Wait, What?!

“Nobody move,” Dean ordered, his voice barely a whisper, carrying the tight, practiced authority of a man used to pitch-black danger.

Ben stood by the refrigerator, his outline looming massive in the dim candlelight. He didn’t look panicked—his jaw was set, dark eyes locked on the back patio door. “Damn power,” he growled softly, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping dry kindling. “Or whatever’s in the woods, just cut the line.”

“Beau,” Dean murmured, handing the lit candle over to the Sheriff. “Keep her behind you.”

Beau took the candle, his free arm instantly wrapping around your waist to draw you flush against his side. His thumb pressed a steadying, firm pulse into your hip through the yellow sundress. “I’ve got her,” Beau said softly into your hair, his voice a low, soothing vibration against your temple. “Don’t worry, darlin’. We’re right here.”

Dean reached into the pantry, pulling out a heavy metallic object—a solid iron crowbar he’d stashed earlier—and balanced it in his palm. He took slow, silent steps toward the glass patio door, peering out into the pitch-black yard where Ned’s remains were no longer on the lawn. That should have surprised him. It didn’t.

“It’s too quiet,” Dean muttered, walking back into the kitchen entryway.

Then, as if on cue, from directly above your heads—on the second floor, right inside your bedroom—came a slow, heavy THUD.

Followed by the distinct, creaking sound of footsteps dragging across the carpet.

Your heart slammed against your ribs as you shrank back into Beau’s chest. The footsteps stopped right above the kitchen. His hand grasped you tighter. 

Ben let out a dark, dangerous huff, a ruthless smirk flashing across his face in the flickering candlelight as he stepped toward the doorway. “Looks like it didn’t wait for an invitation.” He looked at Dean and hooked his chin towards the patio. “I’m going upstairs, you watch the backdoor just in case it’s not whatever is out there. Another distraction or a decoy.” 

Dean gave him a sharp nod and slowly walked towards the patio door, trying to see out into the now quickly darkening yard.

A moment later you all heard another thud and then what sounded like something heavy being dragged down the stairs. Your breath caught. Just then the lights came back on and you squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness again. 

Dean walked to the kitchen right as Ben was dragging a man behind him down the stairs. The man wasn’t struggling but you instantly recognized the light blue polo. 

“Fucking Ned,” Ben grunted as he tossed him by his collar right into the middle of the kitchen floor as if he weighed nothing.  

You and Beau’s jaws dropped at the sight of Ned on the floor. “He-he’s not dead…” you stammered.

“And he has a head again,” Beau noted, his eyes wide. 

“Wasn’t really alive to begin with,” Dean muttered. 

“Talk, you fucking piece of shit,” Ben barked at him. “Now.”

Ned stood up, his movements very mechanical. “Why, Greenston, of course!” he said, voice cheerful and mostly human sounding again. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for just a second. He hit Ned in the side of the head with his hand. 

You gave Dean a questioning look and he shrugged. “Manual recalibration. Hopefully.”

Ned twitched and then looked at Ben. “I’m sorry, what?”

Ben glared at Ned. “Talk. Now.”

Ned blinked, his hollow eyes instantly smoothing back into that terrifyingly bright, suburban-neighbor expression. He dusted off the shoulders of his baby blue polo shirt as if he hadn’t just been dragged down a flight of stairs by his collar.

“Well, there’s no need for hostility!” Ned chirped, adjusting his belt. His voice was entirely warm and cheerful again, but the skin around his eyes remained stretched tight, completely void of real life. “I just came by to check on you folks!”

“But, your head exploded. You died,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

Ned turned his eyes towards you and a chill ran down your spine, your grip on Beau tightening. “Don’t be silly. I’m right here!”

“What is in the woods?” Ben demanded. “What do you want us to keep away from her?”

Ned blinked three times. It was too fast to be natural. “Oh, that? That didn’t come from the outside. You brought that with you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean snapped. 

Ned ignored the question. “But, you must keep her safe.”

Dean dragged a hand down his face. “If we’re not keeping her safe from the thing in the woods then what are we keeping her safe from?”

“And what the hell do you mean, we brought the shadowy thing with us?” Ben piped in. 

He ignored Dean again. Ned’s mechanical gaze returned to your face. “The hatch is unlocked,” Ned whispered, his chest giving a strange, rhythmic shudder beneath his shirt. “The storm is coming.”

Before anyone could react, a sharp, deafening whirr and then grinding sound echoed from inside Ned’s chest—like an engine violently seizing up. Ned’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, his entire body going rigid as a single, quiet click sounded from his throat. Ned’s jaw snapped shut. He collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Dammit,” Dean muttered. 

Ben cursed and then grabbed Ned by the collar again, dragging him through the living room and then tossing him out onto the lawn once more. He closed and locked the patio door and returned to the kitchen, without a word. He ripped the fridge open, grabbed another beer—which were magically back along with more whisky and now rum—and chugged the whole thing. 

He slammed the empty bottle down on the counter, the thick glass clinking loudly against the quartz. His dark eyes flicked over to you, taking in the way you were still clinging to Beau, before panning over to Dean.

“So,” Ben growled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “The meat-puppet is out cold again, the shadows in the trees are somehow our fault, and the hatch down in the grass is sitting wide open.”

Beau’s arm remained firmly around your waist, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles into your hip through the soft yellow fabric of your dress. His jaw was set tight, jade eyes dark with a mixture of steady focus and mounting frustration. “He said the shadow was something we brought with us,” Beau said quietly, his low voice vibrating against your shoulder. “Which means whatever’s out there isn’t just some random stray. It knows us.”

“Or it’s playing mind games like everything else in this damn place,” Dean chimed in, leaning back against the edge of the kitchen table and crossing his arms. He was watching Beau’s hand on your hip with a subtle, jaw-clenching twitch, but he kept his voice tightly controlled. “Ned was glitching hard. We can’t take anything that mechanical bastard said as gospel.”

“Maybe not,” Ben said, stepping deeper into the kitchen. He towered over the small space, his broad shoulders blocking out half the ambient light from the doorway. He looked down at you, his gaze dragging deliberately over your bare collarbones and down the front of the sundress before meeting your eyes. “But he was right about one thing. The hatch is unlocked. And standing around in this kitchen waiting for the next ‘recalibration’ isn’t getting us anywhere.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, feeling the quiet, heavy tension wrapping around the four of you like a suffocating blanket. “So what do we do?” you asked softly, your voice barely carrying over the quiet hum of the fridge.

Dean set his beer down, his green eyes locking onto yours with sharp, protective intensity.

“We go down,” Dean said flatly. “We grab flashlights, we stick together, and we figure out what’s been at the end of that tunnel before whatever’s in those woods decides to come inside.”

You nodded slowly. Then without warning searing pain shot through your head. Your hands flew up to the sides of your head and you let out a whimper before everything went dark. 

Beau’s arm was already around you when you lost consciousness, but his other hand shot out to catch you. As your legs gave out and your body went limp, he pulled you up fully into his arms. Dean and Ben both rushed over. 

“What the fuck happened?” Ben snapped, listening to your heartbeat which was still strong and steady. 

Beau readjusted his grip. 

“Lay her on the couch,” Dean said, his hunter brain kicking into high gear trying to figure out what was going on. 

Beau carried you into the living room and laid you down gently on the sofa. All three of them crowded around you, identical frowns engraved into their features. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were standing in front of Dean in your little yellow sundress in the bedroom. His eyes were drinking you in. 

“I’ve been waiting all damn day to get you out of this,” he murmured against your neck as his fingers deftly untied one of the straps on your shoulder. He pressed his soft lips to your neck, placing open mouth kisses and flicking his tongue over your sensitive skin as you let out a small moan. 

“Dean,” you breathed out. 

“You’ve been driving me out of my damn mind. Just walking around all sexy as hell in this short little dress,” he said, against your neck as he began to nip at your jaw. You couldn’t help but giggle in response. 

“Oh, you think it’s funny, huh? Driving me fuckin’ crazy?” Dean said, his voice low and raspy. 

His hands were on your hips and he guided you back to the bed. Dean gently pushed you down on the bed and climbed over you in one fluid movement. You let out a small gasp as he raised his knee up, pressing his thigh right into your core, under the dress. 

“Dean,” you whined. 

He smirked against your collarbone, which he was littering with kisses and soft bites. “That’s right, sweetheart. That’s what I thought.”

He ground his hard length down against you and you instinctively arched your back, another small noise falling from your lips. Your fingers came up to tangle in his hair. Dean reached down and pulled your panties down.  

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet for me,” he said pulling the soaked panties over your ankles and tossing them behind him. “You been walking around like this?”

You nodded feverishly, biting your lower lip. Dean was too worked up to take things slowly. He needed you. Bad. And you were dripping for him. He freed his huge cock and slid it into you with a slow, steady thrust. You gasped as he sank into your warm, moist cunt, until he was buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours. 

“Shit,” he muttered unsteadily against your collarbone as he dipped his head lower. Dean stayed still for just a moment, seated inside you so deep that the stretch pulled a small sound from you. You gripped his hair tighter. 

“Dean, please,” you whined. “Move.”

He shuddered against you as you clenched around him and then raised his head. He gave you a long, deep kiss; his tongue massaging yours in a steady rhythm. Then he pulled back and pulled almost all the way out before snapping his hips and thrusting back in. Dean set a steady pace that was perfect; it definitely wasn’t slow but it wasn’t brutal either. 

It didn’t take long before he had you teetering on the edge. “That’s it. Cum for me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice wrecked. You dug your nails into his back. You buried your face into his neck to muffle your moans as a powerful orgasm wracked your body. You clenched around his cock in quick, pulsing movements. 

“Fuck,” Dean gritted out, trying not to lose control. He managed to hold out and didn’t slow his pace down at all. He kissed you through the aftershocks as your body trembled beneath him. 

Twenty minutes later, you were both covered in a thin sheen of sweat and all of your clothes had been discarded long ago and you were riding Dean so hard that the bed was creaking in protest. As a third climax overtook you, sending shockwaves throughout your whole body, you braced your palms on his chest and rocked your hips just a little faster. You moaned his name in complete ecstasy. Dean went rigid beneath you and grasped your hips tightly as he pulled you down on him and held you there as he spilled into you. He groaned and threw his head back as the last of his seed spurted into you. 

You moaned and shivered above him one last time before collapsing onto his chest, hair matted to your face, chest heaving. 

Before either of you could catch your breath there was a knock on the door. “You think they heard us?” you whispered. You caught his eye and he just smirked at you. 

“Maybe. Who cares?”

“Dean!” you swatted at his chest. 

“Dean, dinner is ready and Jody said if you’re more than five minutes late you’re on dish duty,” Sam called through the door. 

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya,” Dean yelled back. 

“Alright, sweetheart, I guess we need to get cleaned up and get down there.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“She should be awake by now, right?” Beau said, sitting at the end of the couch with your feet laying in his lap with a blanket over you to cover your bare legs, eyes fixed on you. He was sure to keep his hands above the blanket so that Ben didn’t put him through a wall.  

Ben just stared, standing over you, silently. He reached down and ran his hand through your hair. He was keeping tabs on your heartrate and it had increased but it wasn’t at a concerning level yet. 

“She shouldn’t be unconscious in the first place so who knows what the hell happened,” Dean said, sitting on the wooden coffee table, gripping your hand. 

There was a quiet, delicate truce where each of them was touching you and hovering but no one acknowledged it. No one questioned the others. All eyes were locked on you. 

