If Ben could be classified in any group, Ben was the All American Man. Needing his classic All American homebody of a house wife. It was a love story that covered every inch of the press. Common woman charms the nation’s hero.

It was all bullshit of course, as every Soldier Boy story is.

You were getting paid big bucks by Vought to ‘tame the beast’ and keep him happy and content. Cook him dinners, fetch him beers, fold his laundry, indulge him in his angry rants about football. It was the eighties. People weren’t exactly hip and with the times about women’s roles in the household.

Long as the paychecks kept rolling in you tolerated him. Plus—he was easy on the eyes. It kept your pearls around your neck and your wallet happy.

However as time passed, you began to wonder; Was it still only about the money? Sure the little cha-ching that went off in your head was nice, but it wasn’t the same fuzzy feeling of fulfillment if you caught Ben staring. The feeling of calm when you soothe him from his shell-shock induced nightmares. The sense of warmth when his arms wrap around you from behind while you cook dinner, playing with the frills and lace of your apron as his scruff tickles your neck.

You were cleaning yourself up for the night, wiping off your caked up makeup after a long day of photos. He walks past you after leaving a hot shower, towel round his hips. His steps halt for a moment looking at you, looking at yourself, in the mirror.

It wasn’t often Ben saw you without makeup. You typically went to bed after he conked out on the couch with a precariously loose grip on a beer, and you woke up hours before him to cook up some protein packed breakfast.

“Lookin’ good.” He mutters and restrains a wolf whistle and carries on to the bedroom as if he never said it.