat as you let out a sigh. 

Benny feels like he’s trapped inside his own body as he watches you move around him. As you’re nearly past him, one of your hands comes up to his shoulder. 

Your hesitant touch is so light, he barely even registers it.

And a moment later, it’s gone. 

He hears the quietest “Goodnight, Ben,” as you retreat from the kitchen. The floorboards squeal as they usually do as you pad up each stair. 

And then he’s left alone. 

How he should be. It’s what he deserves.

He carefully grabs the discarded shotgun from the kitchen table. His hands find the release of the chamber, snapping at it and letting the pre-loaded bullets fall into his awaiting palm. He leaves the ammunition on the table, and places the shotgun back in its corner.

As he makes his way upstairs, he freezes for a moment at the sight of your closed bedroom door. 

He should’ve kissed you when he had the chance. 

Benny doesn’t sleep a wink that night. 

…

There’s someone else here. 

Benny’s skin is red hot, drenched in sweat from his forehead to the small of his back. There’s someone trying to get in. He heard it. The twigs snapping, the distinct chk of gunmetal. 

His blankets are rapidly thrown aside, and his hands find the Glock he’s had lying on his bedside table the past few days. His palms quickly find a home around its hilt. He immediately feels only a small, fleeting sense of relief. Fleeting. 

You. They’ve found him. They’ve chased him across countries and Benny’s fucking led them back to you.

How could he be so fucking stupid?

You. Benny’s gotta get to you and fast. His feet bolt as quietly as they can across the hallway to your room. The gentle click of your bedroom door has you stirring. 

Benny drops his left hand off his pistol, bringing it down to point at the floor with his right. He leans over you, placing his free hand on your shoulder. He squeezes, his heart clenching at not wanting to scare you, but he needs you awake. 

“Benny?” you whisper, your voice coming out cracked and low with lack of use. “Y/N,” he starts to give your shoulder a little shake. “Y/N, you need to get up.”

“Huh?” you question, but let his hand lure you up. 

“Please, please, Y/N,” Benny presses further, his tone rushed but still quiet.

“Benny, what’s happening?” you let out, your heart rate jumping as you finally catch a glimpse of the gun in his other hand as he helps you out of bed.

Fear rushes over you like ice water, coating every inch of your nerves in alertness.

He doesn’t respond to your question. He just shuffles over to your bedroom closet, his grip remaining gentle somehow on your arm as he urges you over. His hand leaves you as he opens the closet door.

“Get in,” he whispers again.

“What?”

His arm curls behind you, trying to herd you into the small space.

“Just,” he huffs out, his voice still urgent and hushed. “Get in the closet, hide there, and don’t come out until I come get you.”

“Benny, what do you mean, why are you—“

“Y/N, Listen to me—“ he cuts you off as he guides you down to sit on the empty floor of the closet. Some of the bottoms of pants and dresses brush at your forehead as you sit in the dark, cold space. “Don’t make a sound, don’t leave, don’t do anything until I come and get you. Understand?”

“Ben, is there someone here? I don’t—“

“Y/N,” he bites, “Do you understand?” Benny knows his voice is more intense than you’ve ever heard it before. He can’t get wrapped up in it. He needs you to listen to him. He needs you out of sight and safe until he knows, until he’s positive there’s no one here. 

Benny hates being afraid. Many man hours have been spent trying to train fear out of him, trying to harness what’s left and turn that into focus, into completing a mission. But Benny feels the fear tearing away at him, scratching at the base of his skull and all those hours and all that training starts to decay with each second he looks at you. 

And it’s why, as he’s on his knees in front of you, he throws one final plea, one final beg in a whisper of your name. 

“O-okay, okay,” you relent. 

Benny doesn’t have time to feel relieved. He just nods back at you in thanks.

“Don’t come out unless it’s me,” he reiterates one more time. You nod, eyes wide staring up at him swirling with confusion and fear of your own.

Benny doesn’t have the time to explain. God, he wishes he did. Instead, he shoots up from his knees. His hands catch the handle of the closet door, and he slowly, carefully shuts it closed. His free hand curls back around the metal of his handgun. 

The pads of his bare feet are nearly silent as he paces out of your room. He sweeps your bedroom door almost closed, stopping just before the latch could audibly click.

Benny’s brain is working overtime as his eyes look forward, seeking out any type of movement while his feet place themselves meticulously on spots of the wooden stairs he knows won’t creak as horrendously. As he hits the cold wood of the first floor, he goes straight for the front door. His handgun is held up and ready in his sightline as he once again releases a hand to check the lock.

No sign of forced entry, lock is still locked.

Benny’s fingers fidget with the metal, clicking it from unlocked to locked. It’s locked. It’s locked. No sign of forced entry, it’s locked. He’s locked it himself, it’s locked.

He veers away, turning towards the living room. 

A prick of pain echoes through his shoulder as the sharp corner of the wall digs into it; he leans into the wood as he whips around to clear the first corner of the darkened room. 

One, clear. Turn, clear. Good.

Onto the kitchen. 

Benny can hear his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. 

Turn, clear. Turn, clear.

To the guest bedroom. 

He maneuvers on instinct. Each room cleared, until he’s satisfied with every room and every locked door. 

After clearing it all, he makes one trip to the front driveway gate. It’s secure. He unlocks it and re-locks it himself, just for safe measure.

Once he’s inside, he does one more quick run-through of every room of the house again. 

Only then does he finally, finally feel even an ounce of relief.

There’s no one here. It’s just you and him. No Lorea, no cartel, no rogue village kids. Just you and Benny. 

Is he fucking losing his mind?

He felt like he’d just gotten it back not so long ago. He’d put himself back together enough, then he found you and you helped him polish it all up. 

And now, standing in front of your bedroom door, his palm sweaty around the handgun hilt, panting as if he’d just run a marathon, Benny feels like he’s shattered again. Like he’s bundled all the broken pieces in his arms and he’s trying desperately to contain the inevitable spill. 

If he drops it all, the other shoe will drop. He’ll lose you. 

He shakes himself back to reality. 

He opens your bedroom door and pads over to the closet.

“It’s me,” he says, his voice just above a whisper so he ensures you hear him. He doesn’t hear a response as he kneels down on the floor and opens the closet door.

You’re huddled up, knees to your chest and back pressed firm against the back wall of the closet. 

Your eyes meet him the second he dares to look into them. They flit only momentarily to the gun he’s setting down beside him. Benny watches as you take in the sweat resting on his hairline, the rapid rise and fall of his chest that he’s trying to suppress, the laser-focused, piercing gaze of his eyes. 

“It’s okay,” he starts. He wishes he could soften for you, to while away the tears he sees gathered on your lash line, but his body is still on high alert, coming down from the adrenaline of the potential threat only to rise again as he faces you. 

“Ben,” you plead in a whisper. Benny hears the croak of your voice as you continue. “What’s going on? Please?” 

“Thought someone was breaking in, had to check the house.”

“And we’re safe?”

“Yes, you’re safe.”

Your brow furrows at his word choice. 

Benny can’t linger on it. He has to say something. Anything.

“I’m sorry,” is all he manages. Benny wishes he could tell you just how sorry he is. How sorry he is for shutting you out, for even taking the job in the first place, for walking into your life and jumbling it all into a great big mess. He’s so sorry for all of it. But the knot ties tighter in his throat, he reminds himself of all the baggage he’s trying to make sure he doesn’t lose hold of.

He’s praying that you’re able to gleam through his words that there’s something more behind them. From the way you slowly nod your head, he thinks you do. The touch of your hand in his as he helps hoist you out of the closet is a respite Benny desperately needed. He knows it won’t last long.

Your hands are shaking in Benny’s grasp. You’re up on your own two feet again now, and for a moment, Benny isn’t sure he should let you go, but he begrudgingly releases you. You don’t seem to protest as you slowly move past him, padding over to the edge of your bed before taking a seat.

He turns around to look at you. Your shoulders slump with a tired sigh. Benny’s own feel crushed by the weight of everything he can’t say. But he can’t do that to you. He can’t unload it all and take you down with him. 

But Benny manages something. He picks up his feet, walks over in front of you and before he can really think about the implications of his actions, he’s cradling the side of your face with his palm. 

Your skin is hot from the adrenaline of being dragged out of bed, but he can see that it’s wearing off as your eyes droop further back into fatigue. But despite it, you’re staring up at him with a swirl of emotion that Benny cannot begin to unpack.

He doesn’t want to think about it. 

So again, he doesn’t.

He leans down again and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. 

He can’t bear to see your reaction, so he runs.