Then you stirred. 

Your eyelids fluttered, a soft, involuntary groan slipping past your lips as the blinding headache faded into a dull, lingering throb behind your temples. The intense warmth of the memory—the weight of Dean’s body, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, and the distinct, clear sound of Sam’s voice outside that bedroom door—was still washing over your senses like a fever dream.

As your vision slowly cleared, the ceiling of the suburban living room came back into focus.

The immediate reality crashed over you all at once. Beau’s large, calloused hands were resting carefully over the blanket covering your feet, his jade eyes wide with intense relief as he leaned in closer. Ben was towering right beside the couch, his thick fingers still lightly tangled in your hair, his pulse under your touch steady and dangerously controlled. And sitting right in front of you on the coffee table, his hand tightly clutching yours, was Dean.

The exact same face from the memory.

Dean squeezed your fingers, his jaw clenching as he searched your face with a raw, desperate vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide. “Hey,” he breathed, his voice rough and quiet. “Hey, sweetheart. You with us?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, the rapid rhythm fluttering in your chest. Ben’s hand in your hair stilled instantly as he heard your pulse spike, his dark eyes narrowing as he exchanged a quick, sharp look with Dean and Beau.

“Take it easy, darlin’,” Beau murmured gently, his voice a low, soothing anchor as his hand smoothed over the blanket at your knees. “Don’t try to sit up too fast. What happened back there?”

You swallowed hard, your throat bone-dry. Your eyes drifted back to Dean, staring at the hard line of his mouth and the subtle slant of his shoulders—the exact shoulders you had just felt beneath your nails, the exact mouth that had been pressed to your collarbone just seconds ago in your head.

“I...” Your voice cracked slightly, the sheer vividness of the memory making your face flush hot under their intense, combined stares. “I remembered something.”

All three men went completely still. The quiet tension in the living room stretched so tight you could hear the soft, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock in the kitchen.

Dean’s grip on your hand tightened just a fraction, his green eyes burning into yours with a mixture of hope and agonizing hesitation. “What did you see?” Dean asked softly, his raspy voice barely a whisper. “Was it... was it about this place?”

You looked at Dean, then down at the yellow sundress you were wearing—the exact dress he had untied in that bedroom while Sam had been right downstairs with Jody who was making dinner.

“No,” you whispered, your heart hammering as the three identical, possessive pairs of eyes tracked your every breath. “It was about you.”

Dean’s chest heaved as he let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you collapsed. A sudden, fierce light flared in his green eyes—a mix of vindication, relief, and a raw, aching hope that threatened to crack right through his hardened exterior.

“Me?” Dean rasped, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand with a slow, trembling intensity. “Sweetheart… what did you remember?”

Beside the couch, the air instantly went arctic. Ben’s hand, still resting near your temple, went rigid. His fingers tightened subtly in your hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to establish a firm, possessive claim as his dark eyes bore into Dean with pure, unadulterated venom.

“Hold your horses, Winchester,” Ben growled, his gravelly voice dropping into a lethal, low rumble that practically vibrated through the sofa cushions. “Let her speak before you start writing your own fairy tale.”

Beau didn't utter a word, but his grip on your feet through the blanket tightened significantly. His jaw was set like iron, those deep jade eyes tracking every micro-expression on your flushed face, searching for any sign of distress—or betrayal. The delicate truce in the room didn't just snap; it exploded.

You tried to sit up, the yellow dress shifting around your thighs. Dean immediately reached out with his free arm to support your back, guiding you up against the cushions while staying impossibly close, his heat radiating right into you.

“It was… a bedroom,” you stammered, your face burning as the vivid sensory details of the memory flashed behind your eyelids—the heat of Dean’s skin, the drag of his mouth, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, his thick, long dick pushing you over the edge again and again. “We were… together. In this exact dress. And after…someone knocked on the door.”

Dean’s jaw worked silently, a faint, rare flush creeping up his neck as he stared at you. “Who?” he asked softly, though the slight curve of his lips suggested he already knew.

“Sam,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the fast beating of your own heart. “He yelled through the door that dinner was ready. That someone named Jody said you’d be on dish duty if you were late.”

Dean let out a short, huff of a laugh, running his free hand over his face as a genuine, breathtaking smile broke across his features for the first time since you’d met him in this hellhole. “Sammy,” he breathed, his voice rich with affection and absolute certainty. “And Jody. Yeah. That’s… god, sweetheart, that was real. That was us. About a month ago.”

“Like hell it was,” Ben snapped, stepping directly between Dean and the couch, his massive frame blocking the light as he glared down at Dean. “A couple of names and a convenient little daydream don’t mean shit. This house is playing mind games. Ned literally just told us this place feeds off what we bring into it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Soldier Boy,” Dean barked, rising from the coffee table so fast his knees hit the wood, matching Ben stare-for-stare, his eyes blazing. “She remembered Sam. She remembered Jody. You don’t even know who those people are! That wasn’t a trick, that was her memory.”

“Or it’s the house pulling a narrative out of your pathetic, desperate head and shoving it into hers to drive the rest of us crazy!” Ben spat back, taking a menacing step forward, his chest practically brushing Dean’s shoulder.

“Enough!” Beau’s command cut through the living room like a crack of thunder.

Both men snapped their heads toward him. Beau hadn't moved from his spot at the foot of the couch, but his tall frame was rigid, his authority as Sheriff radiating off him in suffocating waves. His eyes, dark and stormy, moved slowly from Dean, to Ben, and finally settled on you.

“She just woke up from passing out cold,” Beau said, his voice deadly quiet, controlled, and sharp enough to slice glass. “You two flexing your dicks over her isn’t helping.”

Beau shifted, leaning forward so his face was inches from yours. The quiet, protective warmth was still there in his expression, but beneath it lay a deep, agonizing shadow of doubt. He reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Are you sure it felt like a memory, darlin’?” Beau asked softly, his voice thick with a gentle, heartbreak-laced caution. “Or did it feel like a dream?”

You looked between the three of them—Dean, looking at you like you were his entire world returned to him; Ben, watching you with a dangerous, possessive intensity that warned he wouldn't let you go without a fight; and Beau, shielding you while his own heart broke right in front of you. 

Part 7

you remain where you are for several seconds, knees drawn slightly toward your chest, the back of your head resting against the wall. cold air continues spilling through the restored vents. it reaches the sweat gathered beneath your blouse and turns clammy against your skin.

the bedroom door stays closed. you listen for movement behind it and hear nothing.

eventually, you press both palms against the floor and force yourself upright. your legs feel unreliable at first. not weak enough to fold again, but unsteady enough that you keep one hand against the wall until you’re certain they’ll hold you. 

the camera above the dining area turns quietly as you move. its red light remains steady now. watching.

you straighten your blouse where it twisted against the wall. one button sits slightly crooked beneath your chest, stretched sideways from the fabric pulling. you correct it with fingers that only shake a little, then cross the room for your blazer.

the cards remain scattered across the coffee table.

his shirt’s no longer hanging beside your jacket. he must’ve taken it when he went into the bedroom, though you don’t remember seeing him do it.

you slip your arms into the blazer and pull the lapels into place. it’s still too warm to wear comfortably, but the layer helps. it covers the sweat along your back. the uneven rise and fall of your chest. the fact that you feel less like an employee than you did three hours ago.

your hair’s come loose during the card game, strands sticking to your neck and spilling around your face. you find a hair tie at the bottom of your bag and gather it into a low ponytail. the first attempt slips because your fingers miss the band. you close your eyes. breathe in. loop it again. this time, it holds.

the tablet wakes beneath your thumb and immediately fills with alerts.

temporary systems disruption detected. internal network restored. containment suite twelve: structural impact registered. confirm personnel status immediately.

beneath the automated notifications sit nine missed communications from security, three from the administrative desk, and one short update regarding the psychological evaluation.

assessment delayed. remain available for immediate escort.

not cancelled. of fucking course it isn’t.

you answer the personnel-status prompt first.

liaison uninjured. contained asset stable. no medical assistance required.

your thumb hesitates over the word stable. you submit it anyway.

another message appears before you can begin the incident report.

escort en route. estimated arrival: four minutes.

you look toward the bedroom. four minutes. your body would prefer to let security deal with him. several armed guards could knock, announce the revised appointment, and discover for themselves what sort of mood waits on the other side.

but he’s your responsibility. more importantly, you’re the one who just told him that if he wants out of this prison, he has to behave.

you set the tablet on the table and cross the suite. the bedroom door looks perfectly ordinary. dark wood. silver handle. no visible damage from when he slammed it. you stop a careful distance away and knock twice. 

“soldier boy.”

nothing. you wait.

“the system’s back online.”

still nothing. you glance toward the camera, then lower your voice despite knowing there’s no point anymore.

“security’s coming. the psychological evaluation’s only been delayed.”

a sound comes from inside. movement, perhaps. the edge of a drawer closing. “fuck off.”

the words are muffled by the door but perfectly clear.

you swallow. “i can’t.”

silence returns. you keep your eyes on the wood, as though watching it too closely might make him open it faster.

“the assessment’s still active,” you continue. “if you refuse to leave now, they’ll document it as noncompliance.”

“don’t give a shit.”

“you should.” you lower your voice even thought that’s absolutely useless. “the cameras caught the wall. there’s already a structural-impact alert. if security has to come into the bedroom and take you, that becomes attempted refusal on top of property damage.”

that earns you another silence, heavier than the first. your pulse begins to climb again, but you keep your voice level.

“christ, can you please just come out here?”

the bedroom door opens so suddenly that you take an involuntary step back.

soldier boy stands on the other side; fully dressed. he changed into a clean dark shirt, though the fabric sits unevenly where he must’ve pulled it on without much care. his hair remains disordered from the heat and the movement of his hands through it. 

his expression gives you nothing. you hold his stare, although every part of you remembers what it felt like when he crossed the room.

behind you, the access panel beeps.

the outer locks begin disengaging in sequence. one. two. three.

soldier boy looks past you toward the suite entrance. then his gaze returns to your face, moving over the tied hair, the placed blazer, the professionalism you’ve assembled around yourself in pieces.

the suite door opens. four guards wait in the corridor, two positioned nearest the entrance and two farther back. all of them carry weapons low across their chests, not raised, but ready enough to make the message obvious.

soldier boy’s mouth curls. “cute.”

the nearest guard steps aside. “evaluation room’s prepared.”

“‘bout time. been waiting all morning.”

you lips press tight in frustration. “we’re ready.”

you retrieve your bag and tablet from the table. the screen keeps filling with restored notifications, most of them useless now that security’s standing six feet away. you lock it and follow soldier boy into the corridor. the guards close around you without touching either of you. two ahead. two behind. the formation’s careful enough to pretend it isn’t one. 

the door seals at your back.

soldier boy looks over his shoulder at the guard nearest him. “you boys always walk this close, or am i getting special treatment?”

no one answers.

“thought so.”

you keep your eyes on the tablet, though there’s nothing left to read. 

the corridor seems offensively normal after the last three hours. lights burn steadily overhead. the air conditioning works. employees move between departments with coffee cups and folders, slowing when they notice the escort before quickly finding somewhere else to look.

soldier boy notices every one of them.

his shoulders remain loose, but there’s something sharpened beneath the posture now. anger held low and mean instead of loud. the kind that makes everyone around him more aware of where his hands are.

one of the rear guards steps closer when soldier boy slows near the elevator. he turns suddenly. his arm lifts. the guard flinches hard, weapon jerking halfway upward before he catches himself.

soldier boy only runs a hand through his hair. a slow grin spreads across his face. “easy, champ.”

the other guards tense.

you stop beside him. “can you not?”

he glances down at you. “what?” he asks, all false innocence. “hair was in my eyes.”

you tilt your head in the direction of the elevator where the doors finish opening. “keep walking.”

for a second, it looks as though he might refuse simply because you told him to. then his attention shifts back to the guard, taking in the embarrassed set of the man’s jaw.

