Chapter Thirty-Two
Benson
Petoskey, Michigan
Benson stayed home after the fight with his brother.
It wasn’t what he wanted. What he wanted was to book a flight to LAX, to walk through the terminal with nothing but a duffel bag and the hope that Kyle would meet him at the gate.
But the pull to stay was stronger. He had five hundred tenants depending on him—families, retirees, single parents—people who trusted him to keep their rents fair, their homes secure.
If he walked away now, too many would suffer.
And Benson had never been the kind of man who could stomach letting people down.
So he had to stay in Michigan. And tried to breathe through the ache.
He sat in the study, Rusty curled in a tight ball on the windowsill, barely stirring.
Della had left for the weekend to visit her mother, leaving the house empty.
Benson picked up his phone and dialed Kyle, hoping maybe they could plan a weekend—just a few days to bridge the distance, to remind each other what they were fighting for.
But the call didn’t go through.
No ring. No voicemail. Just a flat, impersonal message: This number is no longer in service at this time.
Benson stared at the screen, heart sinking. He hated this separation. Hated the silence. Hated not knowing if Kyle was okay, if he was thinking about him, if he’d already moved on. The house felt colder than usual with the snow outside falling in slow, deliberate flakes.
He sat on the front porch, wrapped in a thick jacket, watching the snow gather on the railing.
Rusty had followed him out, curled beside his feet, asleep again.
Benson picked him up and put him inside the house, fearful Rusty would take off.
He went to the kitchen and made some hot tea, then carried it to the porch, making sure Rusty remained inside.
He sat down and sipped his tea and tried not to spiral.
He thought about Kyle’s laugh, the way he tilted his head when he was curious, the way he made Benson feel like he wasn’t just a man with responsibilities—but someone worth loving.
Then headlights cut through the snowfall.
A sleek black car pulled into the driveway, its tires crunching over the ice. Benson stood, heart thudding. For a moment, absurdly, he wondered if Logan had sent someone to finish the fight in a more permanent way. A hitman. That would be just like him.
But then the driver stepped out and opened the back door.
And Kyle emerged.
He looked exactly as he had the day Benson first picked him up hitchhiking—backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie pulled tight, eyes wide and searching. Benson didn’t think. He just ran.
Kyle saw him and ran too, boots slipping slightly on the snow, arms outstretched.
They collided in the middle of the driveway, breathless and laughing and crying all at once. Benson wrapped his arms around Kyle and held him like he never planned to let go.
“I thought I’d lost you,” Benson whispered into his hair.
Kyle pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t. I don’t want to live without you. I’m more than ready for you to be my Daddy Benson in Michigan.”
And in that moment, the snow didn’t matter. The silence didn’t matter. The distance, the missed calls—none of it mattered.
Because Kyle was home.
And Benson had his love.
Benson hoisted Kyle onto his shoulder and carried him into the house. Kyle was laughing, the sound echoing around him the entire time.
“I’m going to get lost around here.” Benson carried Kyle up the stairs slowly, cradling him like something precious he’d nearly lost. The house was quiet, the only sound being the soft creak of the steps beneath his feet and the distant hum of the heater.
Snow still fell outside, but inside, everything felt warm again.
He pushed open the bedroom door with his shoulder and gently lay Kyle down on the bed. Kyle sat up against the headboard, his backpack slipping to the floor, his eyes wide and shining.
“I can’t believe you’re here with me,” Benson said, voice barely above a whisper.
Kyle didn’t answer right away. He watched Benson climb onto the bed beside him; the mattress dipped under his weight and he looked at Kyle like he was memorizing him all over again.
Then he leaned in, and their lips met—soft, searching, full of everything they hadn’t been able to say over the distance.
The kiss deepened, slow and tender, like they were relearning each other with every breath. Benson’s hand found Kyle’s cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. Kyle leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.
“I love you, Daddy Benson.” The words came out raw, a truth that had been buried under silence and distance.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I never stopped.”
He felt Kyle’s breath against his skin, steady and warm, and Benson held on like a drowning man clutching the one thing that could keep him afloat.
Loneliness, doubt, the sick churn of not knowing—eased in that embrace.
Outside, snow hushed the world, but inside the small room, he finally felt at home again.
“Can I ask you something?” Kyle’s voice was gentle, but it carried that edge Benson knew—something had been gnawing at him.
“Anything.”
“Why didn’t you answer my text?”
Benson frowned. His chest tightened. “What text?”
“The one where I said I love you.”
His breath caught. That text would have been everything. He would’ve answered in seconds. He would’ve flown across the damn country. “I never saw it.” His thoughts went dark, his suspicion immediate. Logan. Of course.
“I wonder what happened to it.”
“My brother went through my phone and probably deleted it,” Benson admitted, the bitterness in his tone cutting sharper than he meant it to.
Kyle drew back, searching his face. “Why would he do that?”
“It’s a long story,” Benson muttered, shaking his head. He didn’t want to stain this moment with Logan’s poison. “We’ll talk about it another time. But I called you, Kyle. More than once. You never answered.”
Kyle blinked. “You didn’t leave a voicemail.”
Benson’s mouth twisted. “No. I thought…maybe you’d moved on.” The words scraped his throat. He hated how small they sounded, but that fear had lived in him every day—watching life go on without him, imagining Kyle smiling at someone else the way he used to smile at him.
“Never.” Kyle’s answer came without hesitation, his eyes fierce, steady. “I got a dancing job in Costa Mesa. I worked for a few days. They loved me, and I made some friends among the dancers.”
Benson blinked at him, pride and panic colliding in his chest. Kyle was brilliant, magnetic—of course people saw it.
Of course, the world wanted him. “So fast?” he whispered.
He tried to sound amazed, but underneath, the fear gnawed—what if California could give Kyle more than Benson ever could?
What if he couldn’t compete with the bright lights and endless chances waiting for him?
But then Kyle’s arms tightened around him, and Benson felt the steady, grounding truth—Kyle had chosen to be here in this snow-covered town, snuggled tightly in his arms, not under some dazzling stage light.
Relief swelled in him so strong it almost hurt.
Whatever the world was offering, Kyle wanted this—wanted him.
And in that moment, Benson knew his boy had come home to him because he was ready to love him in Michigan.
For now, Kyle’s choice meant the world to him, and by the looks of Kyle, it meant even more.
The End