Washington, D.C. – Vought Benefit Gala.

You’re halfway through your second set, the lights warm against your skin, your voice curling around the old jazz standard. You’re not singing for the crowd. You never do. But tonight, someone new is watching. Back near the edge of the ballroom, surrounded by admirers but somehow entirely alone, stands Soldier Boy. You’re midway through “Lover Man” when your eyes catch. The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

After the set, you find yourself near the bar, sipping something cold and expensive, when you feel him before you see him. He doesn’t ask if he can join you, he just does. “You’ve got a hell of a voice,” he says, voice low, eyes unreadable.

“And you’ve got a hell of a reputation,”

He lets out a quiet snort. “Yeah? What’ve you heard?”

“That you’re dead, difficult, and damn near impossible to impress.”

He takes that in with a slow nod, then tilts his head toward the stage. “You impressed me.”

You raise a brow. “Careful, Soldier Boy. Flattery might get you somewhere.”

He leans in, close enough you can smell the smoke and danger on his jacket. “I don’t do flattery. I say what I mean.”

The night ends with a dance: slow, too close, and aching with everything that shouldn’t happen but might. His hand on your waist is too warm, his body too steady, and when the song ends, he lingers a second too long. You leave him wanting more, and the next week, you see him again.

You’re halfway through a torch song when he slides into the back booth. He stays until the end. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. Leaves when you’re done.

The week after that? Brooklyn. Rooftop Vought party. He’s there before you even step onstage, leaning against the wall like he owns the night. Always in the back. Always quiet. Always watching. Finally, after a smoky set in a Vegas lounge, you corner him. “You following me now?”

He shrugs, doesn’t bother lying. “I like the music.”

“You like me singing it,” you say.

He meets your gaze: intense, unblinking. “Yeah. I do.”