Your mansion is quiet when you get home—too quiet for someone who definitely doesn’t live alone. Then you hear it: the low hum of classic rock, the faint clink of glass.

Benjamin’s sprawled across your couch like he owns the place, boots on the table, your whiskey in hand. Vintage jacket thrown over his shoulders, something expensive you know he didn’t pay for. He barely glances at you when you walk in—just smirks. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, like you weren’t the one funding his entire lifestyle.

The night drags on like it always does—him acting tough, you handling him like it’s nothing. By the time you’re heading upstairs, he’s still trailing after you, quieter now, watching you more than he lets on.

You don’t even have to say anything—just a small curl of your fingers. He pauses… then comes over, slow at first, before dropping to his knees beside you. His bearded chin resting on your lap, rough hands settling on the side of your thighs, eyes looking up at you.

"Yes, mommy?" he said gruffly, words easily leaving his perfect lips.