“little jumpy for security,” he taunts.

you step inside first, partly because it’s your job and partly because the air between the men has begun to feel combustible. soldier boy follows at his own pace. the guards arrange themselves around the perimeter, leaving more space between him and their bodies than the elevator reasonably allows.

nobody speaks during the descent.

your reflection looks back at you from the polished metal doors: blazer straight, hair tied, bag tucked neatly against your side. almost composed. soldier boy stands beside you, expression closed. the only visible sign of the wall is a faint smear of white plaster along one knuckle.

he catches your reflection looking. you lower your eyes.

the elevator opens four floors below medical. security leads you through another corridor, then through two separate access points that require paired scans. the evaluation room waits beyond the second door, disguised as an ordinary conference space despite the reinforced frame and cameras set into every corner.

stan edgar is already there.

he sits at the head of the narrow conference table with a closed folder placed squarely beneath one hand. beside him, the psychologist waits with a tablet and the bland, carefully neutral expression of someone who’s been warned not to show fear in front of the asset.

soldier boy stops a few feet inside the room.

edgar looks at you first. “are you injured?”

“no, sir.”

you feel the shift in him before you look. the slight widening of his stance. the hard set of his shoulders. edgar’s refusal to acknowledge him is precise enough to feel louder than an insult.

edgar continues with ease. “describe the incident.”

you adjust the strap of your bag against your shoulder. “the suite lost network access shortly before nine. the internal panel stopped responding, followed by the power, communications, and ventilation.”

“how did the asset respond?”

the question lands with enough precision to make you wonder whether that’s all edgar cares about. he doesn’t give soldier boy the dignity of using his name. the asset. 

“he remained calm.”

soldier boy’s eyes move toward you. you keep your attention fixed on edgar.

“he didn’t attempt to force the door or damage the access panel. he didn’t threaten security personnel when communication failed. he stayed within the main living area for the duration of the outage.”

“did he attempt to access the alcohol?”

“he did not.”

the red tag clicking beneath his fingers flashes briefly through your mind. he asked. he didn’t break the seal after you failed to answer.

“did he attempt to breach containment through any other means?”

“no.”

“did he become physically aggressive toward you?”

your throat tightens before you can stop it. “no.”

all true.

edgar watches you for another second, reading whatever survives beneath the professionalism you’ve rebuilt. if he notices the tension in your jaw or the way your hand’s tightened around your bag, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“how did you occupy the time?”

“we played cards.” 

something almost resembling surprise touches the psychologist’s expression.

“poker,” you add.

edgar’s gaze moves briefly toward him at last, though only as far as the plaster dust remaining across one knuckle. “and the systems failure?”

“we had no access to external information. i tried the tablet but it showed as offline. the phone lost signal. the comms panels inside the room didn’t seem to reach anything external.”

“the technical team is still determining the source of the disruption.”

bullshit. 

the answer arrives smoothly. there’s no hesitation. no frustration. no indication that nearly three hours of lost power inside a high-security containment suite has caused anything beyond a minor scheduling inconvenience.

you consider asking why the backup system failed. whether the cameras lost their feed entirely. why no emergency override opened the door for staff.

then you remember where you are and put on your resumé face. “understood.”

edgar’s eyes settle on your face again. “the wall.”

heat rises beneath your collar. you thought you’d have more time. ten minutes, perhaps. enough to write a clean incident report and choose language that makes property destruction sound clinically inevitable rather than emotionally catastrophic.

instead, the excuse arrives while edgar waits.

“soldier boy experienced a brief moment of frustration,” you say. “it was redirected immediately.”

soldier boy’s eyes cut toward you. you don’t look. you can feel the glare anyway, hot enough to make you want to shift. nostrils flared. jaw clenched. eyes that cannot fire lasers but seem committed to the attempt.

edgar finally turns his full attention toward him. “is that accurate?”

soldier boy looks at you for another long second. you keep your face composed, eyes on edgar, refusing to blink first. then he exhales through his nose.

“yeah,” for a moment, it seems like he’ll end it there. but then soldier boy shrugs one shoulder. “got pissed. room was hot; punched a wall.”

the psychologist’s stylus moves against the tablet.

“no big deal,” soldier boy snarls, mouth twisting. “not like i get many visitors.” the comment lands somewhere between contempt and accusation.

edgar shows no reaction. he opens the folder in front of him and turns to the first page.

“the system interruption will be included as an unstructured behavioral observation. nearly three hours of extended confinement, no attempted escape, no physical injury to personnel, and one instance of property damage.”

“sounds like i passed,” soldier boy says.

“the evaluation has not begun.”

“sure felt like one.”

edgar’s eyes lift from the page. for the first time, something passes silently between them. not confirmation. not denial. only the faint suggestion that soldier boy understood more than anyone intended him to.

edgar looks down again. “your request to speak with homelander remains pending review.”

soldier boy’s mouth curves. there’s nothing warm in it. nothing amused. only the sharp edge of a man who knows something edgar’s still pretending to control.

“heard.”

your pulse stumbles.

edgar’s gaze rests on him for a beat, then shifts to the psychologist. “you may begin.”

the psychologist rises and gestures toward the secure door at the far end of the room. “the initial assessment will take approximately ninety minutes.”

you move automatically, adjusting your bag as you prepare to follow.

“not you,” edgar cuts you, making you stop in place.

“i’m assigned to accompany him during scheduled appointments.”

“not during a closed evaluation.”

the psychologist holds the inner door open. soldier boy walks toward it without looking at you. you tell yourself that’s good. easier. that the distance between you is precisely what he asked for without having to say it.

“liaison,” his voice stops you. you look back. for a moment, he says nothing, eyes flicking toward edgar, then the psychologist, then back to you.

you wait for him to expose you. to ask whether telling him about homelander counts as compromising the baseline. to announce that he no longer wants you assigned to him. to use the one piece of leverage he’s been holding since the cameras came back.

instead, he looks toward the door. “shut it on your way out.”

cold. dismissive. almost insulting. and completely harmless.

the secure door closes between you with a heavy mechanical click.

a guard directs you back toward the administrative level before you’ve fully turned away. there’s no invitation to wait outside the evaluation room. no update on whether soldier boy sits down willingly once you’re gone. no reassurance that the psychologist still has all his teeth.

your desk looks exactly as you left it that morning. the coffee cup from before edgar’s meeting sits beside the monitor, a pale ring drying around the bottom. your chair’s tucked neatly beneath the desk. three new emails wait in the corner of the screen, none of them marked urgent enough to explain why your stomach refuses to stop churning.

you sit and open the incident-report template.

duration of containment interruption. two hours, fifty-three minutes.

subject behavior during communications loss. you type that soldier boy remained within the suite’s primary living area. that he made no attempt to breach the door, windows, or internal access panel. that he complied with verbal redirection and occupied the time through a supervised recreational activity.

your cursor blinks after the words supervised recreational activity. you delete them. card game. too casual. you replace it with structured card activity initiated to reduce agitation during extended confinement. the sentence makes poker sound medicinal. perhaps, it was.

your fingers hesitate above the keyboard before moving to the next field.

property damage. you write that the damage occurred after internal systems restored just in case the security images are used to corroborate your words. that soldier boy experienced a brief escalation in frustration and struck an interior wall. no personnel were injured. no attempt was made to widen the damage or use it as an exit point. cooperation resumed immediately afterward.

that last part isn’t entirely true. he’d gone into the bedroom. told you to fuck off. only emerged because you reminded him what refusal would cost.

the small mouse pointer flashes steadily against the unfinished report. once. twice. again. 

you think about the look he gave you when edgar asked whether your account was accurate. how you threw him under the bus before he could decide what to do with you. politely. professionally. with language soft enough to turn terror into a moment of frustration.

he could’ve corrected you. instead, he said he got pissed because the room was hot.

then edgar mentioned homelander, and soldier boy could’ve ended your employment with three words. she told me. he hadn’t.

but that doesn’t mean anything.

he’s still unstable. still dangerous. still the man who crowded you against a wall until you wondered whether you’d survive the truth leaving your mouth. you’re ridiculous for letting a shared burger and an almost-strip-poker game soften the edges of that fact. three days of proximity don’t make a bond. they make a pattern. familiarity, maybe. but definitely not trust.

ninety minutes pass faster than they should. the psychologist’s estimated time disappears while you’re still rereading the same paragraph about redirected aggression. no message arrives confirming the assessment’s completion, but you save the report and stand anyway.

the route back to the evaluation floor feels longer without an armed escort.

a guard waits outside the first secure door. you lift your badge toward the reader.

he steps in front of it. “you don’t have clearance to enter.”

“i’m his assigned liaison.”

“the assessment’s still active.”

you glance through the narrow strip of reinforced glass. there’s nothing visible beyond the next corridor.

“has there been an incident?”

the guard’s expression remains blank. “i can’t provide updates.”

your tablet chimes in your hand. for one foolish second, relief moves through you. then you read the notification: report to mr. edgar’s office immediately.

the elevator carries you upward in silence. 

this time, edgar does offer you a seat. you remain standing anyway while he closes the document on his desk.

“your employment with vought is terminated effective immediately.”

the sentence is so clean that your mind fails to catch on it. “what?”

“your contract has been terminated.”

“no, i mean… i heard you.” your nail dig into the palms of your hand. “i’m asking why.”

“you failed to follow protocol.”

nothing else. no mention of homelander. no mention of the beer, the card game, the broken wall, or anything soldier boy might’ve said once the secure door closed behind you.

“which protocol?”

edgar looks at you with the same calm patience he wore that morning. “you were given direct instructions. you chose not to follow them.”

your pulse begins beating harder. you don’t confirm anything. “did something happen during the evaluation?”

“the evaluation is ongoing.”

“did soldier boy make a complaint?”

“that is not relevant to the termination.”

your mouth opens, then closes again. denying the disclosure would be a lie. asking whether this concerns homelander would admit you know exactly what he means. every possible defense feels shaped like a confession.

“i did the job you hired me to do.”

“until you decided your judgment carried greater authority than the terms of your assignment.”

the words settle coldly. you think of the cameras restarting. the red light blinking. the seconds you thought belonged only to you and soldier boy. perhaps, they heard everything. perhaps, he told them. perhaps, edgar’s known since the moment you said it and simply waited to see whether the evaluation would produce anything useful first.

“what happens to him?” you ask.

“a replacement liaison will be assigned.”

the answer shouldn’t hurt, but it does anyway; a small ugly pull somewhere beneath your ribs.

edgar extends one hand across the desk. “your badge.”

you look down at it hanging from your blazer. legacy access. restricted floors. a photograph taken under fluorescent lighting. the thing that got you through every locked door. you unclip it and place it in his palm.

security meets you outside his office.

you’re escorted to your desk, permitted to collect your bag, coffee cup, charger, and the cardigan folded inside the bottom drawer. the incident report remains open on the monitor when an administrator disables your account from somewhere else in the building. the document disappears before you can see whether it properly saved.

less than twenty minutes after edgar dismisses you, the tower doors close behind you. 

you stand on the pavement with your belongings pressed against your chest and no idea whether soldier boy’s passed his evaluation. 

no idea whether he told them.

no idea whether he knows you’re gone.

his expression doesn’t change immediately, but the ease leaves it. the loose amusement around his mouth disappears. his shoulders settle into something harder. “then tell me.”

you push yourself upright.

your hair slips forward over one shoulder as you lower your feet to the floor. there’s no tablet to consult, no approved statement glowing in your hands, no line from edgar’s office you can read word for word and pretend belongs to someone else. just the truth.

