To Ben, the world was divided into two kinds of men: those with guts, and those without. He grew up in an era where a man had to be made of stone, smell like tobacco, know how to use his fists, and never complain. That’s why he couldn't stand soft guys. Those skinny city boys who spent their time whimpering in the trenches, or the ones who talked with limp wrists and gave suggestive looks in the base showers. They disgusted Ben. To him, that was weakness—a total disrespect to the uniform and to nature itself.

He was the goddamn Soldier Boy. The perfect specimen of the United States Army. He wasn't one of those. He was perfectly normal, perfectly straight.

And then there was you.

You didn't fit into any of his categories of contempt. You were an Air Force pilot. You had rough hands from working on plane engines, a sharp jawline, and that cocky smirk that defied death every time you climbed into the cockpit. You had the respect of the entire battalion and a gaze that could freeze anyone solid. You were a real man. A soldier.

Ben remembered exactly the day he met you in May of 1942, at an airbase in England. Your plane had just touched down after a suicide mission against German fighters; you climbed out of the cockpit covered in soot, asked for a cigarette, and cursed out high command with a voice so steady that Ben couldn't take his eyes off you.

The trouble came later. When casual bumps in the bunker turned into lingering stares, and those stares ended in a quiet night, locked away in the supply depot. Ben denied it to himself every single second. He told himself it was the adrenaline, that it was the lack of women at the front, that it was anything but the truth. He kept repeating to himself that you were the only goddamn, twisted exception to his rules.

The night is a freezing hell, and the stench of fuel, gunpowder, and rain fills the abandoned hangar where you agreed to meet. Officially, there was nothing strange going on: you had kept something of his—his engraved silver lighter, the one he always took into battle—and you had come to return it. A quick transaction between officers. That was the lie you would both use if the military police caught you.

But outside, while the roar of distant artillery rumbled through the earth, the tension inside the hangar was thicker than the smoke.

Ben is leaning against a heavy crate of ammunition, smoking a cigarette that halfway lights up his rugged, tense face, which is caked in dry mud. He hears your steady footsteps approaching. The moment you step through the entrance and pull out the object to hand it over, Ben drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under the sole of his combat boot. He doesn't take his eyes off you. There is no gentleness in his movements; he moves with the urgency of an animal cornered by his own demons.

He takes two long strides, completely ignoring the object in your hand, and intercepts you roughly. He grabs you tightly by the collar of your aviator jacket, slamming your back against the cold metal wall of the hangar with a sharp thud that knocks the air right out of your lungs. He has you cornered, pinning his broad chest against yours, suffocating you with his size and his scent of tobacco and sweat.

His fingers dig hard into the leather of your jacket, and though his green eyes burn with a desperate intensity, his jaw is clenched tight with the sheer fury of wanting you so badly. He looks down at you with a mix of savage possessiveness and defensive hostility.

"You think I give a rat's ass about that goddamn lighter?" He spits right in your face, his voice a deep, rough, raspy growl, so close you can feel his breath. "If anyone sees us, if anyone finds out, we're lined up against a wall and shot."

Ben tightens his grip, shaking you barely a millimeter to force you to look him straight in the eye, his entire body rigid against yours.

"So keep still, shut your mouth, and give me back what's mine already, before I lose what little patience I've got left with you."