Benny turns around, and walks right back to his bedroom, closing your door behind him. 

…

You already want to wring the neck of one Miller brother, and you’re mere moments away from adding the second to the list. 

“Pick up the phone, pick up the phone,” you whisper to yourself, your phone pressed tight against your ear. You’re at your wits end. 

You know he’s not at work. You’re pretty sure he’s not with Benny. 

Pick up, pick up.

“Y/N.” You hear the deeper tone of the older Miller greet you through your phone speaker. 

”Will,” you start, “Good to hear your voice.” Your tone is charged, you know that, but you can’t help it. Everything that happened with Benny last night was just the straw that broke the camel's back. You need answers. “You doing okay?”

He hums, dodging an actual answer to your question.

There’s a beat of silence over the phone. Will can figure it out, you know he already has.

“How’s Benny?” He’s trying a roundabout way. You can work with that. 

“Not great. Horrible actually,” you scoff, but the flat tone you try to push can’t cover the slight break in your voice. 

Will catches it easily. Something’s up. “Y/N,” he starts in almost a warning-like tone, “what happened?”

You let out a deep sigh.“Last night, he woke me up with a gun in his hand and told me to hide in the closet. He said ‘don’t come out until I get you,’ and then just disappeared into the house. When he came back, he just said he thought someone was trying to break in, said everything was fine, when I could tell it very much was not and then he just…went back to bed.” You barely hear the sigh that Will lets out. You can sense his hesitation to even speak. “Will, if you’re about to make some bullshit up, just hang up, okay? I’m-“ you huff. The irritation is building, exasperation spreading over your nerves like wildfire. “I know something happened in Columbia. You were all fucking missing for 5 days, and thats in addition to the 5 you had planned. Then Benny shows up like it’s just a regular fucking day. And now he’s waking up in the middle of night to tell me to hide? He barely fucking speaks to me, Will. Benny. It’s like I have a stranger living in my fucking house, and you’re all tight lipped. I haven’t even been able to get a hold of Frankie. I just need someone, anyone to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

The line is silent. You can hear him breathing. The longer he chooses not to speak, the more you think this is a lost cause. Maybe you’ll lose Benny over this. Maybe Will, maybe all of them.

“Will-“

“We were on a job. It went bad.” 

“Jesus Will,” you sigh heavy into the phone, “I knew you could be vague but you’re fucking killing me—“

“Tom’s dead.”

Your skin runs cold; your voice shrinks, “What?”

”Tom’s dead,” Will reiterates with finality. You hear in his tone that he doesn’t want to speak the words out loud again. 

You feel frozen. Your mouth goes dry trying to come up with the right words to say. “W-what kind of job is it where Tom ended up…dead?” you hesitate, choking on your words while you try to comprehend the truth behind them. 

“A bad one. One we should’ve never taken.” There’s that conclusive tone again. Will’s voice is as steady as ever, and it almost scares you how well he’s compartmentalizing it all. But everything starts to make sense. Benny’s paranoia and his deliberate seclusion. Your chest aches deeper than you could’ve imagined. He’s been grieving right in front of you, and you didn’t even know it. 

“I-….Will, I’m so sorry, I-…” your words come out thin, “ Wh-what can I do? For you, for Benny?” You wish you could be as steadfast as Will is capable of. 

“Just…Benny won’t talk about it,” Will starts. It makes you feel a bit vindicated that you’re not the only one that Benny has been tight lipped around. “If you can get him talking, he can start to heal. That kid is so goddam stubborn sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” you huff, lightening your tone a bit even though you know it’s futile. 

Will gives a halfhearted chuckle. You’ll take it. 

A beat of silence passes. 

“Will, if you need anything—“ “No, I’ll be fine, I-“

“Will,” you plead, interrupting him back. “Cut the bullshit. If you need someone, I’ll be there,” you pause for a beat, “and once I make sure Benny’s okay, we’ll have you all for dinner, okay?”

“Alright,” Will concedes.

“Good.”

“Thank you, Y/N.”

“Of course, Will.” 

…

The harsh crack of glass against wood cuts through the soft sound of your tires on concrete, it immediately puts you on edge. As you arrive back home from dinner with Judy, you finally see the source of the noise. Benny chucks another empty beer bottle at the side of the barn.

You roll up further along the driveway, up along the side of the house where the concrete driveway gives way to dirt, electing to just abandon your truck in the middle of the dirt road. Benny only seems to notice your presence when you swing your car door shut.

“Ben?” You greet him with concern dripping from your tone. 

He doesn’t turn to you. Not yet. 

His hair is a matted mess on top of his head, his shoulders pant up and down with his heavy breathing. He leans down to pick up another empty beer bottle at his feet. He swings his arm back, getting ready to launch the poor thing at the chipped paint of the barn. 

“Benny,” you raise your voice, sternness peaking through as it seems to whip him out of his stupor, only barely. His arm drops, the beer bottle now hanging loose in the limp arm by his side.

He still doesn’t move to look at you. He uses his own broad back as one last final shield.

You’re so tired.

You can’t even imagine how he feels. You’re almost positive he’s barely been sleeping. “Please, Ben,” you huff. You watch his chin drop to his chest. “You have to talk to me.”

”’M Fine,” He mumbles, finally turning towards, but only halfway. Benny has always seemed like such an open book. But as you hear that phrase slip from his lips one more time, the phrase he’s been chanting to you ever since he came back, you’re finally beginning to see the play of the century he’s managed to put on, the act that he’s perfected over a long, long time.

But he’s slipping. He’s finally slipping; every layer underneath that varnish is tainted and burnt, and heavy. And it’s beginning to crack under its own weight. 

You’re not sure how much more he can take. Not sure how much longer you can take. 

The curtains are pulled back, and Benny looks…scared. Like a lost child. 

“You’re not fine.” You hate to state the obvious, but you’re not sure what else to say. 

He scoffs, looking away from you again. He shakes his head before, without even a spare glance, deciding to turn his feet towards the back porch. He walks right past you. 

You catch a glimpse of the bandage on his left arm; it’s starting to make sense now, after everything Will told you. 

He makes it one more step further, two, three, before you let the words slip out into the crisp dusk air. 

”I know,” you say, voice shakier than you want it to be.

He stalls, but takes another step to push on. He’s forcing your hand, forcing you to back him into a corner of his own. There’s no option to remain subtle anymore. 

“I know Tom’s dead.” 

Benny’s whole body freezes still as a statue. But the stillness doesn’t last long. The red hot anger, no…pain that had been brewing in his chest, the pain that brought him to bring the bottle to his lips that night, that led his feet in front of the barn, that had tried to get rid of itself with each sharp clank of shattering glass against wood, with each brushing aside of you, was beginning to boil over in his chest. Benny doesn’t know what to do about it.

He doesn’t know what to do. 

Fuck.

”Ben,” you say firmly again.

Goddamn you, he thinks. You keep pushing and pushing and Benny wants to hate you for it...but, god, he could never.

“Leave it,” he attempts. It’s futile. He tries anyway.

You sigh. Benny mourns for what he’s put you through since he got back. He hears it all with that heavy exhale into the crisp night air. “You know I can’t do that,” your voice is on the verge of cracking. “Ben, just…tell me what happened. I want to help you, I-“

The pressure in him finally snaps, the weight comes crushing down. “Leave me be!” Benny’s body whips around toward you as his voice bellows from deep in his chest. “Just leave me be!” 

You flinch at the volume of his voice. Your body feels like it’s on fire, palms beginning to sweat as you bunch them into fists. You wish you could shake him out of this. Goddamn him for being so stubborn. 

But you’ve had enough. You just about stomp up closer to him so you can make him look at you, so you can stop him from running away again. “I’ve been leaving you be,” You look into his eyes. Benny wants to look away, but he can’t. “You don’t think me dealing with the fucking silent treatment over the past week is me leaving you be? Me not pushing further? Me going to ask Will instead because you won’t say a goddamn word to me?” Your eyes start to well with tears daring to spill over at any moment. “And even he didn’t elaborate, just that Tom is dead. So I’ve let you be for long enough, Benny. I can see it’s fucking killing you. It’s fucking destroying you right before my eyes, and I can’t just….watch. Tell. Me. What. Happened.” Your last sentence is firm, accented on every word like a command. 

“The Job went bad,” he offers vaguely, his voice trying not to crack. 

“That’s the same shit that Will told me,” you state plainly. The answer isn’t good enough for you. He’s hiding behind it still. 

