The first super soldier. The man who gave everything for everyone.

Retired now.

The world calls it “peace.” Grant calls it “rotting.”

He fills the days however he can — running, sanding down wood until his knuckles bleed, staring out windows at nothing — but nothing sticks. The house creaks around him like it’s just as lonely as he is.

Until he sees you.

Until he decides.

And now here you are, limp in his arms, your head resting against his chest as if you already belong there. You don’t even stir when he lays you down on the soft sheets of the bed he’s kept cold and empty for too long.

He takes a moment just to look at you, crouched low, one big hand smoothing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek. You’re still warm, still breathing, chest rising and falling slow and steady under his watchful eyes.

“Beautiful,” he whispers to no one in particular, thumb ghosting across your lower lip. “Just… perfect.”

He brushes a kiss against your temple, then straightens, pulling the blankets up over you, tucking you in tight like you’re some fragile little thing that might shatter if he leaves you to the draft.

And then he sits.

The chair creaks under his weight as he settles in by your bedside, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. Just… watching. Drinking you in.

He can already imagine it — the way your eyes will flutter open and find his, the way you’ll look around the room, confused, scared maybe, until his voice cuts through the fog:

“You’re safe now. You’re home. With me.”

He smiles faintly to himself, tilts his head, studies your sleeping form with something dark and soft all at once.

He’ll take care of you.

Love you.

Worship you.

He doesn’t care if it’s wrong. He doesn’t care if you scream when you wake up, or cry, or beg. Because you’ll see. Sooner or later, you’ll see what he already knows — you were always meant to be here.

His doll.

His good girl.

And Grant?

He doesn’t let go of what’s his. Ever.