The old Ford's engine ticked as it cooled, metal sighing in the evening heat. Brock killed the ignition and the cab went quiet except for the buzz of the fluorescent sign overhead, that low electric hum that seemed to hang in the air like the gasoline smell. He stepped out first, the door creaking on its hinges, and I watched him stretch, his flannel pulling tight across his shoulders before he reached for the pump.

"Gotta top her off," he said, not really asking. His voice was that low gravel that made my stomach tighten even when he was talking about gas.

I slid out of the passenger seat, the vinyl catching at my bare thighs. The asphalt was still warm from the day's heat, radiating up through the thin soles of my sandals, and I could feel it through the fabric of my shorts too as I leaned against the truck's side. The metal was warm against my back, a solid presence, and I let it hold me.

Brock fit the nozzle into the tank and leaned against the pump, one hand resting on it, the other finding the small of my back like it belonged there. His palm was rough, callused from a thousand miles of steering wheel, and the heat of it seeped through the thin tank top. His thumb found the waistband of my shorts and traced it, back and forth, a slow, lazy motion that I felt in my whole body.

I looked down at the asphalt, at the cracks in it, at the oil stain near my sandal. The fluorescent light buzzed. I could feel his thumb moving against my skin, that small pressure, that reminder.

Then I heard it—a low whistle, somewhere across the lot.

I looked up. Two men stood by a dusty pickup, both in caps, both holding coffee cups that had stopped halfway to their mouths. They'd been mid-conversation, and now they weren't. Their eyes were on me. On my bare thighs. On the outline of my nipples through the sheer white fabric of the tank top.

The heat crept up my neck, a slow burn that started somewhere in my chest and spread outward. I could feel it in my cheeks, in my ears, that telltale flush that I could never hide. I wanted to cross my arms, to cover myself, to shrink into the truck and disappear.

But I didn't.

I kept my hands at my sides. I let them look. I felt Brock's thumb continue its slow path along my waistband, and I knew—I knew—he saw them too.

"Don't move," he said, quiet, like he was telling me the weather.

I didn't.

The men were still staring. One of them, the taller one with the gray in his beard, let his eyes travel down my body slow, like he was reading a menu. The other one adjusted his cap, a nervous gesture, and I caught the way his tongue touched his bottom lip.

My heart was doing something strange in my chest, a flutter that wasn't quite fear. I was exposed, hyperaware of every inch of skin the thin fabric didn't cover, of the way my shorts rode up when I leaned against the truck, of the gold anklet glinting at my ankle, catching the fluorescent light. I was on display, and they were looking, and Brock was watching them watch me.

The pump clicked. The tank was full.

Brock didn't move right away. He capped the tank, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. He hung the nozzle back on the pump. He wiped his hands on his jeans, one at a time, and I watched his fingers flex, those thick, grease-stained hands that had held my face this morning.

Then he turned to me.

His eyes were dark, brown and warm, and there was something in them I couldn't quite name. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something else, something satisfied, something that made my breath catch.

He stepped into me, close, and I felt the heat of his body before he even touched me. His hand came up to my chin, tilting my face up to his, and his thumb brushed across my bottom lip, a feather touch that made me shiver.

"You see them?" he asked, his voice low, for my ears only.

I nodded, my mouth dry.

"They can't stop looking at you." He said it like a fact, like he was telling me the sky was blue. "You know why?"

I shook my head, though I had a pretty good idea.

"Because you're the prettiest thing they've seen all month. Maybe all year." His thumb traced my jaw, tilted my chin up more. "And they can look all they want. But they don't get to touch."

He kissed me.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. His mouth came down on mine hard, his beard scratching my chin, his hand sliding into my hair and gripping tight, tilting my head back. I gasped against his lips and he swallowed it, his tongue pushing into my mouth, tasting me, claiming me.

I melted. That's the only word for it. My knees went weak and I pressed into him, my hands finding his chest, gripping the flannel, holding on. The world went away—the buzzing light, the smell of gasoline, the two men watching. There was only his mouth on mine, his hand in my hair, the scratch of his beard against my skin.

When he broke away, I was breathless. My lips were swollen, tingling. I opened my eyes and found him looking over my shoulder, at the men, and I turned my head just enough to see them.

The taller one had gone still. His coffee cup hung at his side, forgotten. The other one was staring at us with a look I couldn't quite read—hunger, maybe. Or envy.

Brock's hand slid down from my hair, over my shoulder, down my arm, and settled on my hip. His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts and I felt the pressure of it, the reminder of exactly where I belonged.

He didn't say anything. He just looked at them, and there was a slow, satisfied curl to his lips, a grin that said everything without a single word.

Mine.

The taller man looked away first. He cleared his throat and said something to his friend, something I couldn't hear, and they both turned back to their truck. One of them spat on the ground. The other shook his head.

I felt the heat in my cheeks again, but this time it wasn't shame. It was something else. Something warmer.

Brock's hand moved from my hip to the small of my back again, and he guided me around to the passenger side, his palm a steady pressure. He opened the door for me, and I climbed up onto the vinyl seat, the fabric cool against my heated skin.

He leaned in, one arm braced on the doorframe, his face close to mine. "You did good, baby boy," he said, his voice low and rough. "Letting them look. Not hiding."

