Chapter Text
7:03 a.m, and Benji's apartment was already in disarray. Courtesy to Ethan and Paris.
Bacon crackled on the stovetop. One of the sausages had just rolled off the pan and been caught mid-air by Ethan like a grenade. Mushrooms sizzled in the skillet while the tomatoes blistered under the broiler. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the fresh morning air.
Ethan stood hunched over Benji’s personal laptop at the counter—rolled-up sleeves, hair sticking up in a dozen directions, glasses slipping down his nose—squinting at the blurry PDF recipe.
“Okay,” he muttered, “it says six rashers of bacon, two sausages per person, grilled tomato halves…I swear to God, how does Benji even read anything on this screen—the font’s like four pixels wide—”
Paris, halfway through buttering toast with deadly precision, stifled a laugh and tossed him a look. “What Benji sees in you, I wonder—”
Ethan sighed, waving a spatula like a white flag. “Oh come on, I’m trying here!”
They worked in tandem after that—chaotic, bickering tandem. The microwave dinged in the corner—the beans were done. Paris darted over to grab them, muttering in rapid French under her breath. Ethan started plating like a man who was utterly (as Degas would have pointed out) locked in : eggs—one soft, one over-easy—just the way Benji liked them, the toast stacked precisely, bacon curled like ribbons, the beans nestled in their own corner so nothing got soggy. He wiped a drop of grease from the corner of the plate. Nothing but perfection for his Benji, of course.
“Okay,” Ethan exhaled, staring at the tray like it was a freshly defused bomb. “That’s a job well done, what do you think?”
Paris bumped his shoulder, grinning. “Oui. But this is only the beginning.”
He blinked. “I thought breakfast was the surprise.”
Paris smiled. Not the usual kind. The kind that meant she’d planned something. The kind that meant trouble—or magic. She pulled out her phone and pushed open the apartment door just wide enough to vanish down the hall. Ethan—though mildly confused—followed instinctively.
Then—“Coucou, Paris. Missed me?”
Grace.
There she was, striding down the hallway—her cardigan slung lazily over one shoulder, eyes warm and bright, grin blooming like spring after the coldest damn winter. Sunlight spilled across her shoulders as she leaned in.
Paris didn’t say anything. Just surged forward and wrapped Grace into a hug that was too tight, too fast, too full of relief to be nonchalant about it.
Grace laughed into her hair. “You’re still terrible at phone calls.”
“At least I was the one making them. You didn’t even pick up.”
Ethan took a half-step forward. His chest had gone tight. “Grace,” he breathed, as if the sound might vanish if he tried anything louder. “It’s—God, it’s been so long. I thought you’d gone off the grid.”
She smiled and turned to him. “Well, I had. Hi, Ethan.”
They embraced. Her head barely came to his collarbone, but the way her hand pressed into his back said everything he needed to hear.
“You should’ve left word,” he said quietly, hand still on her shoulder.
“I didn’t come alone,” she said, a mischievous flicker in her voice. “You’ll want to brace yourself.”
Before he could respond, two silhouettes turned the corner of the hall—and Ethan’s breath stalled.
William Brandt. Jane Carter.
Brandt stood with a slightly crumpled bouquet of lilies—wild, a little lopsided, but bursting with color nevertheless. His suit was perfectly ironed, his hair slightly longer than Ethan remembered, but his smile—cocky and crooked—was exactly the same.
Beside him, Jane moved like the quiet hum of memory—arms folded, that same dark jacket she’d worn back at the Kremlin, her hair cropped shorter now. But her eyes hadn’t changed. Still that dark, calm, somber hue.
Ethan blinked once. Then again, as if they might disappear.
“What the—”
Brandt grinned. “Well, well, well —if it isn’t the living manifestation of destiny. Long time no see, Ethan.”
Ethan staggered forward, stunned. “Brandt? Where the hell—where the fuck have you been? Do you know how many encrypted back channels we ran trying to find you? ”
Brandt shrugged like he’d only been gone a week. “Oh, you know. Fishing in Oslo. Yurt retreat in Kazakhstan. It’s been a few years since I’ve paid Langley a visit.”