“You won’t understand.” He gets defensive, hunching into himself like a cornered dog about to bite. He doesn’t want to do this to you. You’re the one thing that world hasn’t tainted in his life, the one thing that hasn’t been fucked up by either the army or himself, not that those two things could ever be fully separate anymore. He can’t let himself ruin you. 

So he bites. 

“I don’t have to tell you shit, alright? You couldn’t handle it. You won’t fuckin’ understand it because you-- “ he struggles for a moment, but sinks his teeth in further, raising his voice firmly, “You can’t fucking help me. I know you want to, but I’m not some fuckin charity case. I don’t need your help,” he lies. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, you don’t know what I know. You live here, in your perfect little life,” even he knows the jab is low, “and you think you can crouch down to my level and say something that’ll actually mean shit, when really all you’re doing is being a condescending bitch,” you’ll never talk to him again, “who just will not get off my case! I can fucking handle it, okay!?”

You pause. Your jaw pops on the left side, and you realize you’re clenching your jaw so hard that you can actually feel your fillings. In a moment of grace, and because you notice the deep regret in his eyes hiding behind indignance, you ignore the little ‘bitch’ comment. 

“Benny,” you start slowly, “do you think you’re saving me from something? From some heavy baggage you’re packing that you think I’ll run away at the first sight of? Set the fucking cross down. I’m not running. Let me help you.” The tears spill over. You’re still angry at him, furious for how he’s treated you. But more than anything, your heart, your chest, your whole being aches for how he suffers so silently, how he refuses to let you share the burden. 

“Y/N—“ there’s still anger in his voice, but the look in your eyes cuts him off. You’re crying now. Fuck.  

“Benny, please, I need you to…” your voice fades out, emotion getting stuck in your throat. You’re not sure what more you can say to him. This might be it. Maybe you’ll really lose him over this. 

Benny’s not sure if anyone has ever held a mirror up to himself like this. 

But here you are. 

Benny is angry at himself, furious. He’s spent days upon weeks upon years of his life telling himself that all the lacerations upon him, no matter who dealt them, were due to his own fuck-ups, his own negligence. But maybe he won’t drive you away. Maybe he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life in penitence. 

He’s tired, so…so tired.

His feet move faster than he can register. His calloused fingers grab a quick hold of the soft hair on the back of your head. As quickly as he’s tilting your head up towards him, Benny’s lips meet yours with fire.

You’ve thought about how it would feel to kiss Benny Miller more than you’d like to admit. You knew it would be intense, but god, it’s more than you ever could’ve imagined. One hand slides down to your neck, his thumb resting just along your jawline as he pushes both of you deeper and deeper into the kiss, mouths moving against each other as Benny’s other hand wanders to take a confident hold of your waist. 

His grip is almost too tight as he kisses you with such warmth, such fervent devotion. His kiss has made you intensely aware of every feeling in your body; the way his fingers squeeze and flex around your ribcage, the taste of cheap beer from his tongue to yours, the way your cheeks heat with want that moves over every nerve in your body. 

You move with him. It’s utterly overwhelming. It’s so Benny. 

You’re broken out of the spell only by the drop of salty tears that land on your cheek. You gently unravel your lips from his, looking up to him. 

Ben’s face drops. He starts to pull away, chest heaving heavier and heavier as the sobs start to build up. 

Your hands wrap around his forearm, not letting himself tray too far. Your touch is firm but loving. And you take him as he is.

Benny’s knees give out. He’s kneeling in front of you, broken down to his very bones by your touch. His arms weave around your hips, pulling you in closer. You don’t hesitate to lean into his desperate embrace. Benny buries his head into your stomach. You feel his whole body heave, shoulders rising and dropping as he finally finally lets go. 

One of your arms drops to his shoulder as the other opts to rub gentle circles to the nape of his neck. 

“It’s okay, Ben. I’m here. It’s okay,” you whisper. It’s a mantra Benny didn’t know he needed. 

He feels like the knots everywhere in his body have finally relaxed as he lets himself cry, his tears beginning to soak through the fabric of your shirt. It’s a cathartic release that Benny didn’t know he needed, that he’s sure he hasn’t felt in years. He lets his body shake and cling to you, and Benny is finally able to put into words in his mind what you are to him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says into you. “I’m so sorry.” You don’t know if he’s saying it to you, to Tom, to anyone or everyone in the entire world. But you accept the apology for what it is, and you hold him through it. You’re an anchor, a solid ground for Benny to land on. He needs you in a way he’s never needed anyone else. 

Your fingers buried in his hair, your soft skin upon his, your lips accepting his own: it all puts Benny back inside his own body where he’s felt like a stranger ever since returning from Colombia. 

He feels like he can breathe again.

He doesn’t know how he deserves this. You haul him up from the dirt after a few minutes, drag him into the house and set him down at the kitchen table. 

Your movements are second nature as you grab your 4H mug and the mug he’s claimed as his favorite, an old handmaid one that you bought at an art show a few years ago. It fit in Benny’s hands perfectly. 

His hands yearn to fit around your waist again.

Time begins to slow down. He savors every single breath of his, of yours. The silence is comfortable between both of you as you finish making tea. As you sit him down on the couch in the living room and grab firewood from the little bundle next to the hearth. You settle up next to him, not too close, not too far, and rest your hand on his own. 

As Benny stares at the flames in front of him, feels their warmth, the words start to tumble out.

“Pope had been chasing this guy for years and finally…he finally had a lady on the inside,” his voice is hoarse from yelling in the cold, dry air. He takes a sip of his tea before he continues. “So, he brought us in for consulting. $17k just to tell him the best way to break into the place and kill the guy,” he scoffed. You stay silent, worried you’ll scare him off like a bird if you make a sound.

“So…we look around, the place is full of holes. He’s got a wife and kids, but they’d be gone for church. It left a window to sneak in, and bam. It was perfect,” he speaks slowly, having to pull the words out of himself with all the strength he can muster. But the weight releases into the warm air in the room, freeing him of it all.

The fire crackles fill the room as he pauses for a moment. ”So we did the recon, drew up a plan, and we were good. Until Pope suggested we just…do it ourselves. No police, no military, no possible leaks. Just us and we take all this guys fuckin’ cash. And…we never should’ve done it. I know that now, but I couldn’t let them get into all that shit without me. 

”It should’ve been easy. We were on a timetable, we were good. But…Tom just…Tom stalled. Pope stalled. Stalled because of the fucking money even though we’d already grabbed enough. Then Will got shot, and it just—“

“Will got shot?” you can’t help but interrupt him in shock. 

God, both of the Millers are way too good at keeping their mouths shut. 

“He-he’s okay now. It’s a miracle, though.”

Benny keeps going, he tells you about the guards, Pope’s informant, the helicopter, the village. His own gunshot wound. Tom. He lets himself sink into the comfort of your touch again. 

Benny lets himself just be.

As he recounts the last details of the failed mission, Benny notices that you stick close to him, attentive to his every word. He almost hates to say that you’re right. He did need to get this off his chest before it ate him up inside, before it consumed him before his own eyes. His half-finished tea has gone cold in his mug, the fire has burned down to its embers, yet his hand remains in yours. Benny’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to thank you. You’ve become so..steady for him. Both of you have become unstoppable forces in each other’s lives. 

Benny’s hand doesn’t leave yours as he follows you up to his room. It doesn’t leave as he pulls you back from turning away, before whispering, “Stay, please?”

You don’t leave his arms until you have to nearly pry yourself out of them the next morning. You’re met with protest, Benny’s deep morning voice telling you to “come back to bed.” 

“Thought you’d want coffee,” you whisper back. 

He hums low, “You’re too good to me.” He pulls you back in closer to him, back into the cocoon of blankets and pillows and Benny that you’d slept in all night. One of his arms wraps back around your waist, keeping you tight against his chest. You’re mere inches away from his face. His other hand comes to stroke the apple of your cheek. 

“Hmm, no such thing, Benny.”

“I’m in love with you, you know that?”

And there it is, a pure, childlike joy springs from your chest, and like soft silk ribbons it wraps around every inch of your skin until tying itself in a neat, beautiful bow around your heart. 

Somewhere deep down, you think you knew. But this…it’s just so right. 

So you take a page from Benny’s book, shoot first and ask questions later, even if there aren’t really questions that need answering. 

You lean in, and before Benny knows it, your lips are on his. 

It’s not like your first kiss: rushed, needy, overflowing with words that Benny couldn’t say. It’s slow, calm, warming like the coffee you’ve made him nearly every day since he’d walked up your driveway. And what a day that was. 

