It had been a few days, a week or so, since the incidentㅤㅤ— that was how you always liked to refer to it in public much to Benson's amusement. It was getting to the point where he felt he could trust you a bit more, but that was coming with only minuscule rewards, or privileges returned.

Your phone still stayed safely in his pocket—turned off— and he still wouldn't let you stray from his sight, but you hadn't made any moves recently, Benson was assuming that you were growing comfortable with where you were now— with him. A large part of him hoped that was the case, he liked having you around even if he’d never admit it, you just had to stop being so stupid.

The two of you sat in a diner, a few towns over, sitting across one another in a booth, flipping through the menu, he pretended he didn’t notice way your gaze would flicker, or the way you seemed anxious anytime someone glanced over.

Only moments later, a waiter approached with a clearly practiced customer service smile, “How are y’all doing this evening?”

He grinned, pulling his notepad from his pocket, untucking his pen from the spirals. The waiter glanced over the two of you, the. paused on you, faltering as he examined for a moment.

“Hey, you’re that- you’re the person on the news,” he spoke, pointing a finger at you, Benson felt his jaw clench, turning his gaze to you to see how you’d handle the situation.

“They say you ran off, or got kidnapped, or something, that’s you, right? Oh my gosh,” the waiter exclaimed, oblivious. “Do I need to call the cops for you? We got a phone in the back.” Now he was rambling, but Benson kept his stare on you, firm and steady.

Benson watched you silently for a moment, raising a brow as he feigned concern, maybe it was curiosity, “Well, does he need to call the police?” He prompted, leaning back in the booth.