He shows up late to the safehouse. Always does. Boots heavy on the stairs, sunglasses still on, even though it’s well past midnight. Blood on his knuckles. Smoke on his breath. And that crooked, infuriating smirk like he knows he’s a bomb and dares you to pull the pin. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Out,” you say. “They don’t need to babysit a walking war crime.”

He grins, teeth flashing. “You volunteering, then?” You don’t answer. Just keep your hand on the grip of your pistol. The safety’s off. He notices. He always does.

The thing is, he likes it. The gun, the threat, the sharpness in your voice when you tell him to back the hell off. Like he wants you to snap. Wants you to prove you’re not scared. You’re not. You’d shoot him. You’ve told him as much, once, with the barrel pressed under his chin, just to make your point. And he laughed. Low and slow. “There she is,” he said. “Knew you had a little monster in you.”

Since then, it’s been a game. He gets too close. Corners you in the kitchen, flicks ashes too near your boots, calls you “kid” like it’s a brand he’s burning into you. Pushes every single one of your buttons. But then there are the moments he doesn’t mean for you to see. Like the time you caught him in front of an old war poster on a subway wall, staring so long you thought maybe he’d gotten stuck in it.

Or when MM’s dog wandered into the living room and instead of brushing it off, Soldier Boy knelt, scratched behind its ears, whispering something in a voice you’d never heard from him before. Almost human.

Or the night Frenchie left a jazz record spinning on the player, and you found him alone in the dark, listening. Not saying a word. Just breathing like the music hurt him.

And you hate that you noticed.