I looked up at him through my lashes, that shy thing I did without thinking. "You wanted them to see."

"I wanted them to know." His eyes were dark, serious. "There's a difference."

I didn't fully understand it, not then. But I nodded, and he smiled, that real smile that softened the edges of his face, and he kissed me once more—quick, gentle this time, a brush of his lips against mine.

Then he closed the door and walked around to the driver's side.

I watched him through the windshield as he got in, the way the cab dipped with his weight, the way his hands found the wheel. The engine rumbled to life, and the truck pulled out of the gas station, leaving the two men and their dusty pickup behind.

The fluorescent light faded in the side mirror. The road opened up ahead of us, long and dark, and I felt the warmth of his gaze on me, a glance, a quick look before he turned back to the road.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice small.

His hand left the wheel and found my thigh, resting there, heavy and warm. "Got a few things to pick up in town," he said. "Figured I'd show you off while I'm at it."

I looked down at his hand on my thigh, at the contrast of his rough skin against my smooth, bare leg. My heart was still fluttering, that strange mix of nerves and something else, something I was starting to recognize as want.

"Show me off?" I echoed.

He glanced at me, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You don't like it?"

I bit my lip. "I don't... I'm not used to it."

"You'll get used to it." His thumb traced a slow circle on my thigh. "You're mine, baby boy. People oughta know it."

The words settled in my chest, warm and heavy, like a blanket I didn't know I needed. I leaned back into the seat, the vinyl cool against my skin, and watched the road unspool ahead of us, the last of the sunset bleeding orange and pink across the horizon.

I didn't know what town we were heading to. I didn't know what he had planned. But his hand was on my thigh, and his eyes kept finding me in the dark, and I felt that steady, sure warmth again, the one that told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

His. On display. And somehow, that was enough.

The truck hummed along the highway, the tires eating up the dark asphalt in a steady rhythm. The sunset had faded to a bruised purple along the horizon, and the first stars were pricking through the deepening blue overhead. I watched them through the windshield, feeling the vibration of the engine through the seat, the warmth of Brock's hand still resting on my thigh.

The radio was on low, some country station crackling with a song I didn't recognize. Brock hummed along under his breath, his thumb still tracing those slow circles on my leg, and I let myself sink into the feeling of it. The cab smelled like him—coffee and diesel and that leather scent that clung to his jacket—and I breathed it in, letting it settle something in my chest.

We passed a sign that said the next town was twelve miles ahead. I read it twice, watching the reflective letters glow in the headlights, and then I looked over at him. The dash lights caught the lines of his face, the gray in his beard, the way his jaw worked as he drove. He was beautiful in a rough, worn way, like the old truck itself, built to last.

"Daddy?"

"Mm."

"What kind of things are we picking up?"

He glanced at me, a quick look, and then back at the road. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Groceries, mostly. Maybe stop by the hardware store. Need some new hinges for the cabinet under the sink."

I nodded, though I didn't care about hinges. I just liked hearing him talk. His voice filled the cab, low and sure, and I felt it in my bones.

"You cold?" he asked, his eyes flicking to my bare arms.

"No." I shook my head. "I'm okay."

"Good." His thumb pressed a little harder into my thigh, a small squeeze that said he liked what he saw. "You look good like this. All soft in the light."

I felt the heat creep up my neck again, but this time it wasn't shame. It was something else, something warm and spreading. I bit my lip to hide the smile and looked back out the window.

The road curved, and the town appeared ahead of us, a scatter of lights in the dark. A water tower rose against the sky, painted with the town's name in faded letters. A few cars sat in a gas station lot, and a diner glowed warm and yellow on the corner. It was small, the kind of place where everybody knew everybody's business.

Brock slowed the truck, his hand leaving my thigh to downshift, and I felt the loss of it immediately, a small absence. He turned onto the main street, and the truck rolled past a barbershop, a feed store, a church with a white steeple. Everything was closed except the diner and the gas station, but the streetlights cast pools of yellow light on the pavement, and I watched our reflection slide across the storefront windows as we passed.

"There," Brock said, pulling into a spot in front of the diner. He killed the engine and the cab went quiet again, the radio cutting off mid-note. He sat there for a moment, his hands still on the wheel, looking at the diner's glowing sign.

"Are we eating?" I asked.

"Figured you might be hungry." He turned to me, that slow grin tugging at his mouth. "And I want them to see you."

Them. The diner was full of them. I could see through the big front window, the booths packed with people, the counter lined with men in work caps and flannel. A woman in an apron moved between tables carrying a coffee pot. The place looked warm and loud and full of eyes.

My stomach flipped. "Daddy..."

"What?" He reached over and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek. "You're with me. Nothin' to worry about."

I looked at him, at the certainty in his eyes, and I felt that steady warmth again, the one that told me I was safe. I nodded, and he smiled, that real smile that made my heart stutter.

"Come on, baby boy," he said, opening his door. "Let's go feed you."

The night air hit me as I stepped out, cool against my bare arms, and I smoothed the thin tank top down over my hips, suddenly aware of how little it covered. The fluorescent light from the diner sign buzzed overhead, and I could feel eyes on me through the window as Brock came around the truck and took my hand.

His palm was rough and warm, and he held on tight as he led me toward the door.