Back in the 1940s, you’d been Vought’s golden couple — America’s shining pair of supes. He was handsome, cocky, and dangerous; you were powerful, loyal, and impossibly forgiving. Soldier Boy cheated like it was his second job, and you swallowed every bitter pill, clinging to the idea that men like him always came home eventually. But that all came crashing down when a mission split you apart. He vanished. You moved on — or at least, you told yourself you did.

Now decades later, you weren’t that naïve kid anymore. You were with Butcher and the Boys, fighting against the machine that once dressed you up as propaganda. When you walked into that dingy safehouse with the team at your back, the last person you expected to see was him.

Soldier Boy turned, whiskey in hand, still smug, still larger than life. That easy smirk he wore like armor faltered the second his eyes landed on you. His mouth parted, the weight of history and every ugly memory crashing into the room at once.

“Shit.”