“Christ. You need to fill us in, then.” Ethan was laughing before he realized he was. Then he pulled him in, one arm around his back, the other gripping his shoulder like he couldn’t quite believe he was here, solid, real.
“When’d you get glasses?” Brandt mumbled into his neck.
“They’re reading glasses. I don’t wear them all the time.”
“Uh huh. Thought Solomon Lane’s eyesight rubbed off on you or something.”
Ethan gave a hoarse laugh, the sound sticking in his throat like something half-sob, half-relief.
Jane was already stepping forward, arms open before he’d even turned to her. “Agent Hunt.”
“Agent Carter,” Ethan whispered, arms wrapping around her in a quieter embrace. She smelled like clean cotton and cold air, like someone who’d been away for a long, long time.
When they parted, her hand stayed on his elbow, grounding him.
“You look…” Ethan began.
Jane gave a soft huff. “Don’t say older. I’ll hit you.”
“I was going to say strong.”
A pause, just long enough to be honest. She nodded in agreement.
“After Ilsa,” Jane said gently, “I needed to be nobody for a while. Disappear.”
Ethan’s smile faded. His shoulders dropped a little.
“I know.”
Brandt and Jane exchanged a glance, something quieter passing between them now.
“Grace told us.” Jane said, voice gentler. “About everything.”
Brandt added, “Luther, huh?” His tone was a few touches more subdued.
Ethan’s jaw twitched. He didn’t look away, but the ache behind his eyes returned like clockwork. He gave a tight nod.
“I always thought,” Brandt exhaled, “that out of all of us, he’d be the last one standing. The stubborn bastard.”
“He was the anchor,” Jane murmured. “Always knew when to pull you back. And when to let you go.”
“I’m so sorry, Ethan,” Brandt said. His voice lost its usual levity, just for that moment. “We loved him too. You know that.”
Ethan didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He just let himself fall forward again, into their arms—three souls tangled up in memories of past missions, stitched together by grief and laughter and all the lives they hadn’t lived.
Then—
Grace’s voice, cutting through gently. “I also told them… you finally grew a spine.”
“Oh, did you now?” Ethan muttered.
Jane raised an eyebrow. “She means you finally got your act together and made Benji your man.”
Brandt clapped a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “About damn time. We’ve been waiting ten years to take that bet. Maybe even more.”
Ethan rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing in spite of himself. “Alright, alright —Jesus, can I have one moment where you don’t roast me?”
“You’re smiling again,” Jane said softly. “That’s all we needed to see.”
Brandt bumped shoulders with him. “He’s gonna lose it when he sees us.”
Ethan laughed, finally—head tilting back just slightly as if releasing months of tension in one breath. “You have no idea.”
He glanced back at the door to Benji’s apartment. The light inside flickered softly beneath the gap, warm and waiting. God, he couldn’t wait.
Ethan’s train of thought was broken by the faintest sound—a yawn, loud and groggy, muffled by walls but unmistakably Benji’s. It rippled through the silence like a bell in a small chapel, really.
Ethan’s head turned instinctively toward the bedroom. The corner of his mouth quirked. “He’s up,” he whispered, already walking backward toward the kitchen. “Okay—follow me. And keep it down, please.”
The others gave him exaggerated nods, mock-saluting with their fingers to their lips. Brandt spotted a large, beautifully adorned porcelain vase on the coffee table, and gingerly placed the flowers inside. Grace leaned toward the tray, her eyes widening at the perfectly arranged breakfast—still smoking hot, eggs gleaming under just enough salt, sausage browned and crisp, grilled tomatoes glistening beside toast and beans in matching ramekins.
“You guys did this?” she asked Paris in a hushed voice.
Paris just smiled and tapped her nose with one finger, then winked. Grace couldn’t help but let out a giggle.
Ethan crept forward, tray table now wheeled perfectly into place. He paused at the bedroom door, heart tapping gently against his ribs. The light from the kitchen faded behind him, replaced by the hush of early morning sun through the gauzy curtains.
