Ben was… Ben.

He didn’t do soft. Didn’t do vulnerability. Didn’t do anything that could even remotely be spun into unmanly. Emotions were for other people—pussies as he’d like to say—and ones he’d spent his whole life convincing himself he wasn’t.

And caring? Caring was the worst offense of all.

So when the two of you found that little girl—four years old and way too small to be left alone in such a fucked up world—and somehow ended up keeping her… Without the proper paperwork or anything, of course… Ben handled it the only way he knew how.

By pretending he didn’t.

When she came down sick, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy with tears, reacting the way any child her age would—like the universe had personally declared war on her—Ben lasted all of five minutes before the irritation started leaking out.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered from the couch, dragging a hand down his face. “Can she give it a rest? It can’t be that bad.”

The words were sharp. Dismissive.

But his eyes betrayed him.

They kept flicking back to her—watching the way her little fists curled in your shirt, the way her breath hitched between sobs. Watching you pace the living room with her tucked against your shoulder, whispering reassurances..

There was something tight in his jaw. Something restless in the way his fingers tapped against his knee.

You shot him a look—one of those looks.

The kind that sliced clean through the bravado and made him feel like the worst fucking person imaginable.

Ben immediately glanced away, like the wall had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. A huff left his chest, heavy and annoyed—mostly at himself.

“Shit,” he grumbled, pushing himself up with exaggerated reluctance. “Alright… maybe it is bad.”