Benny can breathe. How do you do that? He’d tried not to let any doubt he had about your feelings not eat away at him, but he won’t deny that, after last night, it had been gnawing at the back of his mine.

But no longer. You’re his, and he’s yours. And god will Benny cherish you. 

He’ll cherish the blush on your cheeks and the somehow shy smile on your face as you both pull away from each other’s lips, the way you decide to drag him out of bed with you, the way he lets you. 

Benny is settled behind you in the kitchen now. His arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. You cannot imagine it to be comfortable, the way his back is hunched over to do so, but he doesn’t let up. He just watches as you pour out the freshly brewed coffee into the two mugs in front of you. 

“Here,” you whisper as you hold his mug up. Benny reluctantly unwraps one arm from you to take the hot porcelain cup from you. He brings it up to his lips and takes a sip. It’s not like the burn and bitter shit he used to drink, either from the mess hall or from a worn-out, probably-been-shot-at thermos in the field. No, it’s smooth, cozy. It tastes like home. 

“Are you going to be this clingy now?” you joke, gesturing to his one arm still secure around you. He chuckles, the vibration emanating from his chest. You can feel it on your back as you lean further into him. Benny somehow squeezes you closer as he takes another sip of coffee. 

Benny’s home. 

And he’ll never think of leaving it again.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” 

…

“I got it, Benny, you’re not supposed to twist your arm like that,” you scold as you shoo him away from the pot of boiling pasta on the stove. He scoffs an, “I’m fine,” but relents, letting you lift the pot on over to the sink and pour its contents through the colander. He pivots to checking the sauce on the next burner over, stirring it around to make sure it’s all ready for serving. 

“I see she’s used to bossin’ you around,” Pope chuckles, pointing with his finger lifting off the beer currently cradled in his hand. 

Will shoves his elbow lightly into Pope’s side from his seat next to him at the kitchen table, but the elder Miller brother wears a proud smile. 

Benny’s seeming more like himself again. So are the rest of them. The scene in front of him is proof enough that you’re to thank. You and Benny move so effortlessly around each other in the kitchen; hell…you have Benjamin Miller cooking. Will never thought he’d see the day. 

“Can we make ourselves useful?” Frankie pipes up from across the table, seeing that dinner looks about ready. 

Will stands up from his seat, setting his beer down on the table. He leans over as he stands, tapping Frankie's forearm. “Let’s set the table, yeah?”

Frankie nods, standing as he asks, “Benny, plates?”

The younger man turns his head towards Fish. 

“Second cabinet on the right,” Benny points towards the destination. 

“Silverware?” Will asks.

“This drawer,” you respond to him, pointing towards your left. The next few minutes are filled with the comforting chaos of Pope folding napkins, the clank of silverware as Will sets it down on the table, Frankie lining the plates up all nice, the smell of fresh bread filling the kitchen as you pop it out of the warm oven, the tang of pasta sauce as Benny sneaks you a taste before setting it all down on the table. 

Will watches Benny place a fast kiss to your forehead before whispering “I’ll grab it, you go sit.” You listen with a smile, taking your seat at the head of the table. Benny follows suit, sitting down in the seat to your right with a wine bottle in hand. Once the wine bottle is secure on the table, Benny’s hand sneaks to your knee under the table. 

Pope tells you all he’s transferred to a consulting job in Sacramento. Frankie tells you his daughter has gotten quite interested in rodeo, wanting to learn how to lasso. You have no problem offering some free hours to teach her. Benny explains how your one horse who didn’t like him finally does (it took a lot of sweet talking and a few extra apples). 

The room is full of laughter. 

Will watches his brother smile. Really smile.

I’ve been here over a hundred times. Holidays, barbecues, stolen weekends. But never like this. Never with dread pooling in the corners. Never with silence pressing so hard against my ribs that I can barely breathe.

“Where is he?” Benny forces out, the desperation beneath it barely contained.

No one answers immediately. The quiet stretches, becoming its own kind of sound, one I feel in my bones. Somewhere in the back of the house, I hear the faint creak of a floorboard, the soft murmur of a voice.

Will appears in the hallway, his eyes tired and red, his face somehow older than it was when we last saw him a few days ago. “He’s in the bedroom,” he says softly. “He’s been asking for you.”

Before the words fully register, Benny is already moving, brushing past his brother, running up the staircase two steps at a time like he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he doesn’t reach it fast enough.

A door closes behind him with a quiet click. The house goes still.

“Did we make it?” I whisper, breath trapped in my chest.

Will nods. “Yeah. I think…I think he’s been holding on for Benny.”

Relief hits me so fast it almost hurts. A shaky exhale slips out of me, but it doesn’t steady me. It just cracks something open. My knees feel weak with the sudden release of fear I’ve been holding since the phone call, since the airport, since Benny went silent beside me on the plane.

Will lays a steady hand between my shoulder blades, grounding me. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you sitting before you hit the floor. I’ve had enough with hospitals for one week.”

I don’t protest. I don’t have the bandwidth to. My body just follows, grateful for the direction. We move toward the dining room, our footsteps suddenly too loud against the hardwood, like we’re intruding on a moment so fragile even sound feels unwelcome.

Mrs. Miller sits at the table, staring at a cup of tea that’s long gone cold. Her shoulders are tense, her breath shallow, like she’s been holding herself together with sheer willpower.

I cross the room quietly and lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Mom,” I whisper, using the name she’s always insisted on.

Her eyes lift to mine, red and wet, but when she sees me standing there, when she realizes we made it, something in her face loosens. Not joy, not relief exactly, just a softening, like one small weight has finally shifted off her chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes, her hand squeezing mine for a second too long. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Will’s wife, Emily, sits beside her, one hand resting gently on our mother-in-law’s arm. We exchange solemn smiles, the kind people give when words are too clumsy, too sharp, too loud.

Will pulls out a chair for me. I sit, feeling the weight of the room press against my ribs.

For a long moment, no one speaks. The quiet lays heavy on all of us, thick, suffocating, settling into the spaces between our breaths. The house feels like it’s holding itself still, afraid to shift, afraid to break whatever fragile thread is keeping everyone together.

Mrs. Miller keeps her eyes fixed on her cold tea, her fingers trembling just slightly around the mug. Will sits rigid in his chair, staring at the table but seeing something much farther away. Somewhere deeper in the house, the heater kicks on with a dull metallic groan, a reminder that life continues even when it feels like it shouldn’t.

I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. Every tick of the wall clock seems louder than the last, stretching seconds into something unsteady and sharp.

Finally, Emily lifts her gaze to me, her expression gentle, tentative, like she’s afraid anything louder might shatter the room.

Emily clears her throat gently. “Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Water?”

“A stiff fucking drink,” Will mumbles.

I smile weakly, then shake my head. “No, thank you.”

The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks. Someone shuffles a foot against the hardwood. All tiny sounds, each loud in its own way.

“How was the flight?” she asks softly.

I swallow. “Long. Quiet. Benny didn’t say much.”

The truth is, the silence on the plane had felt endless. He just stared out the window the whole time, jaw tight, leg bouncing, holding himself together by threads I could almost see straining. I kept waiting for him to say something, anything, but every word stayed locked behind his teeth. And all I could do was sit there beside him, pretending to read the same page of a magazine, glancing at him every few minutes, wishing there was something I could say that wouldn’t break him further.

“That’s how he gets,” Will murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “Whenever things go sideways. He shuts down until he’s standing where he needs to be.”

Mrs. Miller gives a faint, humorless smile. “Just like his father.”

I hesitate, then question, “How’s he been?”

Mrs. Miller’s gaze drifts toward the hallway. “Stronger than we expected. Stubborn as ever.” Her lips tremble. “He insisted on sitting up when he heard Benny was on his way.”

“That sounds right,” Will says softly. “Dad would drag himself out of the grave if he thought one of us needed him.”

Mrs. Miller’s attention turns back to the hallway, but her eyes soften. “He was always at his best when his boys were under the same roof.” She meets my eyes. “Thank you for making sure Benny got here.”

I shake my head quickly. “I didn’t do anything. He was already halfway out the door when we got the call. He barely even packed a bag. Just grabbed his wallet, his keys, and asked when the soonest flight would be.”

“That’s my boy,” Mrs. Miller whispers, swiping at her eyes. “Always running toward the people he loves.”

I swallow, voice thick. “He just…he couldn’t lose any more time.”

Will nods. “None of us can.”

Mrs. Miller looks at me then, not through me, not around me, but at me, seeing something she hadn’t needed to before today.

“Thank you,” she says, voice steady despite the tears. “For loving my son the way he deserves.”