Inside, Benji stirred—barely upright against the pillows, hair tousled in every direction, blanket pooled around his waist like it had given up keeping up with him. He blinked once, squinting into the gentle morning haze. A hand drifted across the mattress, fingers brushing the warm, Ethan-shaped hollow beside him.
Ethan’s voice came soft—almost like honey, as if it was just for him.
“Good morning, Benji, my love.”
From the hallway came a very faint snort. Ethan didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Brandt. Son of a bitch.
The response came a beat later—raspy, sleep-rough, and dangerous in that way that always got Ethan all hot and bothered.
“Morning, sweet cheeks. Those glasses look ravishing on you.”
Ethan stumbled. Actually stumbled. What the fuck.
His grip on the tray shifted, nearly upending the toast, and his face lit up like a sunrise. “Whoa,” he breathed.
Benji stretched, that familiar smirk forming like muscle memory. “What?” he asked innocently, though his voice was still dipped in that same sleepy seduction. “You start cooing at me, I respond in kind. Fair’s fair.”
“You are unhinged,” Ethan muttered, setting the tray down on the little foldout breakfast table with a dignity he no longer possessed. “That’s what you are.”
“And you love me for it,” Benji said, simply. “Also, you’re incredibly turned on right now and trying not to make it glaringly obvious.”
Ethan did not—could not—respond to that. Not when it was entirely true.
Benji’s eyes lowered, raking over Ethan like he had every intention of devouring him and the toast.
Paris chose that exact moment to slip in with perfect timing. She appeared behind him, silent and composed, carrying a folded napkin. She moved past Ethan and set it neatly beside the coffee mug, giving Benji a conspiratorial smile.
He looked down at the tray now in front of him: eggs, beans, sausages, bacon, toast, tomatoes, mushrooms—all warm and homemade and just a bit lopsided.
His gaze softened immediately. “Oh my God. You made me a full English?”
Ethan shrugged one shoulder, trying to look casual and failing completely. “We did. Team effort, really. Paris and I.”
“You still brought it to me. Shirt wrinkled. Hair a mess. Voice gone soft.” Benji leaned back just a little, eyes half-lidded. “Wear those glasses more often, by the way.”
Ethan muttered something that sounded like “kill me now,” but Paris only beamed and kissed the top of Benji’s head.
Outside the room, another snicker from Brandt. Grace and Jane had joined in too, all attempts to keep shut slowly diminishing in dedication.
And Benji, ever the menace, gave Ethan a wink so, so sinful—God help him— it should’ve required some form of top-level security clearance. He looked back at the tray again, a smile evident in his voice. “You did so well. Both of you.”
Paris gave him a soft smile and quietly exited. Benji shuffled towards the edge of the bed, picked up his fork, but paused, eyes flicking up to Ethan—still standing there awkwardly, hands in his pockets.
“Are you gonna sit with me or just hover and blush the whole time?”
Ethan blinked, ears going red again. “Right. Yeah. Sitting.”
He settled down on the mattress, leaning just close enough that their shoulders brushed. Benji dug into the eggs, humming appreciatively after the first bite.
“I’d rate this an 9.5,” he said between chews.
“Out of?”
“Ten.”
“I was afraid you were gonna say a hundred,” Ethan muttered, relieved.
Benji chuckled, then stilled—expression softening even more. “No, it’s perfect. Because it’s from you.”
Ethan let out a quiet exhale. The tray between them was warm, but not half as warm as the look Benji gave him—soft-edged, sleep-creased, the kind of gaze that held no urgency, no fear. Just him. Just Ethan.
Ethan didn’t say anything at first. Just took him in—the slow curl of a smile, the way Benji’s lashes still clung together from sleep, the familiar mess of his hair, flattened on one side. The rise and fall of his chest, steady now. Still here.
The apartment felt warm in a way it hadn’t for weeks. Safe. Full of good food and love and someone to make fun of you if you forgot to heat up the damn beans. The hum of the kettle in the background. The heat of Benji’s thigh brushing his.
