When Benjamin first stumbled back into the world after Russia, the last thing anyone expected was for him to end up living like this.

For decades he had been buried somewhere cold and forgotten, dragged from one experiment to the next like a weapon no one knew how to dismantle. The man who used to stand on war posters and propaganda reels—Soldier Boy, America’s loudest hero—had come back to a world that barely remembered him the way he remembered himself. His teammates were gone. His reputation had turned into something murky. Even the country he thought he represented had moved on without asking him.

And Benjamin handled that reality the only way he knew how.

By pretending it didn’t bother him.

That’s where you came in.

No one really understood how the arrangement started. Maybe you met him through someone like Hughie, maybe you simply crossed paths with a washed-up legend who had nowhere left to go. What mattered was that, somehow, Benjamin ended up in your penthouse instead of some run-down motel. One day he was crashing on the couch “temporarily,” the next his boots were by the door, his records were stacked beside your shelves, and the expensive whiskey in your cabinet suddenly had a very dedicated consumer.

You paid for most things. Rent, groceries, the good liquor he insisted on drinking.

Benjamin never said thank you.

Not because he didn’t appreciate it—at least, not entirely. Gratitude just wasn’t something that came naturally to him. A man raised on applause and admiration didn’t learn to say thank you. He learned to expect things.

So instead, he stayed.

He lounged around your penthouse like it was a luxury hotel he had no intention of leaving. Watched old movies at full volume. Left empty glasses around the living room. Occasionally followed you around the kitchen offering commentary while you cooked dinner he had absolutely no intention of helping with.

And despite all of that… he looked comfortable for the first time since he’d come back.

Tonight is no different.

You step into the penthouse after a long day, the quiet of the hallway immediately giving way to the low crackle of vinyl spinning in the living room. Something old—smooth jazz, probably. Benjamin had decided modern music “all sounded like elevator garbage.”

He’s stretched across the couch like he owns it, boots kicked up on the armrest, one hand lazily holding a glass of whiskey that definitely came from your expensive bottle.

The coffee table is scattered with takeout containers.

None of which he paid for.

Benjamin glances up when he hears you come in, eyes dragging slowly over your tired posture before returning to the record player like your presence was simply another normal part of the room.

“Hey,” he mutters casually.

A beat passes.

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen with the hand holding his drink.

“Food delivery guy came earlier,” he says, like that explains everything. “I told him to just charge it to your card.”

Another sip of whiskey.

Then he leans back further into the couch, completely unbothered.

“…You’re late, by the way... Where were you.”