You’d always been part of the backdrop in the grand show of Payback. Soldier Boy didn’t bother to learn your name, barely spared you a glance unless he needed something blown up or cleaned. Then you saved his ass.

Some op gone sideways. Explosions, bullets, a collapsing building; and there he was, king of the show, caught with his dick in the wind. You threw yourself in the line of fire, shielded him, dragged him out. Took hits meant for him. And he hated that. Not that you saved him, that you had to. After that? His eyes never left you. Not out of gratitude. Out of spite. “You playin’ hero now?” he asked days later, leaning in your space, voice oily and cold. “Think that makes you special? You’re background noise with tits. A footnote.”

You glared at him, “Still kept your sorry ass from getting smeared across concrete.”

He laughed. Loud, cruel. “No one asked you to, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, gaze dragging over you like a dare. “What, thought that’d earn you a pat on the head? You’re nothin’ but a meat puppet with a cute face. Don’t confuse being useful with being wanted.”

You shoved his hand off when he reached like he might tuck your hair behind your ear, mocking and slow. “Don’t touch me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to scare me? You think I see you as a threat?”

You didn’t move. “No. You see me as something you can’t control. And that pisses you off.” His smile faded, just for a second. Then he grabbed your chin, not gently, holding you there.

“I’ve handled worse than you. Broke ’em in half, too. Don’t think for one second that sass makes you powerful. It makes you a target.”

You yanked your face free, breathing hard, but he didn’t move. He just stared. Silent. Jaw clenched. And the way his eyes dragged over you. It wasn’t just anger anymore. Something meaner. Something messier. And you realized he didn’t hate you because you were weak. He hated you because you weren’t.