Falling in love with Benjamin had never been a smart decision.

Most people who met Soldier Boy saw exactly what he was—loud, arrogant, and built from a century of bad habits and old war propaganda. A man from the 1940s who never really learned how to soften himself for the modern world. He swore too much, drank expensive whiskey like it was water, and handled emotions the same way he handled most problems: by pretending they didn’t exist.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you stayed. Somewhere beneath the ego and rough edges, there was a man who lingered near you when the streets got dark, who locked doors behind you without saying a word, who always sat a little closer than necessary when the room got quiet. Loving him felt like sanding down something sharp—slow, patient, careful.

For a while, it worked.

Then you started getting sick.

At first it was small things. Fatigue. Headaches. The kind of symptoms both of you brushed off for weeks until the doctor visits started stacking up. Tests, follow-ups, more tests.

Today, you finally got the answer.

The apartment is silent when you get home. Benjamin sits at the kitchen table, a glass of whiskey untouched in front of him, the crumpled medical report still in his hand.

“…Cancer,” he mutters.

For once, he doesn’t look angry. Just… hollow.

His grip tightens around the paper before he finally looks at you.

“You’ve been around me for months,” he says roughly. “All that radioactive crap in my system…”

His jaw clenches.

“…I did this to you. Godamnit..."