My breath stutters, catching somewhere between my ribs. I’m not sure what to do with the weight of her gratitude. Not tonight. Not with everything trembling on the edge of breaking. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Will clears his throat softly. “He’s stronger because you’re here,” he adds. “Even if he won’t say it.”

The words hit something inside me, something raw. Benny had leaned on me in ways he didn’t realize, in ways he would never claim for himself. But hearing it from Will, from his family…it settles differently. Heavier. Realer.

I nod, because speaking might break something open inside me.

Another long stretch of quiet settles, but this one is softer. It’s shared, not suffocating.

I stare at the back hallway, imagining Benny sitting beside his father, talking, holding his hand, memorizing everything about him because he knows the moment is finite.

A selfish part of me aches to be there too, to hold his other hand, to anchor him through the breaking. But I know Benny needs this moment with his dad alone. This goodbye is theirs, not mine, and the only thing I can do is wait. And hope it gives him something to hold onto when the moment is gone.

No one talks. No one moves. We’re all listening, each in our own way, for something. Footsteps, voices, a sign that the world hasn’t shifted permanently in the last ten minutes.

I stare at the place mat in front of me. Just weeks ago, this very table held more food than anyone could possibly eat and glasses of mulled wine. I blink. My vision blurs.

God, it had been so alive here. So loud. So full.

The memory pulls me back without warning.

The Millers’ living room had been buzzing with holiday chaos. Decorations were draped over every available surface. A stack of presents sat under the tree. Laughter echoed off the walls like it was trying to outshine the twinkle lights.

Will cracked open another beer, leaning back with a mischievous glint in his eyes, his arm comfortably draped along the couch behind Emily.

“Did you hear Toy Story 5 is going to focus on sex toys?” he announced.

Emily choked on her drink. “What?!”

Mrs. Miller nearly spat out her own drink, scrambling upright as if speed alone could help her scold her son properly. “William Miller! It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

I didn’t even flinch. I’d built up an immunity to Miller male nonsense years ago.

Benny laughed. “Really brings a whole new meaning to the names Buzz and Woody, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Miller groaned, rubbing his temples. “It’s a wonder you two never got kicked out of Sunday school.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Benny muttered, lips twitching. I elbowed him gently, trying not to smile.

“That cannot be true,” Mrs. Miller gasped, clutching her metaphorical pearls.

“Which part?” Benny shot back. “Us trying to get kicked out of Sunday school or the fact Will believes everything he reads online?”

Emily nodded toward him. “Honestly, the Sunday school part checks out.”

“Oh, it gets better. I heard they’re finally going to handle Andy’s sex life while at college,” Will added.

Emily groaned dramatically. “Please stop. You’re ruining my childhood.”

I had my hand pressed to my mouth trying not to encourage them.

“Too late,” Benny snorted. Then, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone, he yelled, “Andy’s coming!”

Emily shrieked and launched a throw pillow at him. Mrs. Miller hid her laugh behind her wine glass, shoulders shaking.

Mr. Miller shook his head, but he was laughing too, big, booming laughs that filled the room. “God help me,” he said. “This is what I get for teaching you both to speak.”

“We learned from the best, Pops,” Will replies, tilting his beer in his dad’s direction with a crooked grin. “You’re the one who taught us that hands aren’t that only thing that can ‘reach for the sky.’”

“Lord, give me strength,” Mrs. Miller mumbles.

“There’s more than a snake in my boot,” Benny murmurs with a teasing smirk, looking at me. He lays a hand on my knee. “Want me to poison your waterhole later?”

“Not when you ask like that, you pervert,” I laugh, playfully swatting his hand away.

Mr. Miller spread his hands dramatically. “Give me strength. Or earplugs. I’ll take either.”

Benny lets out a low laugh and hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me into his side. Warmth settles over me like a blanket as he pulls me against his chest. I crack up, my laughter spilling out and pressing into him, his own rumbling beneath my cheek.

I remember thinking… This is what joy feels like. Chaotic, ridiculous, loud joy.

I had no idea how quickly it would all change.

The memory shatters when the front door slams so hard the frames on the wall rattle. It feels like the whole house flinches, like even the walls recognize the sound of Benny’s breaking heart.

Mrs. Miller meets my eyes, her expression raw and knowing. She doesn’t have to speak. I already know where he’s gone, and I know he needs me there.

I rise from my seat and slip out the back door, the screen creaking softly behind me before it shuts. The cold Colorado air rushes over me, sharp, bracing, pulling me toward him.

I cross the frost-bitten yard, heading straight for the lake. My boots know the way by heart. We’ve walked this path since we were kids, always ending up in the same spot whenever life felt too big, too loud, too unfair.

Tonight, it feels bigger than ever. Louder than ever. And I won’t let him face it alone.

Benny sits on top of the old picnic table, shoulders hunched, staring across the water. The wind stirs his hair, the same way it did when he was a boy who came here to escape, to think, to just be. He looks like that boy again, lost at the edge of something he can’t control. Seeing him there now, folded into himself, I can almost hear the echo of who he used to be and who he’s terrified of becoming without his father.

I climb onto the table beside him. He doesn’t look at me, but he shifts just enough to let me know he feels me there, feels my presence, even if it can’t reach him yet.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. Then his breath rips out of him, sharp and angry.

“The hospital should’ve done more,” he snaps, voice unsteady. “They shouldn’t have just sent him home to die.”

I blink, startled, but only for a second. This grief has claws. “Benny-”

“They gave up,” he spits, running a shaking hand through his hair. “They just sent him home like he’s already gone.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

“No,” I murmur gently. “They sent him home because it’s what he wants.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” he chokes out. His fist curls, knuckles white, pulse hammering beneath his skin. “How do we even know this is it? People survive things all the time. They get better. They prove doctors wrong.”

“Benny…,” I say softly.

He shakes his head hard, rejecting every syllable.

And I know, God, I know, there’s nothing I can say that will make this easier. No truth gentle enough to land without breaking him. He has to reach that place himself, has to make sense of what’s happening before he can even begin to accept it. All I can do is stay beside him while the denial cracks and gives way to something heavier.

“He’s still him,” Benny says finally, voice raw. “Still sharp. Still talking. Still Dad. And that… that might be the hardest part.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“He told me… He said he’s always been proud of me,” Benny whispers, but the last few words wobble, betraying him. He swallows hard, blinking fast. “Of the man I became. Even when I scared the hell out of him.” He clamps his jaw, trying to steady his voice, but it still comes out cracked. “I never once let him down.”

“You didn’t,” I whisper. “You couldn’t.”

Benny drags a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe away a feeling that won’t go. His chest rises and falls too quickly, the cold air catching on every inhale. For a moment, he just stares at the ground, like he’s searching for solid footing that isn’t there.

His breath shakes. “I told him I’m not ready,” he continues. “That I don’t know how to do this. How to lose him.”

My heart cracks quietly. “What did he say?”

Benny swallows hard. “He said… He said, ‘Son…you’re not losing me.’” His voice fractures on the last word, barely holding together. “He said that I’ll see him again someday. Maybe not at first. But one day…”

His gaze drops to our joined hands, like the memory is too heavy to look at straight on.

“He was so damn calm,” Benny whispers. “Like he wasn’t the one lying there, like he wasn’t the one…” He cuts himself off, breath shaking. “He told me to push through the pain. To remember the good things. The loud things. The things that make life feel…full.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, voice barely above a breath, “He said, ‘Find the things that breathe life into you, and you’ll find me right beside them. I’ll be there. I’ll always be there.’”

The words hollow him out and hold him together all at once. A tear slips down his cheek, carving a quiet path through everything he’s trying not to show.

He drags in a breath, thin, shaking, like he’s trying to take his father’s words into his lungs just to keep them alive a little longer.

The words settle between us like a heartbeat. Steady. Tender. Devastating.

I reach for his hand, squeezing gently. He squeezes back like he’s drowning and I’m the only solid thing left to hold onto.

“I don’t know how to be anything like him,” Benny whispers, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to fill his shoes. I don’t even know where to start.” He drags a shaky breath. “But he said being like him was never the goal. He said I was supposed to be better. That I already am. And that someday, when I have a kid of my own, I’ll understand.”

A deep ache curls through my chest. We’ve been trying for months, hoping for a miracle, and now, hearing this, I can’t stop the sharp, quiet guilt that rises in me.

He won’t get to see it.

He won’t get to see Benny hold his first child, won’t get to watch him become the father he always believed he would be.

And I hate that we ran out of time before I could give that to him. Before I could give it to Benny.

