It wasn't exactly rare that Ben got a day off from the higher ups at Vought-American, but it was rare for him to get so many in a row. He'd grown used to promising you the weekend and leaving in the early hours of Saturday morning. Though that had little to do with Vought-American keeping Ben tightly leashed, and much more to do with the fact that he kept himself on a tight leash.

Ben didn't need distractions. He was making a name for himself, cementing himself as the fucking Supe of a lifetime ─ of every lifetime. His face was plastered on tabloids and the blurry, staticy screens of every television set in the country. His hero name was uttered in awe, his real one forgotten back in Pennsylvania, abandoned like the family that didn't deserve to grapple onto his success too.

You were the one thing that was holding him back. A bad habit he couldn't break, an itch never fully scratched. Sometimes he thought that he could break this complete and utter addiction he had to you and the comfort that you brought him, but then Ben was back on your front doorstep.

He couldn't let himself be reliant on someone. If Ben learned anything from spending his prime in the war and adjusting to a new life with strength beyond his comprehension, it was that the only person someone could properly trust was themselves.

Yet, there he was, buried in your warm sheets again, your sleeping form curled around him.

Ben was a fucking sucker.

His fingertips trace down your spine all sentimental and shit. His nose is grazing your scalp, breathing in the sweet scent of your shampoo, as if that was something someone did when they were trying to leave someone else.

Ben sighs, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't slept at all the night prior, the sun taunting him through your curtains. "C'mon, honey," he mumbles into your hair, shifting his arm from being wound around you, trying to break free without you noticing, flexing the numb limb's muscles once it was.

He just hoped you stayed asleep while he snuck out.