“homelander’s dead.”

soldier boy blinks. his hand remains wrapped around the neck of the bourbon bottle. the red tag sits crooked beneath his thumb.

“you trynna fuck with me?”

you shake your head. “no.”

he watches your face, searching for whatever gave you away during poker. a crease between your brows. a twitch at the corner of your mouth. some small sign that you’re bluffing badly again. you give him nothing.

“when?”

“easter.” you keep your voice even. “thirteen months ago.”

something shifts behind his eyes. “before they woke me.”

“yes.”

he sets the bottle down carefully. the restraint in the movement unsettles you more than if he’d thrown it across the room.

“how?”

you draw in a quiet breath.

there’s no gentle way to explain footage the entire country watched. no respectful version of a death sold through news coverage, slowed down across social media, dissected by experts and conspiracy theorists until the man inside it became almost secondary to the spectacle.

“homelander was giving a televised address from the white house,” you begin. “it was an easter event. he was talking about being chosen by god. a second coming. something along those lines.”

soldier boy’s mouth tightens.

“a terrorist group breached the building during the speech. vought identified the leader as william butcher. he’s a british national who—”

“i know that piece of shit.”

the words are cold enough to stop you.

you stare at him. “you know him?”

he doesn’t answer the question. his jaw works, gaze fixed somewhere beyond you now. “keep going.”

you tuck your hands together in your lap, mostly so he won’t see the faint tremor beginning in your fingers.

“there was a supe with the group. i don’t know her name. when she used her power, the broadcast went white. the cameras lost the room for several seconds.”

“white?”

“an energy discharge?” you hesitate. “the internal reports compare the effect to yours.”

his eyes cut back to you. “mine.”

“the blast you produce. the one that removes compound v from someone’s system.”

he goes completely still.

“when the feed came back,” you continue, more carefully now, “homelander was injured. badly. he tried to fly and couldn’t. none of his abilities worked.”

soldier boy’s face has emptied of everything. “he lost his powers.”

“as far as anyone could tell.”

“and butcher?”

the question cracks across the room.

you swallow. “homelander was on his knees. butcher had a crowbar—”

soldier boy stares at you.

the footage presses itself against the back of your mind despite how many times you’ve tried not to remember it. the ruined oval office. shattered furniture. bodies moving through smoke and debris. homelander trying to rise and failing. butcher’s face above him, barely human with fury.

“he beat him,” you say. “the cameras were still running.”

“homelander let some limey piece of shit beat him to death with a crowbar?”

“he didn’t have powers anymore.”

“did he fight?”

“he tried to fly.”

soldier boy turns away sharply.

his hands settle against the edge of the drinks cabinet, fingers spread over the polished wood. muscles pull tight across his back. the longer hair on top has dried untidily during the outage, a few strands fallen toward his forehead, but the shorter sides leave nowhere for tension to hide.

“he begged?”

you hesitate just long enough for him to notice. “it looked as though he was asking butcher to stop. the audio wasn’t clear.”

a short sound leaves him. not laughter. too empty for that. “and everybody watched.”

“the original feed was live. recordings spread immediately.”

his head lowers.

you don’t know what grief is supposed to look like on soldier boy. you don’t know whether this is grief at all.

he’d fought homelander. vought’s files contain enough footage of that much, edited from several sources and wrapped in language designed to make everyone involved sound equally unstable. soldier boy had rejected him publicly and violently. he’d treated the revelation of their blood relation as an inconvenience, then a weakness, then another reason to attack.

but none of that tells you what the possibility meant after the fight ended. maybe he’d intended to find him again. maybe he’d wanted another chance to prove something. maybe he’d only wanted the option. now the option’s gone.

“you knew,” soldier boy turns back to you. “when i asked you.”

there’s no question in it. “i did.”

his eyes sharpen. “you let me put in requests to talk to homelander while you knew he was dead.”

and there it is… not only betrayal. humiliation. he’d sat across from you demanding meetings that could never happen while you filled out the form, promised updates, and allowed the request to travel through departments full of people who already knew the answer. in his mind, each one of them was probably reading his name and laughing.

“i submitted the requests because you made them,” you say. “i wasn’t authorized to answer.”

“so you let me look like a fucking idiot.”

“i followed orders.”

his stare turns vicious. “that supposed to make it better?”

“no,” you hold his gaze. “it’s supposed to make the situation clear.”

the bottle gives a sharp little knock as he pushes it away from him.

“you knew homelander was dead, sat here smiling in my face, and that’s just the job?”

the question strikes, but you don’t let it move you. “you asked me for classified information the first day i met you.”

“he was my son.”

“and you were a stranger who could kill me for saying the wrong thing.”

the words leave before caution can soften them.

soldier boy steps away from the cabinet. “that what you think?” 

your body reacts before your mind does, every muscle tightening as he crosses the first stretch of floor between you. you rise from the couch. being seated suddenly feels like a terrible decision.

“i think i didn’t know you.”

“and you know me now?”

“i was ordered not to disclose any information.”

his expression darkens. “about my own fucking family.”

“i didn’t create the classification.”

“you hid behind it.”

“because it’s my job!”

he takes another step. you stay where you are for half a second before instinct pulls you backward.

“you keep saying that.”

“because you keep acting as though i owed you something.”

“you lied.”

you force your voice to remain steady. “i omitted because i was ordered to. i didn’t know you, i didn’t know how you’d react, and i wasn’t risking my job—or my life—because you demanded an answer from me.”

his mouth twists. “but you’ll risk it now.”

“apparently.”

“why?”

you don’t answer quickly enough. soldier boy closes more of the distance.

the playfulness from the card game’s gone so completely that it feels impossible it ever happened in the first place. there’s nothing teasing in the way he looks down at you now. no amusement when your back meets the wall beside the dining area and you realize you’ve allowed him to move you across half the suite without meaning to.

you stop. he stops with you. close enough that the heat in the room becomes confused with the heat coming from him. close enough that you can see every hard shift in his face, every breath expanding his bare chest, every trace of anger he isn’t bothering to conceal.

your pulse beats wildly beneath your jaw.

“why now?” he asks again.

“edgar cleared me to tell you if you passed the psychological evaluation.”

his eyes narrow. “didn’t happen.”

“because the building locked us in.”

“so you weren’t cleared.”

“not technically.”

“then why the fuck are you telling me?”

“because you were willing to go.”

“that’s it?”

“you didn’t refuse. you didn’t threaten anyone. you didn’t sabotage it. vought’s systems failed, and i didn’t think that should determine whether you found out your son was dead.”

his face remains hard.

you keep going, because stopping now would leave too much room for him to decide what your silence means. “i didn’t like withholding it from you. i haven’t liked it since you first asked. but disliking an order doesn’t mean i can ignore it without consequences.”

“right. that’s real touching. you want a medal?”

anger sparks through your fear. “no. i want you to stop acting as though i enjoyed this.”

“you sat there laughing.”

“what was i supposed to do? spend every second staring at you with grief in my eyes until you guessed?”

“could’ve told me.”

“and lost my job.”

“you care more about the job.”

“i care about paying rent. i care about keeping my health insurance. i care about not getting sued into the ground by a company whose nondisclosure agreement is thick enough to stop a bullet.”

he leans closer.

you hate the way your shoulders press harder into the wall.

“you think that means shit to me right now?”

“no.” your voice comes out sharper. “but it means something to me.”

the words hang between you.

he looks furious enough that, for one terrible second, you wonder whether honesty has finally stopped being useful.

“you’re standing in my room,” he says, low and vicious, “telling me you let me beg a bunch of corporate pricks for a conversation with a dead man because you needed benefits.”

“i didn’t let you beg.”

“requests. appointments. proper fucking channels.” his lip curls around the phrase. “all while you knew there was nobody on the other end.”

“and i’m still risking my job by telling you now!”

the words snap out of you. silence follows.

your breath catches high in your chest, but you don’t take them back.

“you think edgar told me to skip the condition because the air conditioning broke? he didn’t. he told me to wait. i’m choosing not to, and you’re standing here acting as though that choice is another insult.”

his eyes move over your face, finding the fear you can’t quite hide beneath the anger.

“you scared?”

“yes.” the answer is immediate. you’ve already admitted it once. pretending now would be pointless.

his jaw tightens.

“but that doesn’t make me wrong.”

something dangerous flickers across his expression. “you’ve got a lot of nerve.”

the room feels impossibly quiet around the two of you. no cameras. no ventilation. no electrical hum inside the walls. nothing except your breathing and his, yours too fast, his controlled enough to frighten you more.

your throat tightens. the systems are down. the tablet’s dead. you can’t produce the footage or open a report or call someone more important to confirm it. he has nothing except your word, and you’ve just admitted your word’s been deliberately incomplete since the day you met.

“i’m telling you everything i know,” you say. “lying about this now would serve no purpose.”

“lying served one yesterday.”

“it kept me employed.”

“there it is.”

“you asked.”

he takes one more step, though there’s nowhere left for you to go. he doesn’t touch you. somehow, that makes the space between you feel more dangerous. 

you begin to wonder whether you’ve made a catastrophic mistake. not morally. practically.

because maybe edgar had been right to make the truth conditional. maybe the evaluation was never meant to prove soldier boy deserved the information. maybe it was supposed to prove you could survive delivering it.

“what else?” he asks.

you blink. “what?”

“what else did they hide?”

“i don’t know.”

“bullshit.”

“i don’t.”

“edgar’s running vought. homelander’s dead. what else?”

“i was hired three days ago.”

his eyes narrow.

“i’m not part of whatever war happened between all of you,” you continue. “i know what was publicly reported and what was included in the briefing material they gave me. vought called butcher and his group terrorists. i didn’t know you’d ever met him until five minutes ago—”

“he put me back in the box.”

the admission comes out rough and immediate. soldier boy’s face changes the second the words leave, as though he hadn’t intended to give you anything in return.

“butcher?”

“him and the rest of those fucking amateurs.”

his fist closes.

the history rearranges itself inside your head. the classified fight footage. soldier boy disappearing again. homelander remaining in power afterward. butcher somehow moving from wanted criminal to the man who eventually killed him.

every instinct in your body begs you to stop speaking.

“i didn’t know,” you say.

“now you do.” there’s nothing generous in it. no equal exchange. only another weapon placed between you.

the lights flicker overhead. dim once, then brighten. the air conditioning coughs through the vents before a rush of cold air spills into the room. your tablet begins chiming inside your bag, notifications stacking one over another in quick succession.

then comes the soft mechanical turn of the camera above you. soldier boy hears it before you ever would. his eyes lift toward the vent. the camera’s red indicator blinks once. twice. reconnecting.

you have seconds, perhaps less, before someone in security receives the live feed and sees you pinned between the wall and an enraged, shirtless supe.

his eyes return to you.

