HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 13: DAD'S TRUCK

Elias woke up to a hand on his waist.

Not light. Not accidental. Claiming.

Damien’s palm was flat against his stomach, thumb moving in slow circles like he’d been doing it for hours. Like he’d fallen asleep touching him and decided not to stop.

Elias didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Behind him, Damien’s chest rose and fell against his back. Solid. Warm. The arm over his waist tightened just a fraction when Elias shifted.

“Don’t,” Damien murmured into his hair. Voice rough with sleep. “You move, I’ll think you’re trying to leave.”

“I wasn’t,” Elias whispered. Flustered. Because Damien’s hand had slipped under his shirt while he slept. Skin to skin now. Possessive and patient all at once.

Damien hummed. Kissed the back of his neck. “Good. Stay.”

Rule 8: _What’s mine stays mine._

This morning, it sounded like a prayer.

For 10 minutes they didn’t talk. Just breathed. Just the weight of Damien’s hand on Elias’s waist, anchoring him to the bed, to the moment, to him.

Then Damien sat up. Pulled Elias with him. Still touching his waist like he was afraid he’d disappear.

“Get dressed,” he said. “Casual.”

Elias blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m giving you something.” Damien’s eyes were unreadable. “And you need to see it.”

---

*Warehouse District. 10:03 AM*

The building looked abandoned. Rust. Broken windows. But Damien’s key turned smooth in the lock.

Inside: dust. And silence. And a shape under a tarp in the center of the room.

Elias stopped walking.

Damien didn’t look at him. He walked straight to the tarp and gripped the edge. Then he pulled.

Slow.

The tarp fell away.

Blue paint. Faded. Dent on the passenger door. A cracked pine air freshener tree hanging from the rearview mirror.

Elias’s knees went weak.

Dad’s Isuzu truck.

The one he sold to pay hospital bills. The one Elias sat in when he was 9, pretending to steer while Dad drove.

“How,” Elias breathed. He touched the hood. Cold metal. Real. “This truck was auctioned. 12 years ago.”

Damien walked to the driver’s side. Opened the door. The smell hit Elias like a punch: diesel, old leather, that cheap pine scent Dad loved.

“I bought it,” Damien said. Simple. No excuses. “The week after the funeral. Bank was selling his things. I outbid everyone.”

He pulled the keys from his pocket. Not new keys. Dad’s keys. Worn. The same keychain with the tiny truck charm Elias made him in school.

Damien held them out. Palm up. Offering.

Elias stared at them. Didn’t take them.

“Why?” he asked. Voice shaking.

Damien finally looked at him. Really looked. No CEO mask. No owner mask. Just him.

“Because for 12 years this truck sat empty,” he said. “No Wanjiku in the passenger seat. No one pretending to steer. No one telling me to ‘drive like I’m going home’ instead of running.”

He pressed the keys into Elias’s palm and closed Elias’s fingers over them.

“I kept it because I couldn’t let it go. I’m giving it to you because I can’t let you go either.” A pause. “Not as debt. As a gift. As proof that what your father started... I want to finish.”

Elias’s vision blurred. He gripped the keys until they cut into his palm.

Damien opened the passenger door. “Sit.”

Elias did. Hands shaking on the wheel. Dad’s wheel.

Damien got in the driver’s side. Didn’t start the engine. Just sat there, both hands on the wheel his 17-year-old self learned on.

“He taught me here,” Damien said quietly. “First gear. Clutch. How to not flinch. He’d sit right where you are now. 25 and patient like he had all the time in the world.”

He reached across. Covered Elias’s hands on the wheel with his own. Ma maimed hand. Three fingers missing. Over Elias’s whole hands.

“Drive,” Damien said.

Elias turned the key. The engine roared to life after 12 years of silence.

The whole truck vibrated. Alive again.

Damien’s hand slid from Elias’s hands to his waist. Same spot as this morning in bed. Anchor.

“Where to?” Damien asked.

Elias looked at him. At the truck. At Dad’s keys in his hand.

“Home,” he whispered.

Damien nodded. Put the truck in gear.

And drove.

Slow. Around the warehouse. No destination. Just movement. Just Dad’s truck moving again with a Wanjiku in the passenger seat and Damien’s hand on his waist like a vow.

Elias leaned his head back against the seat. Closed his eyes. Listened to the engine. Felt the vibration. Felt Damien’s thumb brushing his hip through his shirt.

When they stopped, Damien killed the engine. Silence.

Elias opened his eyes. Tears on his face.

Damien’s thumb brushed them away. Gentle. “He saved me,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”

Not a command. A promise.

Elias unbuckled his seatbelt. Leaned across the console. Pressed his forehead to Damien’s shoulder, right where Dad’s arm would’ve been.

Damien froze. Then his arm came around Elias’s back. Full. No hesitation.

The keys were still in Elias’s hand. Proof. Gift. Home.

Damien’s mouth was right at his ear. “Happy now?”

Elias nodded against him. “I didn’t know I was missing this.”

“Yeah,” Damien said against his hair. Voice wrecked. “Me neither. Until you.”

Outside, Nairobi moved on. Inside Dad’s truck, Damien’s hand stayed on Elias’s waist. And for the first time, Elias didn’t feel like property.

He felt like family.

_The truck starts. So does he._