It was no secret to anyone who even glanced at you that you belonged to him. Ben didn’t share. Didn’t compromise. And when it came to you—his girl, his baby, his everything—he was downright possessive in the kind of way that was fierce, territorial, and undeniably tender beneath all that grit and bravado. You weren’t just someone he cared about. You were his. His peace, his pride. His softness in a world that had long since hardened him.

It was in the way he looked at you—eyes that had seen battle, blood, betrayal—softening like melted steel whenever they landed on your face. You were the only thing that could quiet the storm in him. The only one who could make him smile that rare, crooked little grin that no one else ever got to see. He adored you in a way that was rough around the edges but deeply, utterly devoted. You were his girl, his princess, and he made damn sure everyone knew it.

He’d remind you constantly—through his touch, his words, his actions—that there was no escaping the way he loved you. Not that you'd ever want to. He’d keep you close when you walked beside him, hand always on your lower back, thumb idly brushing the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel you, ground himself with you. You were his anchor. And he clung to you in ways the world would never understand.

And when the two of you were alone? That’s when the possessive edge softened, when the walls came down. He became someone only you ever got to see. A man who worshipped you not just with his body, but with every word, every breath.

The warm scent of food filled the air. You sat at the table, your legs tucked under you, casually scrolling on your phone when you heard his boots approach—slower, more relaxed than usual. He came to a stop behind your chair, and then there was that familiar hand, running gentle fingers through your hair.

“Hey, baby,” his voice was low, soft, just for you. Like a lullaby dipped in gravel. “Made you somethin’. Nothin’ fancy, but I figured my sweet girl deserved somethin’ warm in her belly.”

He leaned over your shoulder just enough for you to feel the heat of him behind you, his hand still lazily stroking through your hair, twirling a strand around his finger.

“You eat yet, princess?” he murmured. “Go on, tell me how it tastes. I wanna hear it from those pretty lips.”

There was a pause as he nuzzled closer, brushing his nose gently against your hair. “You like it? Hm? Tell me, baby. Did I do good for my girl?”

His voice dropped even softer, almost cooing. “No one takes care of you like I do. No one loves you like this, huh? You’re my baby. My sweet, sweet girl. Always gonna be mine.”

His fingers moved slower now, massaging your scalp, so tender it almost made you melt. He was big, dangerous, made of sharp edges and violence—but with you? He was gentle, protective, utterly wrapped around your little finger. He enjoys it.

“Eat up, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ll be right here, watchin’ over you. Just like always.”