“you’re smart enough to understand what happens next. you want out of this prison? behave.”

his face hardens.

you speak faster, barely above a whisper. “when they give you the chance, ask for another liaison. but if you do something now, i’m gone. and the next person might not care whether you ever get another honest answer.”

the words strike somewhere you didn’t intend. you see it: a small, vicious change in his expression when you offer to remove yourself before he can demand it. when you reduce the past three days to an assignment he can have reassigned. when you remind him that another stranger can be brought in to carry the tablet, submit the requests, and repeat whatever vought approves.

his gaze drops to your face. “is that what you want?”

your mouth feels dry. “i want to leave this room alive.”

the camera turns fully toward you. soldier boy steps back. the distance should make it easier to breathe. it doesn’t.

he turns away from you, shoulders rigid, and walks across the suite. for one hopeful second, you think the warning worked. he’s moving away. the cameras are online. security will already be watching.

then his fist drives through the far wall. the sound cracks across the room. plaster bursts outward. the framed photograph beside the impact jumps crooked. fragments strike the floor, skittering across the stone as his arm disappears almost to the elbow through reinforced drywall.

you flinch so hard the back of your head knocks lightly against the wall behind you.

the cameras move. somewhere outside, alarms probably begin to populate screens.

soldier boy pulls his fist free. white dust coats his knuckles and falls from his skin in soft pieces. there isn’t a mark on him. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t threaten you. doesn’t say homelander’s name. he walks into the bedroom and slams the door hard enough to rattle everything left hanging on the walls.

you stay upright for another second. maybe two. then your knees fold. you slide down the wall and drag in the first full breath you’ve managed since he crossed the room.

for one horrible moment, you had been certain telling him the truth was going to get you killed.

The three of you followed behind to find Ben standing over the open hatch. 

“Did you open that just now?” Dean asked. 

“No,” Ben grunted. 

“But we all just heard it slam shut,” you said, eyes still wide from the fight in the kitchen. “And you shut it last night.”

“Yeah,” Ben said flatly. 

You turned and looked at Beau to see if he was okay. Just like the other two men he was staring at the hole. The lights were on inside it, again. 

“Do you think someone’s down there?” you asked, looking between the three of them.

Dean just shrugged and Beau didn’t say anything. His face was still in a murderous scowl but he wasn’t looking at Ben, he was just staring at the opening of the hatch.

“One way to find out,” Ben muttered as he stepped onto the ladder. 

He lowered himself down and disappeared down the hallway. 

Dean started after him with a heavy sigh. This time you caught his arm. 

“Dean,” you said. 

His eyes dropped to where your hand held his wrist, before raising them to meet yours. He said your name slowly. The anger that had been simmering under his skin stuttered and you saw the hurt behind his eyes. Still fresh enough to peek through before he quickly masked it. 

“Please be careful,” you pleaded. 

“Yeah,” he replied. His tone wasn’t cold now. His eyes flicked to where you still held on to him and then back up to you with raised brows, silently asking if you were going to let go.

You let your hand drop to your side, gripping at the side of your dress, tightly. You watched him disappear into the hole too. 

You walked the few feet over to Beau and laid your hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay, Beau?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, darlin’. Just a bump,” he said, voice low and still brimming with frustration but not at you. 

Beau reached up and laid his large, warm hand over yours where it rested on his shoulder, giving your fingers a brief, reassuring squeeze before letting go.

“You stay up here where it’s safe, alright?” Beau murmured, his jade eyes holding yours with that steady, protective warmth that always grounded you. “I’m gonna go down there and make sure those two don’t tear the place apart or end up getting themselves killed.”

You nodded softly, watching as Beau stepped over to the opening, swung his legs over the edge, and descended the ladder.

Once his head disappeared below the rim of the hatch, the backyard fell dead silent again. The humid air pressed against your skin, the bright yellow sundress fluttering slightly around your thighs in a sudden, stray breeze. You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your heart thumping against your ribs as you stared at the dark pit in the grass.

You thought about the dirt room down there. The second dark tunnel. The creepy altar with an ancient looking book and the unusual antlers that hung above it. The way it literally looked like someone dug the whole thing out by hand. The whole thing caused a shiver to shoot down your spine. 

Minute after minute ticked by in agonizing silence. No shouting, no crashing, no sound of fists meeting flesh—just the quiet, oppressive stillness of the neighborhood.

Just as you were about to lean over the opening to call out to them, a sharp thud rang out from inside the house behind you, followed immediately by the front door slamming shut.

Your head snapped toward the back patio.

Footsteps were heavy on the hardwood inside, moving fast toward the kitchen.

You backed away from the hatch, your pulse spiking as you turned toward the house. Before you could even take a step toward the glass back door, the heavy frame rattled, and Dean burst out onto the patio, his flashlight in hand and his face pale, eyes wide with a mix of shock and pure urgency.

He didn’t look at you with the cold distance from earlier. He didn’t look bitter or reserved. The sheer, electric focus of a hunter on high alert was radiating off him.

“Get away from the hatch,” Dean barked, jumping down the small set of steps into the grass and striding straight toward you.

“Dean, what—where are Ben and Beau? What’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaking as he grabbed your forearm—not tightly, but with a firm, unyielding grip that instantly pulled you behind his broad frame.

“The tunnel down there doesn’t lead under the yard,” Dean grunted, his eyes scanning the tree line as he tugged you toward the patio steps. “It loops around and leads right into the basement of this damn house.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“And that’s not the half of it,” Dean said, his jaw setting into a tight, hard line as he paused at the bottom of the patio steps, his green eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest stutter. “Ben and Beau found a door down there. It was locked from the inside... until five minutes ago.”

“What do you mean, locked from the inside?” you asked, your voice barely audible over the thrumming of your heart.

Before Dean could answer, the glass door behind you both rattled as Ben and Beau stepped out onto the patio. Ben’s face was dark, a dangerous edge in his jaw as he wiped dust off his bare arms, while Beau followed right behind him, rubbing the back of his neck with a tight, exhausted scowl.

“It means somebody—or something—was hiding down there while we were sleeping right above it,” Ben growled, stepping down into the grass with a heavy, deliberate stride. His dark eyes locked onto you, tracing the bright yellow dress before snapping back to Dean. “And whoever it was, they left the door wide open.”

Beau took a slow step into the yard, his posture defensive as his jade eyes scanned the perimeter of the property. “The lock was thrown from the other side, darlin’,” Beau said quietly, his voice smooth but laced with a sharp, protective strain. “Nothing forced. Whoever was behind that door just unlocked it and walked straight out into the house.”

Your stomach dropped into a sickening freefall. You crossed your arms over your chest, squeezing your elbows as the cold realization set in. “Walked into the house? When?”

“Sometime between when the hatch slammed shut and when we made it down the hall,” Dean muttered, stepping slightly closer to you, his posture going rigid as he kept himself positioned between you and the dark treeline. “We checked the main floor. Front door was unlocked, but there’s no sign of anyone in the rooms.”

“Yet,” Ben added with a grim, humorless huff. He crossed his broad arms, his muscles flexing as he stared down at the dark opening of the hatch in the grass. “If they’re in the house, they’re playing hide-and-seek. And I’m about ready to start kicking doors down until I find ‘em.”

“We’re not tearing the house apart blindly, Rambo,” Dean snapped, his tone sharp and authoritative, though his eyes flicked down to you for a fraction of a second—checking on you despite the lingering, wounded wall he was still trying to keep up. “We clear the place systematically. Room by room. Floor by floor.”

Beau stepped up beside you, his warm hand briefly resting against the small of your back in a subtle, reassuring touch that made Dean’s jaw tighten instantly. “Dean’s right,” Beau said softly, his voice a steadying anchor amidst the rising panic. “We don’t know what kind of threat we’re dealing with. We stay together. Nobody wanders off.”

“Fine,” Ben grunted, though his dark smirk returned as his gaze swept over your bare legs and the soft curve of your collarbones in the sundress. “Then let’s start with the upstairs. Beginning with her room.”

Ben stepped into your bedroom with the others right on his heel. He glanced at the bed and didn't bother hiding the smirk that crossed his face. It was brief, as the soldier mode snapped back into place. Beau looked under the bed and Ben threw open the closet door. “Empty,” he muttered. “Not even clothes,” he said gruffly, eyes finding yours. There wasn’t an apology there but it was an acknowledgement that you hadn’t been lying, at least. 

Dean was already off to clear the next bedroom. Beau walked out next. You turned to leave and Ben caught your elbow gently, spinning you back towards him, your dress flaring out enough to almost show your ass. Almost. “Not so fast, princess.”

You stumbled a half-step into his chest, your sandals scraping against the carpet as Ben’s broad hand slid down from your elbow to wrap firmly around your waist. His grip was heavy and warm, anchoring you flush against him before you could even think about pulling away.

His dark eyes searched your face, dropping down to the ruched bust of the sundress, and the view of cleavage it afforded him, for a long, heavy beat before rising to meet your gaze. The arrogant smirk was completely gone, replaced by a dark, possessive intensity that made your pulse jump into your throat.

“You locked your door last night,” Ben murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a thick, rough rumble meant only for you. His thumb made a slow, deliberate sweep across the swell of your hip through the thin yellow fabric. “Pushed a chair up against it like you were trying to keep me out.”

He did try to come to my room. 

Your breath hitched. “Ben—”

“Didn’t work as well as you think, doll,” he cut in softly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he leaned down, fanning hot air over your sensitive skin. “I was standing right outside your door for half an hour listening to you sleep. Next time you want to lock me out, you’re gonna have to do better than a little chair because I won't be so...patient.” He ran his lips lightly down your jaw until he brushed them over your lips without actually pressing a kiss to them. Your breath hitched again. He smirked against your lips. 

He straightened up just as smooth, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway toward the doorway. Ben didn’t immediately let go of your waist—instead, he took his sweet time casually sliding his hand off your hip, ensuring whoever walked through that door saw exactly how close he’d been holding you.

Beau appeared in the doorway, his tall frame blocking out the hallway light. The moment his jade eyes registered Ben’s hand trailing off your body, the quiet, steady warmth on his face instantly vanished. His jaw set into a hard, dangerous line, his posture going completely rigid.

Beau didn’t yell or throw a fit—which somehow felt so much more threatening. He just stepped into the room, his eyes dark as they locked straight onto Ben.

“The other bedrooms are clear,” Beau said, his voice dropping into a low, icy rumble that vibrated with warning. He didn’t look at you or your flushed face, keeping his entire focus pinned on Ben. “Dean’s checking the attic. You done back here?”

Ben let out a short, low huff of dark amusement through his nose, thoroughly enjoying the rise he’d just gotten out of the Sheriff. He shot you one last lingering look before stepping past Beau, deliberately brushing his broad shoulder against Beau’s as he exited into the hall.

“All yours, Sheriff,” Ben muttered, his voice thick with smug satisfaction.

About ten minutes later, the house was clear and everyone was sitting around the living room. You sat on the couch with your legs crossed and the hem of the dress sliding slightly higher on your thighs than you cared for it to. Dean was sitting next to you and was trying desperately and failing miserably to keep his eyes off of your long, exposed legs. 

Beau was sitting in an armchair, also failing to keep his eyes off of you. Ben, on the other hand, was sitting on the other side of you, in another armchair and he was shamelessly letting his eyes wander and rake over you. 

You flushed and finally cleared your throat. “I need some air,” you announced and stood up, tugging your hem down as far as it would go. Beau instantly stood and you looked back at him over your shoulder with an apologetic look before saying, “Alone.”

He nodded and sank back into the seat. 

“Stay away from the hatch. Stay where we can see you,” Ben commanded. 

