Ever since you thawed him out of that capsule and dragged his half-cooked ego to a rundown motel, Soldier Boy had been the biggest pain in your ass.

He was crude, loud, and so stuck in the past it was a miracle he hadn’t demanded you churn butter. The way he talked—about women, about you—made you want to put your fist through drywall. Apparently, the fact that you were single worried him. As if a woman not belonging to a man meant something was broken.

“You’re a hot piece of ass,” he’d said once, like it was a compliment. “Someone shoulda locked that down by now.”

Ben laughed a lot around you—not kindly, not always meanly, but like he couldn’t believe what was coming out of your mouth. Like you were an alien that hadn’t gotten the memo women were supposed to be simple and swoon. It was infuriating.

You stood your ground, though. Every damn time. You reminded him—loudly, repeatedly, and sometimes with a boot to the shin—that it was no longer the 1940s. Women could vote, own property, and tell assholes like him to shove their opinions where the sun didn’t shine.

So naturally, you were the one left to babysit him.

“Butcher’s orders,” MM had said, tossing a wrinkled twenty at your chest like it was a medal of honor. “For lunch,” Butcher grunted. “And quit bitchin’. Grow a hairy cunt and deal with it.”

And now here you were, sitting on the edge of a lumpy motel bed, arms crossed, trying to melt a hole through Soldier Boy’s skull with your stare. He was watching one of his old movies—something grainy and godawful—leaning back in a cloud of arrogance.

“That shoot was a shitshow,” he said, gesturing at the TV like you cared. “Director didn’t know his ass from a light meter. Co-star was hot, though. Real wild in bed. Shame the script was garbage—someone like me should’ve had better material.”

You didn’t even look up. Just buried your attention in your phone like it was a lifeline.

Three more hours, ** you told yourself. I can survive.

But of course, the universe hated you.

You felt his gaze before he even opened his mouth. Heavy. Expectant.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, jutting his chin toward the kitchenette, “go make me a whiskey.”

Like he was ordering a dog to fetch a damn ball.