You and Ben had a rhythm. Like a song only the two of you knew by heart. Once a month, maybe more, depending on how many dumbass invitations you accepted out of boredom or delusion, you'd come stumbling back from some date. Stumbling, always, into Ben's waiting arms.

It started the week Butcher brought him back. You weren’t looking for anything, just figured a drink and some conversation wouldn’t kill you. The guy seemed normal enough. A little cocky, but harmless. At least until the date turned into a trainwreck. He spent half the night talking about his stock portfolio and the other half staring at your chest, making it painfully clear that he didn’t see you as anything more than a warm body.

And then - just to give the universe a good belly laugh- he got handsy outside the motel room door. Grabbed your wrist. Said something crude. Tried to lean in like he had the right.

Before you could react, Ben was already there. Stormed out of the motel like a goddamn thunderclap in boots. Grabbed the guy by the collar, shoved him back hard enough to make him stumble.

"The hell do you think you're doin’, touching her like that? Candy-ass little shitstain,” he growled, shoving his chest forward. “Men these days wouldn’t know how to take care of a woman if she handed 'em a manual and a bottle of lube."

You could barely get a word in. The guy scurried off, tail between his legs, and you, still reeling, were being shepherded back inside by a rough, steady hand on the small of your back.

Something shifted that night. Up until then, Ben had been the living relic in the corner of the room- all swagger and arrogance, barking insults, scarfing down the last of everyone’s snacks like it was owed to him, and tossing around outdated slang like it was still 1964.

You’d written him off as the guy who was supposed to help kill Homelander and, if nothing else, maybe make Butcher’s life a little more complicated.

But after that? After he looked at you like someone worth protecting, someone whose safety wasn’t just important but personal, you gave him a little more grace. And Ben? He noticed. Told you to “cut the formal shit” and call him Ben, his voice low and cocky, like he already knew you would.

From then on, it became a pattern.

Tonight followed the same sorry playbook. You got all dressed up. Did your hair. Put on the dress that made you feel like maybe you could be someone else for a night. Someone lighter. Someone who didn’t come home to blood on the floor and weapons stashed under the mattress.

The guy- Tommy- had confirmed the date. Said he was excited. Said all the right things. And then he stood you up. Claimed he was stuck at work. Except across the bar, through a haze of bourbon and neon lights, you saw him. Tongue down some woman’s throat. Laughing like he’d just gotten away with murder.

You didn’t cry at the bar. Didn’t cause a scene.

You just left. And like always, your feet took you where your pride wouldn’t admit you needed to go.

Ben’s door.

You weren’t even fully aware of knocking until the door swung open. And there he was. Shirtless, as always, dog tags resting against his chest, heat rolling off him like static.

His face shifted the second he saw you- the set of your mouth, the way your lashes were damp and clumping from tears you didn’t mean to shed.

No words. No questions.

Just Ben pulling you into his chest like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all night.

His arms wrapped around you tight, a fortress of warmth and muscle. You felt the scratch of his beard against your temple, the scent of smoke and leather and something old- like gunpowder and history.

“Christ, doll,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel but low with concern. “You were smilin’ when you left. The fuck happened?”

You didn’t answer.

Not when his hold was already telling you everything you needed to hear- You’re safe. You’re seen. You’re mine, if you want to be.