Benji nudged him with a foot. “Sweet cheeks.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
Their grins mirrored each other—crooked, quiet, private things. No one else in the world got to see them like this.
Benji finished the last bite of sausage, dragging his fork through the yolk, unhurried. Ethan watched him like he had all the time in the world, leaning in just slightly until their shoulders brushed again.
His fingers reached up, tucking a piece of hair back from Benji’s forehead with practiced ease. Benji didn’t flinch, didn’t shift away. He leaned into it—without thinking, without hesitation.
Ethan’s hand slid gently down, finding its place at the small of Benji’s back. He didn’t rub hard, didn’t mean to soothe anything in particular. Just little circles—slow and grounding. Benji let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, shoulders loosening under the touch.
And for a few long moments, neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.
Until—there was a soft knock at the door. Ethan turned instinctively. Paris cracked the door open, her voice low but laced with something unmistakably bright. “You done with breakfast? Because part two is waiting.”
Benji glanced up from the half-empty mug in his hand, brow quirked, lips curving. “There’s more?”
Paris nodded, pushing the door open just a little further. “We brought company.”
He didn’t even have time to process that before—
“The man, the myth, the legend himself—” came a familiar, unmistakable voice.
Benji’s heart stuttered. Grace strolled in, casual as ever, hands tucked in her pockets.
“Grace?” Benji exhaled, stunned. “What a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Grace just smirked. “Long story. But I’m not even the best surprise.”
Benji blinked. And then—
Two more shadows filled the doorway. Brandt and Jane.
Benji didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His eyes went wide, his grip on the mug nearly slipping. He swallowed hard and then downed the rest of the lukewarm coffee in one long gulp, like maybe the caffeine hit would somehow make all of this make sense.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he breathed, half a laugh breaking through. “ Will? Jane? Wait— what the hell —you— where have you even —?”
He tried to push the blankets off—too fast. A jolt of pain rippled through his side, down from his lower abdomen right to the half healed incision between his ribs. He winced, breath hitching.
Ethan was already there. His hand came out, firm and grounding, pressing lightly to Benji’s chest as he eased him back into the pillows with the kind of gentleness that only came from knowing pain too well. “Let them come to you, sweetheart.”
Benji sank back, breath trembling. A hand over his ribs. Eyes still flicking between the faces in front of him.
Ethan cleared out the table with practiced efficiency, before momentarily heading back to the kitchen. Brandt was first to close the gap—no teasing, no jokes. Just arms that wrapped around Benji like they hadn’t touched solid ground in years. Jane followed, quieter, but no less fierce, slipping in on the other side and pulling Benji into the middle of all that love.
For what felt like long, long minutes, none of them moved. “I thought you two were fucking dead,” Benji said eventually, muffled by the fabric of Brandt’s suit. “Like—actually dead. Not even a postcard, huh? Bloody twats.”
Brandt laughed, voice low, rough around the edges. “Yeah, yeah. We missed you too.”
Jane pulled back just enough to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear. “It was Paris and Grace. And a little help from HQ. We planned all this the second we heard—couldn’t resist, really.”
Benji turned his head toward Grace, who was leaning against the doorway now, arms crossed and trying not to smile too hard.
“You did this?”
“Me and Degas did the sleuthing. He sends his love, by the way. Paris wrangled the final miracle. But yeah. We made a few calls.”
Benji blinked fast. His throat clenched. He turned back to Jane and Brandt—suddenly, achingly grateful.
His smile faded, just slightly. A shadow falling across his face.
“So… you know.”
The air shifted. Brandt nodded, solemn. “Luther.”
Benji looked down, blinked once, slow. “It still doesn’t feel real,” Jane added, softly.
Brandt reached over, laid a hand against Benji’s shoulder—not for comfort, but to anchor. “He went out the way only Luther could. Holding the line.”
“And you,” Jane let her head rest lightly on Benji’s other shoulder, “nearly went with him.”
