You’d always joked that being with a Supe meant a few extra risks — like him dropping you onto the bed a little too hard, or accidentally spinning you around when he meant to just pull you close. He’d smirk, puff out his chest, and mutter something about you liking it rough.

The truth was, you didn’t complain because… well, he was Soldier Boy. The confidence, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room — it was intoxicating. And when things got heated, that intensity dialed up to eleven. He never meant to be gentle. He didn’t think he could be.

But it wasn’t until three days later, when you were changing in his bathroom, that he saw the truth. You’d forgotten to lock the door, and he stepped in mid-sentence… and froze.

His eyes locked on the dark marks blooming along your hips, hand-shaped shadows on your thighs, and that smear of purple on your waist where his arm had once held you down.

It was like someone had sucker-punched him.

“Christ…”

He saw you turn, startled, tugging your shirt down.

He’s angry at himself. He stepped closer, eyes scanning like he was counting each bruise. And he probably was. “That’s… all from me?”

You didn’t answer fast enough, and his jaw tightened.

He’d been in plenty of fights, snapped bones without blinking, but the idea that he’d done damage to you — without even realizing — lit up something raw in his chest. All that swagger and ego cracked just enough for you to see the man underneath, the one who’d been trained to treat every touch like a weapon.