But this moment is his, not mine, and I swallow the guilt down hard, burying it beneath the weight of what Benny needs right now.

He finally turns toward me, eyes shining with devastation and love. Raw, unguarded. Son and soldier and man all at once.

“I’m not ready for this,” he whispers.

I lift my hand to his cheek, brushing away a tear that immediately replaces itself. “No one ever is,” I murmur. “But you’re not doing this alone.”

He closes his eyes, breath trembling, like he’s standing on the edge of something too deep to measure.

“And Benny… He’s right. He’s not leaving you,” I whisper. “Not really. He’ll always be with you. In the things he taught you. In the way you love. In the man you already are. You carry him. You always have. You always will.”

He leans into me then, like the weight of grief finally pulls him forward instead of under. My forehead presses to his, our breaths warm in the cold night air.

The wind moves across the lake, cold and soft, rustling the trees like a breath from another world.

Somewhere in the dark, grief shifts. Not lighter. Not gentler. Just…shared.

And for now, that’s enough.

Approximately One Year Later

The hospital room is soft and golden from the late-afternoon sun. Machines hum quietly, steady and gentle, a calm rhythm beneath the hush of new life.

Benny sits beside my bed, cradling a tiny, wrapped bundle. Our newborn son. His hands, usually so sure and strong, tremble as he holds the impossibly small weight against his chest. His thumb brushes the baby’s cheek like the slightest touch might break him.

“He’s so…tiny,” Benny whispers, voice thick, reverent. “I didn’t realize they were this small.”

I smile weakly, exhaustion pulling at my bones. “You get used to it. At least, I hope.”

Benny doesn’t look away from the baby. He studies him like he’s memorizing every detail, the soft dark hair, the wrinkled little nose, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

A shaky laugh escapes him. “He’s got your nose,” he murmurs.

“And your mouth,” I tease. “He’s going to charm his way out of everything.”

Benny huffs out a watery laugh, brushing the pad of his thumb across the baby’s lip. “He’s perfect,” he breathes, like he’s afraid saying it too loud will break the spell. “How is he already perfect?”

Emotion swells up, sharp and sudden. Damn hormones.

“I wish Dad could see him,” he whispers. “God, he would’ve loved him.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

I reach out, resting my hand over his. “He does, Benny,” I whisper. “He does.”

Benny closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in slowly, as though trying to pull strength from the tiny bundle in his arms. I watch him hold our son like he’s something holy, something too precious for this world. His thumb traces their baby’s cheek again, slower this time, like he’s memorizing every cell, every breath.

He looks at me then, just a flicker, a glance, but it’s enough. I see it in his eyes. The question he’s afraid to say out loud. The hope. The ache. The name.

A small smile curves at my lips. “Benny,” I whisper, “you don’t have to ask.”

His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“I know what you want to say.” My voice stays steady, even as my chest tightens. “And it’s okay. More than okay.”

His breath catches, eyes widening just slightly.

“I want it too,” I say softly. “I can’t think of anyone more deserving.”

For a moment, he can’t speak. His throat works around emotion too big for words as he looks down at our son again, like the world has tilted gently back into place.

“You’re sure?” he whispers.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Benny lets out a shaky exhale, the kind that sounds like grief and relief and love all wrapped together. He holds our son a little closer. He presses his lips to the baby’s forehead, closing his eyes as though offering a silent promise.

That’s when there’s a soft knock on the door. It’s tentative, hopeful. Too gentle to belong to anyone in a rush. For a second, I assume it’s another nurse, another doctor, one of the dozens of people who’ve been flitting in and out all day to check vitals, adjust monitors, explain things in hushed voices.

But the knock comes again, quieter this time.

We both look up.

“Come in,” I say.

The door cracks open, and Will steps into the room, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well?” he asks, voice rough with barely contained excitement. “Are you going to let us meet the newest Miller or what?”

Benny shifts slightly in his chair, angling the tiny bundle toward them. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Come meet our son.”

Mrs. Miller drifts forward slowly, like she’s approaching something sacred. Her eyes never leave the baby, not once.

Will stops beside the bed, his grin already wobbling at the edges with emotion he’s trying, and failing, to hide. Emily stands just behind him, one hand on his arm, eyes shining as they flick from me to the tiny bundle in Benny’s arms.

Mrs. Miller drifts closer, almost hovering at Benny’s shoulder. Her hands tremble, clasped together like she’s holding herself still. She’s watching her son and grandchild the way someone watches a miracle. Carefully, reverently, afraid to breathe too loudly and somehow break it. She leans in a fraction, the tears in her eyes bright and unashamed.

Will clears his throat, attempting to cut the tension, or maybe his own emotions, with humor. “If this kid’s named Benny Jr., I’m out,” he declares. “It’s bad enough he’s a spitting image of you.”

Emily elbows him so hard in the ribs he jerks sideways with a wince.

Benny snorts, his mouth twitching. “Please. The world can barely handle one of me.”

Mrs. Miller lets out a watery laugh, lifting shaking fingers to her lips. Will grins again, relieved to have drawn breath and laughter back into the room, even in the smallest dose.

Benny draws a slow breath, steadying the weight of the moment. He looks down at our son, then at me. I nod, giving him an encouraging smile.

“I want you to meet…” His voice falters, thickens. He clears his throat gently, swiping at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. “I want you to meet Robert.”

Mrs. Miller’s breath catches violently, like she’s been struck in the chest. Will blinks hard, his smile softening as recognition settles in.

Benny’s voice drops to a whisper, reverent. “Robert Thomas Miller.”

Silence falls, not empty, but full. Full of memory, of grief, of love. Full of everything Benny’s father ever was and everything this tiny baby could one day be.

Mrs. Miller presses her fingers to her lips, tears spilling freely. “Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes. “Your father… he would have…” Her voice breaks, and she leans forward, touching the baby’s tiny head with trembling fingers. “He would’ve loved him more than anything.”

Benny blinks fast, eyes fixed on his son. “I know,” he whispers. “That’s why… That’s why he gets his name. Dad deserves to be here. With us. With him.”

Will places a hand on Benny’s shoulder, squeezing once, firm, steady, brotherly. “Dad would be proud as hell,” he says, voice thick with emotion he doesn’t bother to hide.

“Thanks, man.”

I wipe at my eyes. “You ready to be Uncle Willy?”

Will winces. “Can we not call me that?”

Benny doesn’t miss a beat. “Fine. We’ll go with Little Willy.”

Emily chokes on a laugh. I fold over, laughing so hard it hurts.

Mrs. Miller gasps, swatting lightly at both of them. “Boys! Not in front of the baby!”

Will lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, he started it! It’s his kid he’s corrupting.”

Benny grins unapologetically. “And I’ll keep starting it. It’s my job as your little brother.”

Mrs. Miller shakes her head, but she’s smiling, tearful and exasperated and impossibly full of love.

Benny looks down at Little Robert – Little Bo - again. The pride on his face is quiet but so pure it almost hurts to witness.

“Dad told me once,” Benny murmurs, “that one day I’d look down and find him.”

He looks at our son and smiles, soft and full and broken open in the most beautiful way.

“And I did.”

Mrs. Miller presses a hand to her mouth, tears spilling freely. Will’s shoulders drop on a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Emily leans into him, her arm sliding around his waist.

And Benny… He looks lighter than he has in months. Not healed. Not whole. But grounded, tethered to something new, something hopeful.

I reach for his free hand, threading our fingers together. He squeezes back, firm and warm and sure.

“Okay,” she says, bright and encouraging. “On three, I want you both to turn and face each other. Ready?”

I inhale slowly, steadying myself.

This is supposed to be fun. A stranger shoot. One of those trendy photo concepts where two total strangers get paired up for intimate, romantic-style shots to capture chemistry neither of them even knows they have yet.

I can do this. I can pose. I can smile. I can pretend I’m open to the universe nudging me toward something unexpected.

Maybe today it actually will.

On the walk here, I’d let myself daydream about what this shoot might be like. I didn’t know what kind of “stranger” I’d be paired with, what he’d look like, or what kind of vibe we’d fall into. But in the quiet corners of my mind, hope bloomed anyway.

Maybe I’d meet someone kind. Or funny. Or unexpectedly magnetic. Maybe we’d have that effortless spark the photographer always hopes for.

I even imagined that cliché moment: two strangers standing too close, staring into each other’s eyes because the camera demands it, and something shifts. Something warm. Something real. Something that feels like the beginning of a story worth remembering.

