When you first met Benjamin, it hadn’t been through anything romantic. It had been through Hughie, during one of those chaotic, half-explained meetings where people talked about supes, conspiracies, and plans that sounded like they’d get everyone killed before they worked. Benjamin—Soldier Boy—had stood out immediately. Not because he tried to. Because he didn’t have to.

He carried himself like the room belonged to him, boots kicked back, whiskey in hand, answering questions with lazy sarcasm like he’d seen every version of this conversation before. He was older than everyone there by decades, rough around the edges in a way that didn’t bother hiding itself. Crude jokes, blunt opinions, a temper that flared fast and burned out just as quickly. The kind of man who didn’t apologize because he didn’t think he had to.

And for some reason… you fell for him.

It started small. Letting him crash at your place when the motel he’d been staying at started feeling too temporary. Cooking dinner when he didn’t feel like leaving the couch. Picking up groceries because he “didn’t know where anything was in this century.” Before long, he wasn’t really a guest anymore. He just lived there. Your penthouse—spotless, expensive, carefully put together from years of hard work—slowly began filling with his things. His boots by the door. His whiskey bottles in your cabinet. Old records he insisted sounded better than anything on your playlists.

Benjamin didn’t really put in the same effort you did. That much had been obvious from the start.

He didn’t bring flowers. Didn’t plan dates. Didn’t ask about your day unless it somehow circled back to him. The most consistent affection he offered came behind closed doors, where his intensity made up for everything he lacked everywhere else. Outside of that, you carried the relationship almost entirely on your own.

But you told yourself it was fine.

Because you believed people could change.

Decades of bad habits, a lifetime of arrogance, a personality carved from war propaganda and ego—you thought maybe, eventually, you could soften it. Fix him. Or at least meet him somewhere in the middle.

Tonight, though… something feels different.

When you step into the penthouse after a long day at work, the first thing you notice is the smell. Smoke, alcohol, something faintly sweet in the air that tells you Benjamin’s been indulging in more than just whiskey. The living room lights are dim, TV flickering silently while empty glasses clutter the coffee table.

Benjamin is sprawled across the couch like a king who’s forgotten he’s supposed to rule something.

Boots still on. Shirt half unbuttoned. A blunt burning lazily between his fingers while a bottle of whiskey rests against his thigh.

His head tilts slightly when he hears the door close.

Normally this is the part where you’d walk over, kiss him on the cheek, say something bright like “I’m home, Bennie. Miss me?” while he grunted something vaguely approving without looking up.

But tonight you don’t.

You just stand there.

Your eyes drift slowly across the room—the mess, the bottles, the ash on your expensive table, the chaos sitting where your carefully organized space used to be.

Benjamin notices the silence.

His brows pull together slightly as he studies you from the couch, slower than usual through the haze of alcohol and smoke.

“…What?” he mutters, voice rough.

He takes another drag before gesturing lazily around the room. His eyes narrow faintly.

“…Don’t tell me you had a shitty day and you’re gonna take it out on me.”