10. Henry
Henry
I pull into the gravel lot of Sally’s Diner, the neon sign flickering against the morning haze. The van’s engine coughs and splutters a little as I slow down and scan for a parking spot—but this is a reliable vehicle with plenty of miles left on the clock, or at least I hope it is.
“Now this is what I’m talking about,” I say, smiling. “My kind of place.”
The diner is a squat, chrome-edged joint, the kind of place that’s been slinging black coffee and greasy breakfasts since before I was born.
The lot’s half-full—pickups, a couple of semis, a rusty sedan—perfect for blending in. We’re about forty-five minutes from the new safehouse, a Guard base perched over a beach, and this stop is as much for Bodie’s ever-growling stomach as it is for my need to refuel and clear my head.
Vince’s goons are too close, and my gut’s telling me they’re not done yet.
I kill the engine, the van coughing to a stop, and glance at Bodie. He’s slumped in the passenger seat, Poot’s out of the backpack and tucked under his arm, his pout softer now but still there, like he’s daring the world to screw him over again.
The boy’s hair is an adorable mess after last night’s chaos, and those freckles on his nose catch the light, making him look younger, more Little than he’d ever admit.
Damn, he’s a firecracker… but that scared kid from the safehouse is still in there, clinging to his stuffy and his sass.
“Food,” Bodie says, his voice half-demand, half-whine, eyes lighting up as he spots the diner. “You promised pancakes, Henry. Fluffy ones. Don’t let me down.”
I grunt, fighting a smirk.
“You’ll get your pancakes, boy,” I say. “As long as you behave in there. No stunts, no attitude. We’re keeping low .”
Bodie rolls his eyes, hugging his bag tighter. “Whatever, Mr. Bossy. Just feed me.”
My Daddy side stirs, wanting to pull him close, set firmer rules, but I let it slide.
Bodie’s hungry, spooked, and that spanking only tamed him so much. There’s way more sass and bratty behavior in his armory, of that I’m sure.
I slide out, boots crunching gravel, and Bodie follows, his sneakers scuffing as we head inside.
The bell above the door jingles, and the diner’s a wall of noise—clinking plates, laughter, a jukebox pumping out some old country tune. It’s packed with truckers, locals, a few bleary-eyed travelers, all too wrapped up in their own worlds to notice us.
Good .
Anonymity’s our friend right now.
We grab a booth near the back, vinyl seats cracked but clean, the table stained with years of syrup and coffee rings. Bodie slides in across from me, propping Poot’s bag beside him like he’s got a seat of his own.
The boy’s eyes scan the laminated menu, and that pout shifts into a grin, his Little side peeking out as he spots the pancake section. It’s cute as hell, and I have to look away before I start imagining him in a highchair with a bib, giggling over a stack of flapjacks.
A waitress saunters over, pen poised. “What’ll it be, folks?”
“Full breakfast,” I say, not bothering with the menu. “Eggs sunny-side up, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns, toast, black coffee. Double up on the bacon, hashbrowns too.”
The waitress raises an eyebrow, jotting it down.
Bodie snickers, his grin widening, and I shoot him a look.
“What’s so funny, boy?” I ask.
“You,” Bodie says, giggling outright now, his blue eyes sparkling. “That’s, like, a heart attack on a plate. You gonna eat a whole pig or what?”
Bodie’s tone is teasing, light, and it’s the first time he’s sounded this relaxed.
“Gotta fuel up,” I say, leaning back, arms crossed. “Unlike you, I don’t run on strawberry shakes and rainbow unicorn dreams.”
Bodie’s pout returns, mock-offended, and he turns to the waitress.
“Pancakes, please. Extra fluffy, with whipped cream and strawberries,” Bodie declares. “And a strawberry shake, big as you got.” He hands over the menu, then adds, “Oh, and a side of fries. I’m starving .”
The waitress nods, unfazed, and heads off. Bodie leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands, watching me like he’s sizing me up.
“You always eat like you’re prepping for a war?” Bodie asks, a glint in his eyes.
“When you’ve been in my line of work, you eat when you can,” I say, keeping it vague. Bodie’s question’s innocent, but it’s a reminder of the line I’m walking—how much to tell him, how much to hold back.
The Night Ops Guard code is clear: no loose lips, no unnecessary details. We’re ghosts, in and out, leaving no trace.
But…
Bodie’s not a mission, not really. He’s a boy in trouble, a Little who’s got my Daddy instincts in overdrive, and that’s muddying the waters.
Our food comes fast, plates piled high.
My breakfast is a mountain—eggs glistening, bacon crisp, hashbrowns golden. Bodie’s pancakes are a fluffy tower, drowning in whipped cream and sliced strawberries, his shake a frothy pink monster in a frosted glass.