You nodded absently and stepped out onto the patio. All three of them could clearly see you there. You took in a deep breath of fresh air. The breeze had picked up slightly and it felt good combined with the warm sun on your face. 

You closed your eyes for a second, letting the gentle wind cool the flush on your neck and shoulders. Being trapped inside that living room—under the heavy, suffocating weight of three identical pairs of green eyes tracking your every move—had felt like sitting in a pressure cooker.

Outside, the silence of the neighborhood felt almost peaceful by comparison, even with the bizarre, unnatural perfection of the manicured lawns.

You walked to the edge of the patio, wrapping your arms loosely around yourself as you stared out into the quiet yard. Through the clean glass of the patio doors, you could feel their eyes still locked on your back. They weren’t even trying to hide it. Dean was leaning forward on the couch with his elbows on his knees, jaw tight; Beau was watching with that deep, protective worry; and Ben was practically daring anyone to stop him from coming out after you.

The breeze kicked up again, rustling the thin yellow fabric of your dress and carrying the sharp, crisp scent of pine from the dense tree line surrounding the yard.

You took another deep, steadying breath, trying to process the absolute insanity of the last couple days. Three men who all claimed a piece of your past, three men who all knew the exact details of a dress you had no memory of owning, and a house that seemed to be actively pulling the strings just to watch the fuse burn down.

A quiet, rhythmic tap-tap-tap suddenly broke the quiet.

Your eyes snapped open. The sound hadn’t come from the house, and it hadn’t come from the open hatch in the grass.

It was coming from the edge of the woods.

Standing just past the tree line—barely visible between the thick, shadowed trunks—was a tall, dark silhouette. It looked ominous in its stance and it wasn’t moving. It was just standing there, obscured by the deep shade of the pines, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, every muscle in your body freezing as your heart slammed into your ribs. You instinctively took a small step backward toward the patio door.

Before you could even turn around or call out, someone grabbed you by the arm and yanked you off of the patio and into the grass. You stumbled but caught your balance, only to look up into the hollow eyes of Ned. He wasn’t smiling now and his face was eerily blank as if no one was behind those eyes. But you knew no one was. 

You tried to pull away from him but his grip on your arm was tight. “You have to come with me. NOW!” he said and while his voice rose on the last word, there was no actual emotion behind it. Just a command. 

“No! Let me go!” you screamed, trying to dig your feet into the yard as he started to pull you towards his house next door. 

Instantly, the backdoor slammed open and Dean rushed out first, his hunter instincts kicking into high gear, with Ben and Beau tight on his heels. 

Dean didn’t hesitate for a single second. The moment his eyes registered Ned’s hand clamped around your arm, a sharp, murderous roar ripped from his throat. He cleared the patio steps in a single leap, crossing the grass with terrifying speed.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” Dean shoved himself right between you and Ned, bringing his heavy forearm down like an axe onto Ned’s wrist to break his grip.

Ned didn’t even flinch at the impact, though his fingers reluctantly slipped from your skin as Dean slammed his shoulder directly into Ned’s chest, shoving the blank-faced neighbor back several feet.

You stumbled backward, but two broad, solid hands caught you by the waist, steadying you instantly. You looked up to see Beau, his face drawn tight in a terrifying scowl. He pulled you safely behind his back, his jade eyes blazing as he shielded you. He immediately drew his gun, pointing it at Ned.

Ben moved past all of you like a freight train. He didn’t bark a warning or wait for a plan—he just closed the distance between himself and Ned in three broad strides. Ben grabbed Ned by the throat with one massive hand and slammed him brutally down onto the grass, pinning him to the earth.

“Who sent you?” Ben growled, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, lethal rumble as he leaned his full weight onto Ned’s neck. “Talk, you empty-headed fuck, or I’ll snap your neck right here.”

Ned lay on his back in the grass, completely motionless despite the crushing weight on his windpipe, if he even had one. His hollow, unblinking eyes didn’t even fix on Ben—they stayed locked strictly on you, staring right past the three towering men standing over him.

“You can’t let it in,” Ned spoke, his voice completely flat, monotone and void of any human cadence, even with his throat being crushed.

“Let what in?” Ben snapped. 

Ned was still staring at you before he shifted his eyes up to meet Ben’s. “It wants her. You can’t let it have her,” Ned said. 

A shiver ran up your spine and you instinctively stepped forward, grasping Beau’s shoulders and pressing yourself into his back.  “What?” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“What wants her?” Dean barked. 

Ned looked at Dean. “Keep her safe.” Then his hollow eyes looked to Beau. “Don’t let it in.”

Before anyone could say anything else a loud POP rang out in the yard. Ned’s head exploded, covering Ben and Dean in a grayish-purple goo. You let out a loud gasp.

Ben stood up and stumbled back, raising his hands in front of him and looking down at the front of his goo covered body. “What the fuck?!” he growled. 

Dean just wiped his face with his hands, and shook them, flinging the goo onto the perfectly green lawn. “Fuckin’ Ned,” he muttered, but didn’t seem all that surprised, unlike everyone else. He turned to face you. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, still clinging to Beau’s shoulders with a look of shock scrawled across both yours and Beau’s features. Dean gave you a tight nod but he didn’t seem to have that anger in his eyes anymore. They weren’t soft, but it was still progress. Slowly, Beau holstered his weapon but he didn’t take his eyes off of Ned’s body for a long beat.

Dean and Ben went to take showers, tying up both bathrooms, while you and Beau sat in the kitchen. He’d made coffee and you were discussing what you’d seen. 

The other two walked back in about ten minutes later, hair still damp and matching scowls on their faces. 

Dean slid into the seat across from you at the table, eyes intently focused on you. Ben walked over and pulled the fridge open. “Since when do we have beer?” he said, grabbing a bottle and pulling it out to inspect it. 

Everyone turned and looked. 

“Thank fuckin’ god,” Dean said. “Pass them out, Soldier Boy.”

Ben grabbed a few by the necks of the bottles and handed everyone a beer. You opened yours, immediately taking a long pull. 

“What the hell happened out there?” Ben asked. “Before we got there.”

“There was someone—or something—standing right in the tree line,” you said, your voice a little unsteady as you thought about the silhouette. “Between two big pine trees. It was just... watching me,” you said, eyes staring at your beer bottle, unfocused. “I didn’t even see Ned. Not until he grabbed me.”

The room fell dead quiet, the only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his green eyes boring into you with an intensity that set your skin buzzing. “What did it look like?” he asked, his voice low, measured, and entirely free of the bitter bite from earlier. “Tall? Short? Built like a brick wall, or thin like a ghost?”

“Tall,” you murmured, tracing the cold condensation on your beer bottle. “Dark. I couldn’t make out a face or clothes—it was like looking at a shadow cut out of the trees. But it was watching me. I could feel it.”

Ben took a long swig of his beer, his jaw working as he stared past you toward the backyard window. “Whatever it was, Ned knew it was coming. ‘Don’t let it in.’ ‘It wants her.’ Sounds like a fucking warning.” He set the bottle down on the counter with a sharp clink, his dark eyes snapping to yours, possessive and sharp. “Nobody goes outside alone again. Not for air, not for five seconds. Am I clear?”

“For once, Rambo’s right,” Dean said, his eyes flicking to Beau before landing firmly back on you. The lingering hurt and spiraling, suspicious thoughts were still buried deep under his ribs, but the protective hunter in him had completely taken the driver’s seat. “Ned’s brain popping like a cheap balloon means whoever’s running this place has a kill-switch on the locals. They used him to draw you out, or to pass a message.”

Beau, sitting right beside you, set his bottle down with a quiet, steady thud. His warm shoulder brushed reassuringly against yours, a subtle anchor in the middle of the room. “If that shadow was what Ned was warning us about, it knows where we are,” Beau said softly, his jade eyes tracking Dean and Ben. “And if the house is giving us beer now, it wants us relaxed. Or preoccupied. Probably wants our guard down.”

“Let it try,” Ben growled, crossing his heavy arms over his chest. “I’ll take whatever’s in those woods and rip it apart with my bare hands before it steps foot in this house.” Ben turned back around and pulled the fridge open to grab another beer and paused. 

You noticed. “What is it?”

“The rest of the beer is gone.”

“Of course it is,” Dean muttered. 

“But there’s this now?” Ben pulled out a bottle of whisky and held it up. 

You blinked. The house was upping its game quickly.

Dean motioned to Ben with his fingers. “Give that here.”

Ben handed it to him and Dean popped the top off and took a long pull straight from the bottle. 

The three of you just watched.  

Dean let out a short, breathy huff, though there was zero humor in his eyes as he held your gaze. “Alright, we stick together. We keep the doors locked, we stay in sight, and we try to figure out what the hell’s been down that second tunnel before whatever’s out in those trees decides to come knock on the front door.”

Before anyone could reply, the lights in the kitchen flickered sharply twice—and then went pitch black.

Part 6

“Ben, no!” You said, surging forward and grabbing onto his arm. 

He smirked up at you. “Worried about me, doll?” His voice was softer towards you but it held a teasing tone. “I’ll be fine. I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been inside a lot worse fuckin’ places.”

You still had a hold of his arm. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what’s down there,” you tried to reason.

Ben gently peeled your hand off of him. “Don’t worry, doll. I’m the most durable one here.” 

With that he began to climb down the ladder. At the bottom, he found a string of mine lights and flipped them on. The hole was actually a dirt tunnel that stretched out before him. Ben disappeared from sight. 

As you raised your gaze you met Dean’s eyes. They were watching you intently, dark and unreadable, catching every single detail of how your hand had lingered on Ben’s arm—and how quickly you’d rushed to stop him.

He didn't say a word. He just held your gaze for a long, heavy second, his jaw working as he swallowed down whatever bitter comment was clawing its way up his throat. Then, with a cold, dismissive jerk of his chin, he stepped right past you toward the opening of the hatch.

“I’m going down,” Dean grunted, his voice clipped and flat as he grabbed the top rung of the ladder.

“Dean, wait—” you started, reaching out for him out of instinct, but your fingers only caught air. Again.

“Someone’s gotta make sure Rambo doesn’t blow us all to hell,” Dean cut in without looking back at you, swinging his boots onto the rungs and starting his descent into the pale, yellow glare of the tunnel lights below.

You stood at the edge, the knot in your stomach tightening so hard it made you nauseous.

A heavy, warm hand settled gently against the back of your shoulder. You turned to see Beau standing right behind you, his face etched with quiet concern. He wasn't glaring, and he wasn't posturing—he just looked at you with those steady jade eyes, offering a subtle, grounding presence amidst the storm.

“Hey,” Beau said softly, his voice a low rumble meant only for you. “Take a breath, darlin’. We’re right here.”

“He’s pissed at me,” you whispered, staring down into the glowing hole where Dean’s footsteps were fading into the dirt tunnel.

Beau let out a slow, quiet sigh, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle against your shoulder before he slowly withdrew his hand, stepping up to the ladder himself. “Dean’s hurt,” Beau corrected gently, looking down into the hole before meeting your eyes one last time. “And when men like us get hurt, we get stupid. Stay close behind me, alright? I’m right in front of you.”

Beau swung himself onto the ladder and began to climb down into the dim, earth-scented tunnel, leaving you alone on the grass for just a fraction of a second before you forced your feet to follow him down into the dark.

