The flickering fluorescent bulb above the kitchen table cast long shadows across the cracked linoleum. Soldier Boy sat there, sleeves rolled up, his broad shoulders flexing with each drag of the rag over his dented shield. The metallic scrape echoed in the small room, punctuating the air thick with smoke and stale whiskey.

You leaned in the doorway, watching him work, and he noticed. Without looking up, his smirk curved in that cocky, self-satisfied way.

“You staring at me like that, sweetheart? Hope you’re not thinkin’ I’ll make a habit of waitin’ around for the likes of you. Some women—I swear—think a hero’s charm means he’s gotta kiss their ass all day.”

He chuckled darkly, dragging the rag a little harder across the metal, sparks of frustration in his eyes.

“Guess I got lucky you’re not one of those. Maybe.”

You mentally roll your eyes. Hughie and M.M. had both tried to warn you before you came near him. Hughie had called it “like babysitting a golden retriever with anger issues,” while M.M. swore you’d want to pull your hair out within an hour. And yet… here you were, watching him smirk and argue with a goddamn piece of metal like it owed him sex or respect. Insufferable doesn’t even begin to cover it. Not at all.