I smile and watch as Bodie dives in, fork cutting through the stack, and takes a big bite, whipped cream smudging his lip. He doesn’t notice, just slurps his shake, straw gurgling, and lets out a happy little hum that hits me right in the chest.
“These are perfect ,” Bodie says, mouth full, eyes half-closed in bliss. “Told you I needed this.” He points his fork at my plate, grinning. “You gonna finish all that, big guy?”
“Watch me,” I say, digging in. The bacon’s salty, the coffee bitter, and it grounds me, pulls me out of my head.
But as I chew, my eyes stay on Bodie, watching him munch his pancakes, his Little side out in full force. He’s carefree for a moment, no Vince, no bullets, just him and his shake, and it’s damn near perfect.
I want to keep him like this—safe, happy, mine .
That thought stops me cold…
Mine? He’s not mine, not even close.
But the way he giggles, the way he licks whipped cream off his thumb, it’s got me thinking things a Guard shouldn’t. Things a Daddy can’t ignore.
I need to tell him something, give him enough to trust me without breaking the code. Vince’s cartel ties, the shooters, they’re not small-time. He needs to know I’m not just some guy playing hero, that I’ve got the skills to keep him alive.
But it’s a lot to take on. Can Bodie handle the fact that his defender is actually a man who’s done the kinds of things that I’ve done?
Sure, all in the name of a mission. But the lines got blurred on more than one occasion.
I’ve done things that keep me up long into the night, things I’d rather forget.
I sip my coffee, the mug warm in my hands, and weigh my options.
The Guard’s burned me before—Hicks’ death, that kid in Syria, missions that left scars deeper than the one above my eye. Telling Bodie about the Guard means opening that box, letting him see the blood on my hands.
He’s already skittish, burned by Vince’s lies.
If I tell Bodie I’m a soldier for hire, that I’ve killed, lost men, he might bolt. Or worse, he might look at me like I’m no better than the bastard chasing him…
But keeping Bodie in the dark’s not working either.
He’s smart, sharp enough to know I’m more than I’m letting on. That “Vince” slip in the van, the news report he hid last night—he’s holding back too.
If we’re gonna survive this, we need to meet halfway.
I could tell him I’m private security, ex-military maybe, enough to explain my moves without spilling the Guard’s secrets. It’s not a lie, just a half-truth, and it might keep him from running.
Back in the real world though, we’ve got a breakfast to navigate…
Bodie slurps his shake again, the straw making a loud gurgle, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Easy, princess,” I Iaugh. “You’re gonna suck that glass dry.”
Bodie sticks out his tongue, a flash of playful defiance, and my Daddy side hums, wanting to pull him over my knee for a quick swat.
But I don’t.
Not here, not now.
The boy is relaxed, and I’m not about to ruin it.
Instead, I lean back, watching him dip a fry in whipped cream—gross, but oddly endearing—and decide to table the Guard talk. For now, it’s about getting through breakfast, keeping him safe, and hitting the safehouse before Vince’s goons catch up.
“Finish up,” I say, my tone calm but very clear. “We’ve got a drive ahead, and I don’t want you whining about hunger in ten minutes.”
Bodie rolls his eyes but keeps eating, his fork scraping the plate.
I polish off my eggs, the bacon long gone, and signal the waitress for the check.
The diner’s still buzzing, nobody paying us any mind, but my eyes keep flicking to the door, the windows, scanning for threats. Vince’s reach is long, and I’m not taking chances.
As Bodie slurps the last of his shake, I drop cash on the table, enough for the bill and a solid tip.
“Let’s move, Little One,” I say, standing, my voice low to keep it between us. His cheeks flush at the nickname, just like at the safehouse, and he grabs his bag.
“Fine, but you owe me another diner stop sometime,” Bodie says, sliding out of the booth, his pout back but softer, teasing. “These pancakes were that good.”
“Keep dreaming, boy,” I say, guiding him toward the door, my hand hovering near his back, not touching but close.
The bell jingles as we step into the morning air, the van waiting faithfully in the lot.
I scan the road, the trees, my Guard instincts on high alert…
It’s all clear, for now .
We climb into the van, Bodie buckling in, now with Poot on his lap, and I start the engine, the cough louder than I’d like.
Forty-five minutes to the safehouse, maybe less if I push it.
Vince’s out there, and I need Cole’s intel to nail this bastard down.
But as I pull onto the road, Bodie humming softly, his Little side still glowing from those pancakes, I know one thing for sure… I’m not letting him go until he’s safe.
Guard code or not, Daddy or not, Bodie’s under my protection—and I’ll burn the world down before I let Vince touch the darling boy.