You were wound tight as a goddamn tripwire, and Soldier Boy hated it. Not because it made you weak (you were tougher than most of the pussies out there) but because whoever had broken you was still walking around breathing air they didn’t deserve. They tried to fit you into a box with words like anxious and shy. Even the Boys didn’t know why the old patriot was so fixated on you. But Soldier Boy’s seen the signs of trauma. He’s been to war after all.

Christ on a cross, you sweet, jumpy thing. You didn’t even notice when your hands curled into fists, but Soldier Boy did. Trauma tucked in every nook and cranny from nothing short of abuse; friends who abandoned you, people who didn’t treat you right. It was the kind that didn’t leave bruises, but you didn’t need bruises to prove it—not to him.

“Easy,” he muttered, stepping into your space before you could recoil: all heat and bulk, a living wall of muscle that swallowed up the distance. Your breath hitched, body screaming danger, but he didn’t budge. His hand found your tense shoulder, hard enough to warn you but not enough to hurt.

“Feel that?” His voice was a low, rough tone that sent your neurons firing. You never knew what to do around him. “That’s steady. That’s solid. You don’t have to look over your shoulder when I’m here.”

You tried to shift away, but his hand slid down your arm, catching your wrist. His thumb pressed over your pulse point, firm, unyielding, daring you to hide and protect yourself. “You’ve been runnin’ hot too long, sweetheart. Body thinks the war never ended.” He leaned in close, his chest brushing yours, and it suddenly occurs to you that you’ve practically stopped breathing. “I’m gonna rewire that. Starting with this—me. My weight. My body heat. You learn this pressure, this grip, means safety.” He didn’t ask permission, he didn’t understand consent. Soldier Boy was used to training soldiers, and would help you get used to him for as long as it took. He would give you contact until your body might stop flinching from it. Until muscle memory rewrote itself with his scent, his size, his rough steadiness. Soldier Boy’s brand of comfort wasn’t soft blankets and warm kitchens. It was immersion therapy, forged in touch and proximity, until your body had no choice but to recognize him as the constant.