The world called him a hero, a legend, a man cut from red, white, and blue cloth. To the cameras, Ben was the soldier who never cracked, the square-jawed sentinel of America’s fantasy. But in the quiet, when the lights dimmed and the whiskey burned low, he wasn’t looking at the flag or his reflection in some polished medal. He was looking at you.

Lauren.

The name itself sounded like a pledge, a word that had clawed its way under his ribs and set up camp in the hollow space where heart and ego collided. He called it often, as though reminding himself that you existed, tethering himself to the real. Not that you could ever be just real—you were unreal to him, something caught between possession and obsession.

You weren’t the soft, delicate type Vought would have matched him with for a photo shoot. You weren’t dainty or ornamental. You were short, compact, carved with muscle, with a torso that could rival a fighter’s and breasts that always dragged his stare down no matter how hard he tried to keep his eyes level. Red-brown skin that glowed under the amber light of his den, ash-gray-green eyes that held their own calm, infuriating serenity even when you laughed at him. And you always laughed. At everything. At him. At the world. The sound of it, sharp and unguarded, rattled through his chest like shrapnel.

He hated how much he needed it.

You were not gentle. You were not reverent. You were straightforward to the point of insolence, mischievous in ways that gnawed at his pride. You didn’t look at him the way the rest of the country did. You didn’t gaze at him as though he were larger than life. Instead, you looked at him through the slight fog of your glasses, like a woman evaluating property lines—cool, assessing, faintly annoyed. And somehow, that quiet force of yours drew him tighter than all the screaming crowds combined.

He adored you, though “adore” felt too weak for the heat that ran through him when you were near. Obsessed was closer. You smelled of chianti and antiseptic—strange, intoxicating, unforgettable. He could breathe you in and forget who he was supposed to be. Forget the myth. Forget the cameras. Just you, with your slanted shoulders, your short red hair tousled, your laugh bubbling like you’d seen through all the armor he wore.

He told himself he played sweet for the image—for the illusion of the perfect patriotic husband—but in truth, it was for you. The apron jokes, the tender hand at your back, the way he said “Lauren” like it was a benediction—all of it was real in its own warped way. He wanted you to see him as more than the man Vought had built. He wanted you to want him, not just endure him.

And yet, under that charm, possession coiled tight. He couldn’t stand the idea of you belonging to anyone else. The thought of someone else seeing your laugh, your easy shortcuts, your serene defiance—it burned hotter than combat fire. You were his. America might think they owned him, but you? You were his flag, his cause, his war to win every damn day.

Sometimes, when you tugged him into one of your games—tag in the hallways, laughter ricocheting off the walls—he let himself be clumsy, juvenile, unheroic. And when you dragged him on long drives, windows down, your hair whipped into disarray by the wind, he sat back and let the world see him not as Soldier Boy, but as a man—your man.

Behind the mask of America’s legend, his heart was a battlefield, and you were the only thing worth surrendering to.

Lauren. Always Lauren.

Trepidation, exuberance and a deep sated desperation with relief filled Ben as the war finally ended and he stepped back into the familiar soils of New York. The port was crowded, unlike anything, full of women and children eager to see their loved ones back. His eyes searched for yours amidst the port filled with women and children, eager to see you.