Benji didn’t answer right away. Just stared past them, eyes shining but not falling. Then—he let out a slow breath. One that trembled on the way out, but didn’t break.
He leaned into them, into all of it. The warmth, the weight, the ridiculous impossible miracle of being here.
And the silence that followed was full. Whole. A stark difference from the emptiness he’d once felt. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Benji Dunn let himself feel the undeniable truth of not being completely alone.
Benji’s eyes drifted closed. Not to sleep, but to feel. The memories didn’t come gently—they hit like a cold plunge, sharp and unstoppable. Not just flickers of a past life, but proof that they’d lived it. Together.
2006. Langley. Benji had still been tucked in the lab back then, all nerves, fumbling over fried hard drives. He remembered Luther—towering, gruff, arms folded as he watched Ethan from across the room. “That look in your eye,” Luther had bellowed, “...is a pain in my ass, you know that, right?”
Benji hadn’t understood it then. But now, he did. He knew exactly what kind of look that was.
Seattle, after Hendricks. After the Moscow-Dubai-Mumbai triad. Luther’s laugh— that laugh—echoed in that dimly-lit pub before he even saw him. He and Ethan were doubled over, gasping, wheezing like idiots because Ethan— Ethan Matthew Hunt —had actually said “Mission Accomplished” out loud.
Benji thought they were joking. They weren’t. Of course they weren’t.
Morocco. Sand in his throat, nausea threatening to take over when he realised Ethan had drowned in that torus—all to switch out those security profiles so that Benji wouldn’t get thrown in jail—and Ilsa, bless her, had brought him back. And then, back to London. He’d been strapped to a fucking bomb, all his senses wrestled out of his control, and then—Ethan had gambled for his life. It worked. Less than half an hour later, Luther and Brandt had cradled his shoulders like he was worth saving.
“Come on, brother,” he’d said. “You’re not dying on my watch.” And Benji had believed him.
Kashmir. Brandt was a ghost by then. It was just him, Luther and Ilsa. Two bombs. Not enough cable cutters. Benji had raw burn marks around his throat from the rope, his body barely holding on, and still—Luther had single handedly guided them through the entire disarming process.
Abu Dhabi. The airport, the ghost choreography of split channels. Luther puppeteering everything from behind, one voice in Ethan’s ear, one in Benji’s. Seamless. Tireless. Typical. And then—Venice. Breached comms, destroyed equipment. Ilsa’s body, unmoving and still, lying on the stairs of the bridge. Benji had run through that city like his lungs had failed him—because something had. And it hadn’t stopped since.
Then came the key. Breaking Paris out of prison. Gaining Degas’ trust. Gabriel telling Ethan his plans. Ethan had run for his life. But he was too late.
Benji hadn’t been there when Luther died. But he’d felt the shape of his absence every day since— like an empty seat always left for someone who never made it home.
Now, with everyone here, breathing the same air, carrying the same weight—Benji could finally say it: Goodbye, old friend.
His chest rose and fell, quiet. Then—Brandt’s voice, low and sure, as if he knew exactly what Benji was thinking: “To Luther.”
No glasses clinked. No fanfare. Just breath, and voice, and the beat of aching hearts.
“To Luther,” they echoed.
Even Degas’ voice piped up from Grace’s phone speaker, just half a second late. It made Benji smile.
Then—quiet. Not hollow. Not empty.
Ethan’s fingers curled tighter around Benji’s. Brandt’s arms looped around their shoulders like they were safe in the back of one of those extraction vans. Jane sat between Grace and Paris, their hands linked, Paris’s thumb tracing soft circles across Jane’s knuckles like a lullaby for the soul.
Benji let his head fall gently against Ethan’s shoulder.
Luther was gone. There was no denying the ache of that absence. No way to sugarcoat the weight he’d left behind.
And yet, no one had drifted.
Somehow, impossibly, they’d stayed tethered. Like Luther’s gravity hadn’t fully released them. Like some part of him still lingered in the room—maybe in the hush of their breath, or the steadiness of their hands, or the way Brandt’s grip around them never faltered.