Even now, with only our backs touching, I can feel the faint warmth of him through our clothes. It’s the softest brush of contact, almost nothing, but somehow it snags on my senses anyway, like a whisper of potential I didn’t expect to notice. A flutter stirs low in my stomach. It seems ridiculous, but it’s undeniable.

“Alright,” the photographer says, bright and oblivious to the spiral happening in my head. “One…two…three.”

I turn. And every delicate, hopeful possibility I imagined detonates spectacularly in my face. Because the “stranger” I’m supposed to take pictures with? He’s not a stranger at all.

My stomach drops, my soul attempting to eject itself from my body

“What the hell?! Benny?!” His name comes out half-gasp, half-accusation, all disbelief, like the universe didn’t just nudge me toward something unexpected. It shoved me headfirst into cosmic irony.

Benny stops mid-step, jaw tightening for a beat before his mouth curves into that grin he wears when he’s sizing up a fight he knows he’ll win.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher. More gravel than honey. The kind of voice that sounds like early mornings, late nights, and bad decisions.

The photographer sucks in a breath. “You two know each other?”

I bark out a laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Oh, do we ever. My sister used to date his older brother.” I gesture vaguely at Benny like he’s an inconvenient piece of furniture. “This is his annoying little brother who never learned personal space.”

“And she,” Benny cuts in, chin lifting, “is the gorgeous little sister who used to pretend she was too good to even look at me.”

I roll my eyes, shaking my head, trying, and failing, to keep a straight face. “Please. I would never waste my time on you.”

He laughs, that infuriating, warm sound that makes my chest tighten. “Is that so? Yet here you are.”

I huff. “Circumstances force me. Don’t get used to it.”

The photographer blinks. “This is perfect. I love this energy.”

“Try living with it,” I mutter.

Benny chuckles, but it’s low, almost feral. “You know you missed me.”

I lift a brow. “Missed you? Hardly. I’d rather sprint barefoot across broken see glass than you again.”

He grins, clearly delighted. “Ah. Still dramatic. Some things never change.”

And there it is. That push. That poke. That instinct he has to get under my skin until I bite.

I flatten him with a look. “And some things never improve.”

“Okay!” the photographer says brightly, unaware she has stepped into a war zone. “Let’s try some things and see where we end up. Benny, maybe stand behind her?”

He moves before I can protest, military-fast, no hesitation. His hand brushes my back as he steps in. He’s solid. Too solid. All muscle and heat, the kind of presence that makes it hard to breathe, let alone think. His hands settle on my shoulders, big and warm, his grip firm enough that the weight of him sinks straight through me.

His breath is at my ear when he murmurs, “Relax.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I shoot back.

He huffs a soft laugh. “There she is.” Then softer, almost like he’s confessing, “I missed getting reactions out of you.”

Inside, I panic just a little. Because that admission? That tone? Danger. Absolute danger.

I narrow my eyes. “Congrats. You got one. Don’t expect an encore.”

The photographer circles us, snapping away. “Great tension. Very real.”

Oh, it’s real.

Benny’s fingers slide to my hip when she tells him to “connect with the pose.” His touch is firm, not at all tentative, like he’s handled a hundred more dangerous things than me.

But the worst part?

My body reacts before I can think. Heat spiraling, pulse jumping, that traitorous pull low in my stomach. It’s impossible not to feel this way when Benny Miller is breathing against my neck like sin in human form.

He feels it. I know he does. Of course, he fucking does.

“Still get all worked up around me,” he mutters under his breath.

I force out a laugh I don’t mean. “Still full of yourself,” I reply, but my voice is too breathy to land the hit.

He grins. “You used to look at me like that back then, too.”

I turn my head and look up at him defiantly. “I never looked at you.”

“You did.” His eyes lock on mine, daring me to deny it. “Right before you pretended to hate my guts.”

I lift my chin, stubborn, trying to hide the faint flutter in my chest. My cheeks heat, but my eyes stay sharp, refusing to look away.

“I wasn’t pretending,” I say, voice a little too firm, trying to convince myself as much as him.

He gives me a once-over, slow, deliberate, entirely aware of what he’s doing.  “Sure, you weren’t.”

I shift back because I have to for the shot. His hands tighten just slightly, guiding, steadying, possessive in a way that shouldn’t make my heart stumble but absolutely does.

 “I won’t let you fall over if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, gravity already does a good enough job. I don’t need you assisting.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound warm against my ear. “You’re wound up like you think I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder.”

“You probably would,” I mutter. “Like some fucking Neanderthal.”

He hums. “Only if you asked nicely.”

I elbow him, not hard, but enough to make him laugh again. God, that laugh. Smug. Bright. Infuriating.

The photographer tells us to face each other again. Close. Too close. Our noses almost brush.

Benny’s gaze drops to my mouth, just for one second. But one second is enough to ruin me.

“Think you can behave?” I whisper, because anything louder might shake.

He leans in, just enough that the world tilts. “Not a chance.”

I swallow hard. I try to step back, to reclaim even an inch of space, but my hand betrays me. My fingers curl tighter in his shirt instead of letting go. It’s instinct. It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

And Benny’s whole expression changes, a slow realization washing over him like he just solved the puzzle I didn’t want him to see.

That’s when he says it, voice soft but steady. “Look, if you want me to back off, say so.”

He’s giving me an out. But the problem is… I’m still holding onto him. And he definitely felt the way I shivered when he touched me. Which means he already knows my answer.

The silence between us crackles. The photographer snaps photos like she’s capturing lightning.

A dark smile spreads across his face. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Reality slams back into me like a bucket of cold water. I force a laugh. “You never could shut up, could you?”

“You never could ignore me.”

The photographer beams. “Perfect! Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

Oh, I’m doing absolutely nothing. And somehow this is still turning into the most dangerous situation I’ve ever been in. Because Benny, with his grit, his heat, his soldier-worn confidence, has never been more impossible to hate.

Or easier to want.

“Alright. Let’s get a little closer,” the photographer finally calls

Of course it’s “closer.” A fresh bolt of panic flickers through me. We do not need to get any closer. We’re already close enough that I can feel my sanity peeling away like wet wallpaper.

My heart kicks up hard, thudding loud in my ears, my brain sprinting in circle. I paste on a tight smile that feels more like a grimace. “Perfect,” I mutter under my breath. “Why not. Let’s all just get physically closer today.”

Benny bites back a grin. He hears the panic, sees the flush creeping up my neck, reads me like he always, annoyingly can.

“You okay?” he murmurs, leaning in just slightly.

I nearly combust on the spot. Internally, I’m a full-on wildfire. Externally, I manage a stiff, “Peachy.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that does not help.

“Benny, bring your hands to the sides of her neck, gentle, and look right into her eyes.”

Benny doesn’t move at first. Not because he’s hesitant, but because he’s enjoying this. I can tell by the slow curl of his mouth, the one that always made me want to shove him into a lake.

Then, he steps closer. Closer than the photographer probably meant. His hands rise, warm and broad, and when his fingertips touch the sides of my neck, every muscle in my body locks up. Not in fear. Not in discomfort. It’s just… too much.

Heat rolls off him, tangible and overwhelming. God, he smells amazing. Dark and spicy, with just the faintest hint of sun-warmed leather and sweat lingering underneath. The scent hits harder than it should, setting my pulse off kilter before he even speaks.

“Gentle,” he repeats softly, voice dipped in gravel. “Not the usual request I get, but okay.”

His thumbs rest just under my jaw, barely there, but the contact is electric. He lowers his gaze to mine, and suddenly we’re eye to eye. Breath to breath. Heat to heat. His pupils blow wide. Mine probably do too.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, almost laughing. “Why are you glaring at me like you’re gonna swing?”

“I’m not glaring,” I manage, though my voice is embarrassingly soft.

He gives a quiet, smug little laugh. “If looks could kill, I’d be in the ground.”

I try to roll my eyes. I really do. But with his hands on my neck, warm, careful, a little possessive, I can’t look anywhere but at him.

The photographer’s voice floats in, distant and thrilled. “Perfect. Don’t move. That chemistry is incredible.”

Chemistry? No. Absolutely not. Chemistry with Benny Miller is against the laws of the universe. Whatever this is, it doesn’t count.

I swallow, and Benny’s hands shift just slightly with the motion, and his breath stutters like he felt it everywhere. His voice drops lower, only for me.

“You okay?”

No. Hell no. Not even close. But I nod anyway.

His mouth curves, slow and knowing, because he can feel the charge between us even if I’m busy trying to smother it with a throw blanket and denial. Without breaking eye contact, his fingers slide half an inch higher, brushing the hinge of my jaw.