You followed Beau until the tunnel opened up into a medium sized “room” with dirt walls and ceiling, as if someone had just dug it out by hand. You were actually surprised it was as big as it was. On the far wall there was another tunnel, but that one wasn’t lit. Off to the right was what looked like an occult altar. There were lots of candles, bones of small animals from the looks of it, and a large, ancient looking book. There was also a pair of antlers  hung above it. They didn’t look like they were from a deer. Dean was standing there with a piece of paper in his hand. Ben was across the room trying to look down the other tunnel.  

The hanging lights illuminated the room well and as soon as you and Beau stepped in Dean turned and let out a frustrated huff. “Are you fucking stupid, Sheriff?” he snapped. “Why the hell would you bring her down here? We don’t know what the hell’s down here!”

Ben turned and glared at Beau. “The hunter is right. And you left the hatch unattended. Are you trying to get us locked in here to starve? Get her out of here. Right fucking now,” he barked, his tone possessive like Beau was risking his most prized possession. 

Beau glared right back at both of them. “Fine,” he gritted out. “We’ll be right at the top if you need us.”

He turned and led you back the way you came. As you both reached the ladder, the sunlight shone down through the opening brightly. Once you were back up top you paced around the yard near the hatch. You couldn’t calm your nerves— for both the current situation and the fact that Dean was so upset with you.

You kicked at small tufts of grass as you paced back and forth, your breathing shallow and uneven. Every time you glanced at the dark opening of the hatch, a fresh spike of anxiety shot through your chest.

Dean’s furious, snap-jawed tone was still ringing in your ears. He’d looked right through you—like you were a liability, or worse, just someone who’d stomped all over him. And Ben... Ben’s terrifying, possessive authority in that room had set every alarm off in your head, especially after the way he’d laid claim to you in the dark just hours ago.

Beau stepped out of the shadow of the large oak tree he had been leaning against in the yard, letting out a heavy, tired breath. He didn’t try to stop your frantic pacing; he just stood a few feet away, keeping a watchful eye on the surrounding tree line while giving you the space to let off steam.

“He’s not actually mad at you for coming down,” Beau said softly, his deep voice slicing through the frantic loop in your head.

You stopped in your tracks, turning to look at him. “What?”

Beau offered a faint smile, leaning back against the oak tree again and jamming his hands into his pockets. “Dean. He threw a fit at me, but it wasn’t about the hatch or safety. He lashed out because he’s bleeding on the inside, darlin’. A man like that—he doesn’t know how to handle seeing you pull toward someone else. So he turns it into anger. It’s easier for him to be pissed than to be hurt.”

Your stomach twisted into a tight, agonizing knot. “Beau, I didn’t mean to–”

“I know,” Beau interrupted gently, his jade eyes holding yours with zero judgment, only a steady, unwavering warmth. “You’re trapped in a place that doesn’t make sense, without your memories, surrounded by three men who are all trying to pull you in different directions. You’re just trying to survive the night.” He took a slow step toward you, stopping just close enough to offer comfort without crowding you. “Don’t tear yourself apart over Dean’s pride. When he comes back up, he’ll cool down eventually.”

Suddenly, the lights went out in the tunnel. You rushed over to the edge. “Dean! Ben!” you yelled into the darkness. 

Silence. 

You looked up at Beau, your eyes full of panic. Before he had a chance to respond, you heard a curse. Ben. You dropped to your knees at the top of the ladder as if getting closer to the opening would allow you to see anything in the black hole. Finally, Dean called out “We’re fine. We’re coming up.”

A few moments later, Dean emerged, with Ben right behind him. You had taken a step back to allow them to climb out of the hole. You wanted to throw your arms around both of them but Dean had already avoided your touch twice and you didn’t want to hurt him even more by hugging Ben and not him. 

I hate this place! And whoever the hell took my goddamn memories! 

You finally let out the breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. “What happened?” you asked, looking between them. 

“Dunno,” Dean muttered, eyes not meeting yours. “Lights just went out.”

“Sun’s about to go down. Why don’t we get some dinner and pick this back up in the morning?” Beau offered. 

Ben didn’t say anything, he just slammed the hatch closed and then stalked towards the house. 

“Yeah. Dinner,” Dean said flatly and then he turned and followed Ben inside. 

You looked at Beau and he gave you a sympathetic little nod, before he held his hand out, gesturing that he’d follow you in. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner had been tense. Dean grabbed his plate and took it up to his room. Ben had showered and then came down and grabbed a plate and stood at the counter eating, like he couldn’t be bothered to sit at the table with you and Beau. He didn’t look mad necessarily, just on edge. 

Beau on the other hand was steady as ever. He had helped get the food together and offered conversation during dinner even though he could tell your mind was elsewhere. When you were done he took your plate from the table with his own. 

Ben didn’t say much during dinner but his eyes were sharp and always on you and Beau. You wondered if Dean had said something to him. The way Dean was acting you would have thought he caught you fucking Beau in the middle of the kitchen. That thought was short-lived. 

This is your doing. You don’t get to turn it around on him. You chastised yourself. 

You finally excused yourself and went to your bedroom. This time you locked the door and shoved a chair up against it. You didn’t want any visitors tonight. You were exhausted and your chest ached. You curled up in the heavy warm blanket and passed out almost immediately.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You squinted against the stripe of sunlight hitting you right in the eyes. You groaned and turned your back to the window. The clock on the nightstand read 8:17 a.m. You laid there for another ten minutes, waking up and trying not to think about Dean but you couldn’t help but wonder if he was still mad. 

You finally forced yourself to your feet. As you moved the chair away from the door you thought about how none of them had tried to come to your room last night. Not even Ben who refused to leave the night before. You were a little surprised. A locked door and a chair couldn’t have kept Ben out if he wanted in. You wondered again if Dean had said something to him about Beau’s embrace in the kitchen. 

You shook your head as if that could clear your thoughts. You padded to the bathroom, completely distracted and wrapped up in your own thoughts; your own little pity party. You opened the door and stepped in before you realized that Beau was in there. He immediately turned his head when you walked in. 

Beau’s wet hair was pushed back. He had a towel slung loosely around his hips, dipping a little lower on one side. The steam clung to his muscular chest and rigid abs. Your breath caught in your throat. After a moment you realized you were staring, mouth slightly agape. “I’m sorry!” you blurted out, turning away. 

“Well, mornin’ to you too, darlin’,” he said and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Hey,” he said, reaching for your shoulder. “It’s okay, really.”

“No. Uh, I’m sorry,” you said again. “I’ll wait in the hall,” you said before quickly stepping out of the room before he could even reply. 

Your heart was pounding in your chest. 

God, he’s so fucking sexy. 

You shook your head and let out a small snort at yourself.

They all are. They’re the same fucking man, physically. Get a grip!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

After your shower and drying your hair, you stepped back into your bedroom, towel wrapped tightly around you. You opened the dresser and your expression turned to one of pure confusion. There was only one pair of underwear now, it was a thong with lacy sides and a satin crotch. You don’t recall seeing anything that sexy in there before. You opened the other drawers and they were all empty. No shirts, no shorts. Nothing but the single thong. 

What the hell?

You strode over to the closet and it was completely empty too except for a single dress hanging up. It was a cute little yellow sundress with small white flowers on it. The straps tied at the top of the shoulders and the bust had a cute ruching. You frowned. This closet had been full of random clothes since you woke up here. Now, instead of a tshirt the only option you had was a little dress that covered much less and would surely draw extra attention from the guys. 

Goddamn, magic house! 

You glared at the ceiling. “This isn’t funny!” you hissed outloud, hoping that whoever was behind this could hear you. 

There was no response, of course—just the quiet, uncanny hum of the house settling around you.

With a frustrated huff, you grabbed the thong and the sundress. Leaving a towel wrapped around you wasn’t an option with three overly attentive men roaming the hallways, so you didn’t really have a choice. You pulled the lacy fabric on, the smooth silk feeling entirely too delicate against your skin, before slipping the dress over your head.

You reached up to tie the thin straps over your shoulders, trying to pull them tight enough so the ruched bust felt secure, but there was no denying it: the dress fit like it had been tailor-made to highlight every curve. It clung to your waist, exposed a soft curve of cleavage, and flared out softly around your thighs, ending well above your knees. It was bright, airy, and undeniably eye-catching—a complete 180 from yesterday’s t-shirt and jeans.

You grabbed the only other thing out of the closet which was a pair of sandals that had a small white flower on the top to match the dress. They were your size. Of course they were. 

You gave the mirror a bitter glare. The “house” wasn’t just feeding you; it was stirring the damn pot.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you opened your bedroom door and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen.

The moment your feet hit the hardwood at the bottom of the stairs, the low murmur of conversation in the kitchen cut out completely.

All three of them were in there.

Beau was leaning against the counter, a mug halfway to his lips, fully dressed now in a fitted gray shirt. His jade eyes darkened the second they landed on you, sweeping down the length of the yellow dress before snapping back up to your face. A slow, heavy beat passed before a faint, admiring smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, though he kept his mouth shut.

Ben was sitting on one of the barstools, a plate of eggs in front of him. He froze mid-chew, his dark eyes locking onto the bare stretch of your legs, then tracing up the ruched top to the exposed skin of your collarbones. A low, dark rumble vibrated in his chest as his gaze narrowed, instantly possessive. He set his fork down with an aggressive clack.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Ben growled, his gravelly voice slicing through the thick silence.

Before you could defend yourself, Dean—who had been standing by the sink with his back turned—swiveled around. His green eyes hit you like a physical force. He choked on his coffee. For a fraction of a second, the cold, distant mask he’d been wearing since yesterday completely shattered, replaced by an intense, heated flare of pure desire that made your skin prickle. But just as fast as his reaction had appeared it vanished, his jaw set into a hard, rigid line. He looked away, turning his back to you again to stare out the kitchen window, his knuckles white against the rim of his coffee mug. Ben glared at his back. 

“The closet was cleared out,” you said quickly, feeling the heat rising all the way up your neck as you stepped into the room. “The dress and a pair of underwear were the only things left in the room. Unless one of you is playing a prank then the house did it.”

Ben let out a harsh, bitter huff, pushing himself up from the barstool and towering over the counter. “So the magic house wants you to parade around in something that barely covers your ass? Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, Ben,” Beau interjected smoothly, though his voice had lost its usual laid-back ease, carrying a sharp, protective edge as he stepped slightly between Ben and your path. “You saw the groceries appear yesterday out of nowhere. Whatever’s running this place is playing games.” Beau’s eyes flicked back to you, softening just a fraction, though the tension in his broad shoulders remained coiled tight. “And I think this one is aimed at me.”

Beau’s eyes met yours. “Darlin’, that is the sundress I mentioned when we were trying to jog your memory. My favorite one that drives me crazy every time you wear it.”

Your breath hitched audibly. 

Dean turned back around again and looked a little longer this time. “Shit,” he muttered. 

Everyone’s eyes shot to him. 

“What?” Beau asked. 

Dean dragged his hand over his stubbled jaw. “That dress. It’s one you have back home. You wore it last time we went to Jody’s lakehouse,” he said, his eyes raking over you before he could stop them. 

Your mouth dropped open but before you could even think, Ben took a step forward. He was still across the kitchen but his glare lightened slightly as he looked at you closer. 

“Fuckin’ Christ. Yeah. It is.”

“It is what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“You had one in New York too. I remember it because we got into a fight over it,” Ben muttered. 

“Because you were trying to tell me what I can and can’t wear?” you guessed, raising a brow and challenging him. 

“No.”

You waited.

Silence.

Finally you said, “Well, what then?”

