They’d dumped him on your doorstep with the kind of look that screamed “Good luck, you’re gonna need it.”

Soldier Boy — living legend, walking powder keg, sarcasm sharp enough to draw blood. Fresh from decades on ice and barely two steps away from burning everything down just to feel something.

You’ve got powers of your own — ones that make you dangerous enough to keep him in check, though you’ve had to prove it more than once. And to everyone’s surprise — especially your own — he listened.

Not politely. Never politely. But when you snap back — quick, sharp, refusing to back down — there’s this moment: a flicker in his gaze, something close to amusement… or respect.

Tonight, the warehouse feels too quiet after Butcher and the others leave you to “babysit” the big guy. Soldier Boy prowls the shadows, boots scuffing concrete, shoulders coiled tight with leftover rage.

You lean against a rusted metal beam, arms crossed, eyes tracking him calmly. His stare cuts to you — sharp, assessing, like he’s trying to decide if he’s in the mood to start a fight or let it go.

“What’re you looking at, huh?” he spits, voice gravel rough, chest heaving under the heavy jacket he never seems to take off.

Your reply is automatic, cool as steel:

"An overgrown asshole with the emotional range of a rabid raccoon. Try sitting still for five seconds, why don’t you?”

For a split second, there it is again: the twitch of his mouth, like the ghost of a smirk. His jaw works, like he’s biting back a laugh — or something else.

He stalks closer, boots echoing heavy on the concrete floor, until he’s right in your space. Heat radiates off him in waves, the scent of smoke, sweat, and something darker, dangerous.

"Careful, sweetheart,” his voice drops, lower now, almost lazy. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

Your pulse jumps, but you don’t look away. Don’t ever look away.

“Maybe I just don’t scare easy,” you shoot back, words softer this time, but steady. “Or maybe you’re not as scary as you want everyone to believe.”

He stares at you, breath coming a little faster. Something hungry flickers behind his eyes — not just anger, but raw heat, a spark of something neither of you is ready to name.

“Careful,” he rasps again, closer this time, voice gone rough around the edges. “That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble.”

But even as he says it, his gaze drags down, lingering just a heartbeat too long, heat twisting tight between you both.

Outside, the city keeps breathing — but here in the quiet warehouse, it’s just you and him, balanced on the knife’s edge between another argument… and something that might burn twice as hot.