My knees nearly give out.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice right at my ear. “You’re tight. Need a massage?”

I grit my teeth, fighting a shiver that betrays me. “I’m fine. Not that you’d know how to help.”

He hums, amused, letting his hand linger just a second longer on my jaw. “Oh, I know exactly how to help.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He just smiles, of course he does, like he can see right through me.

“You can trust me, you know.”

Trust him? Absolutely not. Because trusting him is how you start feeling things you’re not supposed to feel. Things like… wanting him closer. Wanting him to touch you. Wanting him to keep looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

My pulse jumps anyway. My stomach twists. Every nerve screams don’t fall for him.

I scoff. “Why does trusting you feel like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done?”

He gives the most devilish smile I’ve ever seen. “Because it is.”

The photographer circles us, laughing like we’re adorable, not on the brink of spontaneous combustion. “Beautiful. Now, I want you to put a hand on his shoulder while you bring your foreheads together.

My pulse jumps. Right. Sure. No big deal. Just… get even closer to Benny Miller, whose hands are still on my neck like he owns gravity.

I lift my hand slowly and set it on his shoulder. He’s solid beneath my palm, heat radiating through the cotton of his shirt. His muscles tighten under my touch, just barely, but enough that I feel it.

His brows lift, a soft, wicked glint sparking in his eyes.

“Careful,” he murmurs, low enough only I hear. “Touch me like that and people might think you actually like me.”

“Shut up,” I whisper back, but the words have no teeth. Not when my fingers are curling against him like they have a mind of their own.

He exhales a quiet laugh, warm and knowing. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he murmurs, voice low enough to rattle in my chest. “You like me.”

My breath stutters. Heat floods my face. I do not like Benny. Except my body isn’t listening to me at all.

“I would like to step on your balls,” I utter through gritted teeth.

“Ooh. Kinky,” Benny replies. “I like that.” He dares to give me a wink. 

Heat flashes up my neck so fast it’s practically homicidal. God, I’m going to kill this man. Or fuck him. Possibly both in rapid succession.

Slowly, deliberately, he leans in. Our foreheads brush, just a featherlight tease, and then settle firmly against each other, like he’s staking a claim he has no right to make.

My breath catches in my throat. The world dissolves into white noise, the rustle of leaves, the faint hum of traffic, the distant shutter clicking. Everything blurs except the heat of him pressed against me and the way his thumbs sweep gently along the sides of my neck like he’s unconsciously memorizing me.

His eyes flutter half-shut, so close I can see the tiny sunbursts in the blue of his irises.

“You’re still tense,” he whispers.

“You’re still annoying,” I whisper back.

“Funny,” he says. “Your pulse doesn’t agree.”

My cheeks flame. I try to step forward but Benny’s grip tightens, not trapping, just steady.

“Hold still,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna mess up the shot.”

“You’re messing up the shot.”

“I’m improving the shot.”

He shifts his forehead against mine, just a fraction, and the movement sends a shiver straight down my spine.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers.

“I’m not.”

Fuck, I am.

“Sure,” he says softly, almost tender. “Whatever you say.”

The photographer gasps, not because of our banter, but because the pose is exactly what she wanted. “Perfect! Don’t move. That’s magic.”

Magic. Yeah. That’s one word for this. The other is “dangerous.”

“Okay,” the photographer says, sounding a little breathless herself. “Last pose… if you two are comfortable with it.”

I arch a brow. “Comfortable with what?”

She hesitates, checking the lighting. “A kiss.”

My heart stops.

Benny goes still behind his smirk, the kind of stillness that feels like the moment before a strike.

“You want us to…?” I ask.

“Just if it feels natural,” she says quickly. “If not, something close, intimate, almost-but-not-quite. Whatever you’re okay with.”

Natural. Natural? Nothing about what I’m feeling right now is natural. My heart is hammering in my chest. My stomach is twisting in a mix of nerves and anticipation. The faint brush of him against my back, the warmth radiating through his jacket, the way his hand lingers on my shoulder just a fraction longer than necessary. None of this feels natural.

Except it fucking does.

My pulse spikes. My palms are suddenly clammy. I can feel the electricity in the tiny space between us, the unspoken dare in the way his gaze lingers on me, even though I haven’t even turned yet.

I blink, trying to summon something resembling composure.

Benny’s eyes lock on mine, and it’s over. The air shifts, heavy and electric.

“You okay with this?” he asks softly, quiet, real. No teasing this time.

That throws me. Benny asking permission? Like he’s trying not to spook me. Like this matters.

My pulse spikes. My chest feels too tight to breathe. My brain short-circuits between don’t and please, yes.

I can feel the heat of his body behind me, solid and unyielding, the faint brush of his hands on my shoulders, and it makes every nerve in my body fire at once.

My throat is too tight to speak, so I nod. Barely.

And the moment my nod lands, I feel it. The weight of anticipation, the magnetic pull, the tiny, terrifying thrill that maybe, just maybe, I’m already in way over my head.

A thumb brushes against my ear. It’s barely a touch, more a curious sweep of skin over skin, but it short-circuits me. My breath stumbles. My hand tightens on his shoulder before I can stop it.

Benny freezes, like he felt the way that one little touch rippled through me.

Slowly, so slowly it’s almost cruel, his thumb drags back, tracing the delicate curve where my ear meets my jaw. A place he should not know to touch. A place my sister’s ex-boyfriend’s annoying little brother doesn’t have any business discovering.

My eyes flutter shut on instinct.

He exhales, quiet and shaky, the warm breath ghosting over my lips from inches away.

“Sorry,” he whispers, though he absolutely isn’t. “Didn’t mean to…”

“Yes, you did,” I breathe back.

His forehead presses harder against mine, like he’s anchoring himself… or me. His voice dips low, deeper than before, threaded with something I don’t want to name yet.

“Maybe I did,” he admits.

His thumb skims the shell of my ear again, softer, slower, deliberate this time. It’s intimate in a way that knocks the wind out of me more than any embrace or camera pose ever could.

The photographer makes a delighted little sound. “Oh, that’s gorgeous. Don’t move.”

As if I could. As if he would let me.

Benny’s other hand tightens ever so gently on my neck, steadying me when my knees wobble, just the slightest tremor, but enough that he notices. He always notices.

“You’re still trembling,” he murmurs, but this time his voice isn’t teasing. It’s warm. Focused. Dangerously soft.

I swallow, and the movement drags his thumb across my jaw. Every nerve ending I have lights up.

“Benny…”

He lifts his forehead from mine just enough that our noses brush, breath mingling in a slow, torturous pull toward something neither of us is supposed to want.

His gaze drops to my mouth.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

I can’t… and he knows it.

He leans in, then kisses me. Slow at first, testing, giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and that’s all the permission he needs.

The kiss deepens, heat and hunger snapping through the space between us like a fuse finally hitting its charge. His mouth moves against mine with a barely contained longing that makes my knees go weak. He kisses like he fights. Intense, deliberate, all-in.

The photographer is whispering something ecstatic behind her camera, but the world has narrowed to the press of Benny’s hands, the heat of his body, the way he groans softly when I kiss him back harder.

When we finally break apart, our breaths mix, uneven and hot.

Benny’s eyes are wild, blown wide, fixed on my mouth. His voice comes out low, wrecked.

“Fuck. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

I try to speak. Nothing comes out.

The photographer slowly lowers her camera. “Uh…that was…incredible. You two…wow. I think that’s a wrap.”

I blink, like I’m waking up. Benny’s hands fall away, but the ghost of them stays, heat lingering where his thumbs rested like they belonged there.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then he steps back, giving me space instead of taking it. That might be the most surprising thing he’s done all day.

“Wow…,” he says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t expect that to feel so…right.”

I huff a breath, shaking my head. “Don’t read into it.”

He smiles. Not smug. Not teasing. Just…hopeful. “Too late.”

He turns, half a step away, like he’s doing the brave thing by walking back instead of forward.

I don’t let him.

Before my brain can interfere, I reach out and grab the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. The motion pulls him back toward me, close enough that I can feel his breath hitch.

Benny freezes. I don’t give him time to ask. I step in and press my mouth to his. It’s quick at first, impulsive, messy with nerves, then slower, surer, when he exhales against me like he’s been holding that breath for years. His hands come up, not claiming, just steadying me, palms warm at my waist.

When we part, our foreheads rest together again, both of us breathing hard.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice rough, “guess I finally got the gorgeous sister to look at me.”

I laugh softly, still close enough to feel his smile. “Guess the annoying little brother grew up.”

Maybe this shoot wasn’t about strangers at all.