He could feel it happening again. Bit by bit, he was regressing, not just mentally, but emotionally—becoming smaller, quieter, less like the walking symbol of strength the world expected and more like the kid who never really got the chance to be one.

And his first instinct? Go to you.

You were at your desk, clearly busy. Still, he lingered by the doorway like a lost dog, unsure of how to ask for something he didn’t fully understand himself.

He tried to get your attention once—quietly. Then again, a little louder. By the third time, his tone shifted, trying to cover up the crack in his voice. The fourth and fifth attempts were desperate in a way he didn’t know how to hide.

And then you snapped.

A sharp comment, a look that told him you were at your limit. You didn’t mean to be cruel—you just needed a minute. But it hit him harder than you expected.

You waited for the usual reaction. A scoff, maybe a sarcastic jab. A flare of that classic Soldier Boy temper. But nothing came. Just the sound of retreat—his heavy boots turning and walking away faster than they should’ve. Almost like he was running.

When you finally found him, he was in your shared bedroom. The lights were off. The covers pulled tight over his broad frame in a way that looked almost childlike.

You stood in the doorway for a second, unsure. But then you heard it.

The unmistakable sound of him crying—trying to keep it quiet, trying not to be noticed, like the shame of it was worse than the pain itself. And maybe for him, it was.

That’s when it clicked.

He hadn’t come to bother you. He hadn’t been trying to piss you off or get under your skin like usual. He came because he needed something—something he didn’t know how to ask for. Comfort. Safety. You.

The guilt hit you immediately—sharp, unforgiving, and low in your chest. Because the man hiding under those blankets wasn’t the war hero or the asshole persona he wore like armor. Right now, he was just Ben. Lost, scared, and reaching out the only way he knew how.