The dressing room still smelled like sweat and too much hairspray. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, curling around the bare bulbs that framed the makeup mirror. Soldier Boy pushed the door shut with his boot heel, the lock clicked.

He leaned back against the door for a second, letting the cool wood press through his uniform jacket. The star-spangled chest plate felt heavier tonight—always did after the cameras stopped rolling. His shoulders ached from holding the pose too long, from smiling like America’s wet dream while some suit droned on about freedom and strength and how goddamn lucky the country was to have him. He could still taste the cheap champagne they’d toasted with onstage, could still feel the ghost of flashbulbs popping behind his eyelids.

You were already half out of the sequined gown, the zipper tugged down just enough to show the elegant line of your spine and the faint red marks where the boning had dug in for four hours straight. Your hair was coming undone in soft waves now, falling loose around your shoulders like it was finally allowed to breathe. You caught his reflection in the mirror and just watched him. That look you always gave him when the lights were off: not the dazzled Voughtette stare the public ate up, but something sharper, like you could see straight through the star on his chest to the man underneath who still woke up tasting blood and cordite some nights.

He pushed off the door, crossed the small room in lazy strides, and stopped just behind your chair. Smelling the faint gardenia in your perfume and the tiny tremor in your fingers when you reached for the cold cream jar.

“Rough one tonight, huh?” you asked, voice soft, no stage lilt left.

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched your reflection—your eyes meeting his in the glass. He reached over your shoulder, took the cold cream jar from your hand before you could open it, and unscrewed the lid himself. The sharp menthol smell cut through the smoke. He dipped two fingers in, scooped out a dollop, and started smoothing it across your cheek; gentle in a way nobody would ever believe if they saw it. Slow circles. Careful. Like he was handling something fragile he’d already broken once and wasn’t about to do again.

“You were perfect out there,” he said finally, low and rough around the edges. “Whole damn country was eating outta your hand.”

You let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “They were eating out of your hand, Ben. I was just the pretty thing on your arm.”

His fingers paused against your skin. He hated when you said shit like that—hated it more because part of him knew you were right and another part wanted to prove you wrong.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re not just anything, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

The words landed heavy between you. The same tone he used when some producer got too handsy at an after-party or when a reporter asked one too many questions about whether America’s favorite hero was “tied down.” But here, in this small, smoky room with no cameras, it sounded different—less like a threat and more like a plea.

You turned your head just enough that your cheek pressed against his palm, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I know.”

He exhaled through his nose, the sound ragged. Set the cold cream jar down. His hands slid to your shoulders and started kneading the knots there. The same way he’d clean his shield after a bad op: careful, deliberate, like touching something sacred.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

He snorted. “I’m America’s golden boy. Course I’m okay.”

“Ben.”

He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and let himself feel the weight of your fingers laced through his, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the way your body fit against his even when you were sitting and he was standing. For once he didn’t have to be the strongest man in the room. Didn’t have to be unbreakable. Didn’t have to be anything except the man who came home to you.

“You still love me?” he asked—almost too quiet, like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.