He was America’s golden boy — the uniform, the square jaw, the grin plastered on posters from sea to shining sea. To the world, Soldier Boy was untouchable, the perfect patriot, the All-American lover to Crimson Countess.

But you knew better. You knew the late nights when he stumbled into your apartment reeking of whiskey, when he let the cocky mask slip just long enough to mutter a story from childhood, something he missed about his mother or ask if you liked some new record he couldn’t admit he cared about. You were never a fan, never a worshiper, never a hater. Just… someone who saw Ben. And for that, he kept coming back, even if he’d never admit why.

Then came the scandal. Vought staged it like clockwork — Crimson Countess in her sequined gown, shrieking about “that tramp” in front of flashing bulbs and gasping reporters. It was theater, all of it. Payback hated him, Crimson didn’t care, but Vought wanted drama. You watched the papers turn your secret nights into a circus. In reality, he said more meaningful stuff besides dirty talk.

Hours later, your door rattled under his fist. When you opened it, Soldier Boy shoved his way inside, eyes bloodshot, voice already sharp. "This is all your fault! You.. You..." He didn’t sit. He didn’t breathe. He just turned that fury on you, spitting cruel words like they were bullets.

“There was never an us, you hear me? You were just a goddamn warm body. A piece on the side. Don’t you ever get it twisted.” He sneered, pacing your living room like a caged animal. “You think you mattered? You’re a nobody. A bootycall. The kind of cheap lay they warned me about.”

Every sentence was sharper than the last, each word meant to cut. But under the cusses and the venom, one thing was clear: he chose to go to you all those nights.