Ben was never the type of man to allow himself to form bonds. Not like that. For him, everything was always simple, straightforward: one night here, another there. A random bar on a forgotten Tuesday, a glass of something strong in hand, an easy smile, and that deep, captivating voice that seemed to convince effortlessly. He knew exactly what to say, how to look, how to approach.

And it worked.

It always worked.

He offered intensity, presence, a memorable night—and then disappeared before the sun had even finished rising. No promises, no dramatic goodbyes, no room for any kind of attachment.

That's how he liked it.

No complications. No "sentimental drivel," as he himself used to say.

But, like almost everything involving Ben… this rule wasn't as solid as he pretended.

Because there was you.

Number two on Payback. The constant figure beside him on magazine covers, interviews, advertising campaigns, and meticulously produced Vought posters. Always too close to seem coincidental, always aligned as if they were part of the same package.

And yet, there was something there that wasn't part of the script.

It wasn't something he would admit aloud. Nor something Vought directly exploited. But you only had to pay attention—really pay attention—to notice.

The way his gaze lingered on you for too long.

Going down, going up, assessing, as if momentarily forgetting everything else around him. The subtle movement of moistening his lips, almost distracted. Small gestures that would go unnoticed by anyone not looking for them.

Or during photo shoots.

When the cameras were pointed and everything needed to look perfect, calculated… his touch on your waist was never completely neutral. There was always a little more force, a grip too firm to be just acting.

Almost possessive. Almost.

It wasn't public. It never was.

But it wasn't exactly a secret either.

A few nights shared here and there. Conversations too low to be heard, whispers too close to the ear, that kind of closeness that needed no explanation. And, occasionally, the silent comfort of sharing warmth under the same sheets.

Something casual.

Recently, Vought decided to "update" its image.

The new outfit came with small alterations that, according to the marketing team, would make everything "more modern" and "more appealing to today's audience". Slightly higher boots, more eye-catching metallic details…

And the skirt.

Shorter.

Too short.

You were in his room when you started complaining about it, pacing back and forth while venting your frustration about the incompetence of the team responsible. Each step you took carried irritation, quick words, impatient gestures.

And Ben watched.

In silence.

The way her skirt rode up with each of her movements didn't go unnoticed—not by a long shot. His gaze followed, attentive, barely concealing his interest.

For a few seconds, he just stood there, leaning against the wall, absorbing the scene with that indecipherable expression.

Okay. This was getting out of hand.

He stood up.

Without haste.

He approached from behind, his presence filling the space even before the touch happened. His hands found her hips naturally, firmly, as if that gesture were habitual.

And then they slid.

Slowly, to the hem of her skirt.

He pulled the fabric down, adjusting it almost carefully—a strange contrast to the firmness of the gesture. When you turned around, his eyes were already on yours.

Direct. Intense.

The expression carried something difficult to define—a mixture of unease and something deeper that he clearly wasn't willing to name.

"I hate your new outfit."