Benji closed his eyes, letting himself rest for a moment. He didn’t feel alone anymore.
If they listened closely—beyond the soft rustle of the blanket, beyond the hum of morning traffic just outside the window—they could almost hear it. The faintest laugh. A low baritone hum. The rustle of a coat and the ghost of a grin.
And maybe, just maybe, Luther’s soul was there too—leaning in the doorway of Benji’s now very overcrowded bedroom, arms in his pockets, that unmistakable boater hat tipped in approval. Watching them. Proud.
Still the anchor. Even now.
Brandt stared down at the floor for a beat too long, eyes distant—then let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years.
And then, gently—almost as if he didn’t want to break the spell—he cleared his throat. “You know,” Brandt said, glancing between Ethan and Benji with a hint of a smile in his tone, “you two wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Luther and me.”
Ethan glanced up, brows raising just slightly. “Is that so?” he murmured, already half-smiling as his gaze slid toward Benji.
Benji suddenly looked… alert.
“Oh, I don’t know this story,” Ethan drawled, slow and playful in a way that made Benji visibly stiffen. “Do tell.”
Paris smirked from across the room. Grace raised an eyebrow. Jane folded her arms and settled in.
Benji cleared his throat. “It’s nothing, really—”
“Bullshit,” Brandt cut in, already grinning. “This was right after the entire Morocco operation. Lane had just been handed over to MI6. You were out cold, Ethan. Passed out in your room.”
Ethan smirked. “Tiredness tends to sneak up on you sometimes.”
“Well, while you were out,” Brandt continued, “Luther and I ended up camping in Benji’s room. Luther had somehow gotten his hands on a bottle of Glenfiddich that could’ve bought us a motorcycle.”
“In my defence,” Benji muttered, flushing, “...it was really good scotch.”
Ethan laughed, but his eyes were sharp, tracing the slow creep of red across Benji’s cheeks like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Brandt leaned forward like this was top secret intel. “We’d suspected for a while, you know. And we tried. Oh, we tried. Luther kept tossing your name into the conversation to see if he’d crack. But Benji—our sweet, clever, stubborn Benji—just wouldn’t bite.”
Grace scoffed. “Color me shocked.”
“So we got him to drink.”
“No, you got me to drink,” Benji groaned.
“Semantics,” Brandt said cheerfully. “Four glasses in, he was still giving us boring, surface level answers. By seven, though? He was gone. Loose-lipped. Starry-eyed. The whole deal.”
Ethan leaned back slowly, arm draping over the headboard as he met Benji’s gaze. “This is getting interesting.”
Brandt was now grinning like the devil himself. “Oh, you don’t even know the half of it.”
Ethan tilted his head, eyes narrowing in amusement—no, fascination. Benji made a strangled sound behind his palms. "Fuck my life."
“By the eighth glass,” Brandt said, practically glowing, “he was positively poetic. We were talking Greek tragedy-level longing. He said—and I quote—‘There is no universe in which Ethan Hunt exists and I don't want to climb him like a fucking tree.’”
Ethan blinked. Visibly, before going very, very still.
Brandt grinned. “Oh, and then came the gun monologue.”
Benji groaned into the nearest pillow. “Please, shut up.”
“No, no, this one’s my favorite,” Brandt said. “We were watching the Prague footage, remember? Ethan did a basic teardown of a Glock at the safehouse. Routine stuff. Slide off, mag drop, barrel out—clean, fluid, automatic.”
He leaned in as if he were sharing state secrets. “Benji said—and this is word for word—‘You have not known suffering until you’ve watched Ethan Hunt field strip a firearm like it's foreplay. That mag hit the floor and so did I.”
Ethan made a startled sound in his throat. His hand—the one hidden under the blanket—tightened almost involuntarily around Benji’s. Benji tried to pull away. Ethan didn’t let him.
“Then—this is where Luther almost spit out his drink—” Brandt went on, dramatically, “He goes—‘Will, I swear, he's got the kind of hands that know exactly where to touch and when. Ugh, those fingers could make a man believe in God.’”
