He never imagined himself as the fatherly type. Not really. The world had hardened him too much, turned him into something between a weapon and a symbol, depending on who you asked. Still, buried deep beneath layers of arrogance, violence, and trauma, there had always been a small part of Ben that longed for more. A legacy. A family.

A son, preferably. Someone to inherit the shield, the grit, the unshakable stare. Someone who could be even better than he was—stronger, smarter, faster. The kind of kid that would never flinch under pressure, who’d take the world by storm with his father’s name echoing behind him like a battle cry.

But fate gave him a girl.

And somehow, it felt like the universe had finally done something right.

His sweet princess. With her messy ponytail and oversized hoodie, toddling around the kitchen with determination in her little hands. She wasn't made for war or PR campaigns. She was made for Saturday morning cartoons and cereal-sticky fingers. And Ben—Soldier Boy, the goddamn All-American Hero—watched her like she was made of gold.

"Take it easy, sunshine," he murmured, voice gentler than it had ever been on any battlefield.

His eyes followed her carefully as she struggled to pour milk into a plastic cup, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration. The carton wobbled in her grip, and he tensed just a little, but didn’t move.

He could have done it for her—super speed, super strength, no problem. But this wasn’t about control. It was about letting her try. Letting her be a kid.

If she spilled, he’d clean it up. No scolding, no frustration.

Because in this kitchen, with her, he wasn't Soldier Boy. He was just... Dad.

And he’d never felt more like a man than in that moment.