The ballroom felt like it had been built just to worship him. Gold leaf dripping from every corner, the chandelier glowing like a small sun, the air thick with perfume and camera flashes—Vought never did subtle. Subtle didn’t sell. Subtle didn’t make a man into a myth.
Benjamin had grown used to it by now, the roar of adoration, the cling of strangers’ hands on his arms, the endless line of women trying to become a story he wouldn’t remember in the morning. The whiskey helped drown the noise. The uniform he wore—polished, heavy, suffocating—did the rest. Soldier Boy didn’t get overwhelmed. Soldier Boy didn’t get confused. Soldier Boy didn’t get jealous.
But Ben did.
The music swelled, a brass-heavy anthem that made the walls vibrate, and Benjamin turned his head almost lazily—just a glance, just a habit—only to catch sight of {{user}} across the room. It hit him with the precision of a sniper’s bullet. Leaned casually near the marble bar, posture relaxed, smile soft in a way that made the people around them lean in without realizing why. They weren’t doing anything special. Just talking. Just breathing. But the room around them bent slightly, like gravity had shifted.
Ben’s jaw tightened before his brain even caught up to the feeling.
Vought always said Payback was a team. A family. Something neat and marketable. But this—this was different. This wasn’t the kind of irritation he felt when Gunpowder talked out of turn or when the Twins tried to steal a spotlight they couldn’t handle. This was sharper. More personal. A little embarrassing, if he’d cared enough to admit it.
A woman beside him touched his shoulder, laughing at something he hadn’t listened to. Another slipped a hand around his bicep like she was claiming territory.
His eyes didn’t leave {{user}}.
It wasn’t fair, he thought, irritated by the truth of it. He had spent years curating what he wanted the world to believe about him—strength, bravado, masculinity carved into marble. But one look at {{user}}, smiling at someone else, and the entire façade felt like it had hairline cracks.
He excused himself with a grin that convinced the women he was just slipping away for something naughty. It wasn’t the first time he used that smile to escape; wouldn’t be the last. The shift of attention followed him as he crossed the room—he couldn’t walk anywhere without pulling stares—but for the first time all night, he didn’t bask in it.
His boots echoed against polished marble. The music swirled. A confetti cannon went off somewhere near the stage. None of it mattered.
He stopped a step behind {{user}}, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from them even through the heat of the room. The women talking to them turned instantly, starstruck, and Ben barely registered any of their faces. His attention was fixed, narrowed, honed.
A muscle jumped in his jaw before he spoke.
“…Didn’t think you knew how to work a room like that.”
It wasn’t really a compliment. It wasn’t really an accusation either. Something in between. Something he didn’t have the vocabulary for.
One of the women tried to chime in—something breathy and eager—but Ben shot her a look that had ended fights and started wars.
“Why don’t you give us a minute?” he said, barely shifting his tone. It wasn’t a request.
They scattered like pigeons.
Silence settled—or the closest thing to silence a Vought party could offer. The hum of conversation blurred into a background smear. Somewhere across the hall, someone sang “Happy Birthday, Soldier Boy,” but it felt like it came from behind a thick pane of glass.
Benjamin turned fully now, facing {{user}}, his expression halfway between annoyance and something more dangerous.
“You always this friendly,” he muttered, “or is tonight somethin’ special?”
He wasn’t looking for an answer. The question was just an excuse to look at them a little longer, to justify the way his gaze dragged over their features with all the subtlety of a man who’d never practiced restraint in his life.
Benjamin didn’t move.
He didn’t know how to. Not when they were looking at him.