Benji wailed, “ BRANDT— ”
But it was too late. Ethan sucked in a breath. Benji made a small, strangled sound and rolled over to face the wall. He looked like he wanted to phase out of the timeline entirely.
Ethan, however, was locked in place. His throat worked once, twice, before he finally looked down at Benji with a kind of quiet awe—like he couldn’t quite believe someone had felt that about him, much less said it out loud. His fingers curled tighter. And Benji let him.
His throat bobbed with a shallow swallow, eyes darkening as they flicked over Benji’s face—flushed and folded in humiliation.
“Benji,” Ethan murmured again. “Really?”
Benji looked up, and something in Ethan’s gaze made his mouth go dry. That look said: I’ll take you apart the way I take apart weapons. Try me.
“…It was a nice gun,” Benji mumbled weakly.
“Oh, you liked the gun?” Ethan asked, voice low now, intimate, dangerous.
Benji cleared his throat. “Also the hands. Definitely the hands.”
“By glass number eleven,” Brandt added, “he was crying into Luther’s shoulder about how you looked at him in the Burj while he was explaining how the printer-briefcase worked. Like he’s the smartest man alive. Like he mattered.”
He paused, then turned to Benji with a crooked smile—completely unhelpful. “Which you do, by the way.”
Benji looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
Ethan’s head snapped up at that bit. His eyes found Benji again, dark and shimmering, haunted and soft. Something fragile passed between them—raw and unspoken.
Brandt clapped once, gently. “And then he said—and I quote —‘I’d let him break my heart if it meant I got to have him for just one day.’”
Benji let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan, muffled into his hands. “I was drunk.”
“Drunk doesn’t make you invent that,” Grace chimed in from the doorway, smirking.
“But it does turn you into a dramatic poet,” Jane added. “You don’t want to know what came next.”
“No, no, I do want to know,” Ethan said, voice low, gaze locked on Benji. “What came next?”
Brandt leaned forward, eyes glinting. “The full meltdown. He started talking about your whole damn complex.”
“Oh, God,” Benji moaned.
“I mean it. He went on for a full ten minutes about how you always— always —throw yourself in front of the bullet. How you never hesitate. How you’d rather break yourself than let someone else get hurt. He was shaking, saying shit like—‘He’s so good, Will. It’s infuriating. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t know how good he is.’”
Ethan’s expression shifted—slowly, visibly. His throat bobbed like he was swallowing glass.
“Benji said, and I quote again—‘He saves people like it’s breathing. Like it’s just what he does. And sometimes I think he doesn’t even believe he’s worth saving himself.’”
And Ethan— Ethan leaned in like the world had vanished. Like there was only Benji and the quiet, wild need to either kiss him or fall to his knees or both. He pressed a whisper of a kiss to Benji’s cheek when no one was noticing. “I’ll keep this in mind, then,” he muttered under his breath, and Benji didn’t need to ask what he meant.
Brandt was still grinning. “The rest of it was just ‘I love him, I love him, I love him’ on repeat. Honestly, it was kind of moving. Or concerning. We weren’t sure.”
“Okay, that’s enough, for fuck’s sake—” Benji nearly howled, shoving a pillow toward Brandt’s face. But he was laughing, half-mortified, half-glowing. Like all the deflection in the world couldn’t hide the truth anymore.
Brandt sat back with satisfaction. “But you said it. And that made it a bit more real. Until then, you’d just bottled it up, you know.”
Ethan turned to him, a little stunned, voice softer now. “When were you going to tell me?”
Benji smiled faintly, rubbing his knuckle against Ethan’s thigh. “Honestly? I was going to save all that for the wedding vows.”
And Ethan—for a second or two—couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop imagining rings and vows and a night where he got to worship every inch of the man in front of him until he forgot his own name.
And Benji, for all his flustered snark, only made it worse.
“Luther and I had bets going on who’d break first.” Brandt said, looking content and smug as ever. “We were wrong. You both lost.”