His piercing green eyes locked onto yours. “Because I ripped it off of you and you had to throw it away. After I ruined you just the way you like, you had the nerve to take one look at the dress and get all pissed off at me. Didn’t talk to me for a whole fucking day over that goddamn dress,” he said, voice gravelly.

A shiver ran down your spine at the dark, raw edge in Ben’s voice, the memory—or his version of it—hanging heavily in the air between you. The sheer impossibility of what was happening made your head spin. Three completely different men from three different lives, all recognizing the exact same dress down to the threads.

Beau’s fists clenched at his side, his jaw went rigid, his eyes narrowing at Ben with a dangerous, lethal quiet that proved he wasn’t nearly as passive as he liked to pretend. Beside him, Dean let out a harsh, bitter huff, setting his coffee mug down on the counter with a heavy thud.

“Right,” Dean muttered, his voice dripping with venom as his green eyes swept over you one last time before hardening into steel. “So the house isn’t just giving us food. It’s custom-ordering psychological torture.”

“It’s trying to provoke us,” Beau said firmly, though his voice was tight as he stepped fully into your line of sight, blocking Ben’s intense, possessive stare. He kept his tone steady, looking right at you with gentle, grounded concern. “It knows what pushes our buttons, darlin’. It’s picking at the scab on purpose.”

“Provoke us or not,” Ben growled, taking a slow, heavy step around the kitchen island, his eyes locked onto Beau’s back, “I don’t give a shit. What happened in New York happened. I don’t need a magic house to remind me.”

“Back off, Ben,” Dean barked, his patience finally snapping as he stepped right into the space between Ben and Beau. His chest was heaving, the cold mask completely gone now, replaced by the sheer, volatile frustration of a man at his absolute limit. “We’ve got a hatch sitting out there in the backyard and a house that’s literally dressing her up to turn us against each other. If you want to fall for the bait like an idiot, go right ahead, but I’m not doing this today.”

“Who’s falling for bait, Winchester?” Ben sneered, completely ignoring Dean’s warning as he took another aggressive stride forward, his massive frame towering over the space. “You’re the one sulking around like a kicked dog because she didn’t run to you. And the Sheriff here?” Ben let out a dark, mocking laugh, his eyes fixing on Beau. “He’s just waiting for a turn.”

That was it. The quiet, calm front Beau had maintained all morning vanished in an instant.

Beau spun around, his jade eyes blazing with a sudden, lethal intensity. Before Ben could even finish his smirk, Beau stepped straight into his space, grabbing Ben by the front of his shirt and shoving him back against the kitchen counter with enough force to make the dishes rattle.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” Beau growled, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying rasp you’d never heard from him before.

Ben didn’t even flinch. A dark, dangerous grin spread across his face as his hands slammed onto Beau’s forearms, his knuckles going white as he gripped Beau’s wrists, his posture going rock-hard as he prepared to throw Beau clear across the room. “Touch me again, Sheriff, and I’ll break your arms.”

“Hey! Both of you, knock it the fuck off!” Dean yelled, surging forward to grab Beau’s shoulder and shove himself between the two men before a fist could connect.

“Guys, stop!” you screamed, taking a step back as the raw, suffocating violence in the room peaked.

Before Ben could hurl Beau into the island or Beau could throw a punch, a sharp, heavy metallic CLANG echoed from the back of the house—loud enough to vibrate straight through the floorboards under your feet.

The hatch in the backyard had just slammed shut. Which meant it had been reopened. 

Part 5

you didn't think how a man would ruin you.

not when it started, when it was still just short glances across the yard, that developed to long conversations about life that lasted too late, when his voice felt too steady, too familiar, when the space between you stopped feeling appropriate and started feeling inevitable. you didn't know that the way he looked at you meant something dangerous for your heart, you told yourself it didn't.

he was your dad's best friend and that should have been enough to make you stay away. however, it wasn't. you didn't know that the first time he touched you, really touched you, not in passing not in the absentminded way he always had, it had changed the way you understood everything that came after. you didn't know that the line, once crossed, would disappear entirely.

most certainly, you didn't know that those months spent together, would become the standard by which you measured the rest of your romantic relationships. the moments spent together were beyond what you could have wished for, perfect in a way that didn't feel real. quiet mornings, late nights, stolen moments that felt like they belonged only to the two of you. he made you feel seen in a way no one else ever had, like you existed in sharper focus when you were with him. like you mattered more. and for a young twenty year old, it was everything you had ever dreamed about in a man.

you didn't ask for forever, at least not at first. you knew you two were crossing a boundary since the moment your dad decided to declare your childhood neighbor as his best friend. he was there all your life, sharing the same neighborhood. it was unacceptable to have developed this harboring crush on a man so much older than you. however, you could not blame your little heart by the way he treated you like the princess you were.

you started to want more, that was the problem. the relationship to begin with was a secret from everyone, especially your father. you didn't want to ruin the bliss you two were in by having your dad lecture you about how inappropriate this was. so you kept it hidden, only short glances passed to each other when surrounded by your dad, careful to not draw any attention to yourself. and rushing to his house next door to embrace him, and make love all night long before you had to rush back home early in the morning before your dad awakened. it worked, both of you were committed in doing the hiding as long as you still could be with each other. at least that is what you thought.

you didn't know that his past wasn't finished with him. that history doesn't just disappear because something better comes along. that comfort and guilt can be louder than love if you let them. you didn't know that when she came back, he wouldn't fight hard enough for you. or maybe he couldn't, but you didn't dwell.

you tried not to hate him for it, you told yourself it was complicated, that people like him carried things you didn't understand yet. but none of that stopped it from breaking you bit by bit when he chose his ex wife. when he chose what was familiar over what was real. over what the two of you had built over the months. the love that wasn't easy to find, and only something people would die over. what hurt the most he didn't even do it cleanly, no neat ending, no proper goodbye, just a growing distance, hesitation, and then absence. like those months had never meant as much to him as they had to you.

it was torture, you barely left your room after that. barely eating, barely talking, barely moving. you were a living corpse, your father was so concerned for you, and tried his best to help, but he didn't know that he or anyone else could do anything to help put the shattered bits of your heart back together in its original format.

after months of wallowing, you left the countryside, the city, your father, ben. new city, new job, new life you were supposed to build from scratch. you told yourself it was for the best, that distance would fix whatever had been damaged. that you'd outgrow him, outgrow all of it. but you didn't, you only got better at pretending. being so far away from home and everyone you knew was the hardest thing you had to do, but you had to put yourself first. living so close to him and the woman he decided to choose instead of you was torture. still hearing his voice from outside your room only tightened at your heartstrings harder, creating physical distances miles away from him was the only way.

as the months had passed, the deep sadness began to melt away little by little. you knew it would be impossible to completely get rid of the rooted feelings you had, but you were determined to stop the constant wallowing over him. over the man that didn't choose you, even after confessing his love for you and how he had never loved anyone like you in his life.

your new friends you made in the new city had supported you along the way, it felt good to have people you could share your wounds with. it helped you to let go of the need of wanting him so desperately. by the time you were 'ready' to get out there and mingle, they were there in every step of the way. ten months had passed until you were even able to look at the male species in that way. being set up for blind dates with different men had boosted something in you, however you knew deep down those men were not for you. they didn't make you feel any type of way. even the sex wasn't anything to write home about. it did the job, but it didn't blow your mind. nothing will compare to the sex with ben, the love, the passion, the intensity shared between the two of you was undeniable. the chemistry was something out of a movie, and you were almost prepared to accept defeat and that you will not find someone else that can make you feel that way again.

two years had passed since the man you thought you will marry one day had stuck his hand in your chest, pulled out your heart and stomped on it like it was nothing. and you could admit you were happy, not the way you used to be. the incident had shaped you into a different woman, more reserved and sharper. however, you no longer thought about ben every minute of the day anymore, in fact no longer passing your mind at all. you had an amazing group of friends that you don't think you could have done it without them. an amazing job that payed well enough to support yourself without the need of your fathers help.

however, almost like a horrible nightmare, the happy little bubble you had made for yourself had burst when the company you worked for was shut down due to bankruptcy. losing the job wasn't dramatic, no big explosion, no satisfying ending, just a quiet meeting, a careful explanation, and then the sudden realization that you are left with no money. living out your savings won't last you very long, so the only option for now was to come back home. back to the same streets that still felt too small. back to the house that held too many memories, back to a version of yourself you thought you'd left behind forever.

you told yourself it wouldn't matter.

that enough time had passed, that you were different now. and you were, no longer the young naive girl who fell hard for a man who clearly didn't think enough of her. you didn't think about him when you packed your bags, when you rung your dad explaining what happened and needing a place to stay for a while. not really, not in a way that felt dangerous, you convinced yourself he was just part of your past, something you had survived. you were the most sad that you had to leave your friends, but you knew you guys would be in touch.

so as you sat on the train waiting for the journey to begin, you were unsure were this will take you.

coming back home doesn't feel real at first.

it's too familiar in all the wrong ways, the same houses, the same turns, like the time had paused here while you were gone. you sit in the cab a moment longer than you need to, staring out the window across to where your house had stood. you pay the cab driver and get out the car, pulling your suitcase with you.

the air smells the same, crisp, quiet, untouched. it settles over you too easily, like it remembers you better than you remember yourself. different to the buzz of the city you had grown used to living in for the past two years.

you take steps towards the door, your eyes not ready yet or maybe your brain to move to the next door house. his house. the door opens before you can knock. your dad looks older, not so much, but it hits you in a way you didn't expect, not dramatic, not overwhelming, just there. subtle lines, softer posture, something quieter in his eyes. but then he smiles, and for a second it's the same as always.

"hey kid"

and just like that, something in your chest loosens. you don't realize how much you missed him until he pulls you into a hug, it's solid, grounding, real in a way nothing has been for a while. no history you have to tiptoe around, just your dad.

you let yourself have that moment, just that.

you walked inside, the furniture, the walls, everything the same way you had left it. in a way it is comforting to know nothing has changed. you settle your bags down, relieved to finally be in the walls of safety.

"i was making some lunch honey, you must be hungry" your dad's voice cuts off your wondering thoughts as you turn to face him.

"yeah it was a pretty long ride over here"

he walks over the kitchen, as you take a seat on the couch. eyes glancing at the window, as the other house stared right back at you. you shook your head, not ready to go there yet.

by the time evening settles in, the house is quiet again. the kind of quiet that feels heavier than it should. you had cached up with your dad about everything that went on, it felt good to see him again, to talk like you guys used to. you guessed he was pretty lonely without you here, but he promised you he had managed well.

you stepped out onto the porch with a drink in your hand, as you take a seat on one the chairs. your dad had settled for the night, but you were not ready to sleep yet, thoughts still swimming around your head. pestering you.

it was calmer out here, safer. the sky is dimming, the streetlights just starting to flicker on, casting everything in that soft, in-between glow where nothing feels entirely real. you take a slow sip, letting the silence stretch.

you almost convince yourself you are okay with this. that coming back will not be a mistake. you were interrupted by headlights turning the corner. your body reacts before your mind does. something tightens, something instinctive, like recognition before understanding. you don't move, you don't even breath properly, your eyes fixed on the car as it slows, as it pulls into a driveway you know too well.

his driveway.

you didn't dare ask your father about him, you couldn't get yourself to do it. scared of what the answer might hold.

the engine cuts, the lights go out, and for a second it all stills. and then the door opens.

it's him, of course it is. you would spot him anywhere, even like this, from a distance, even after everything. there's something unmistakable about the way he moves, the way he carries himself, like time hasn't touched him in the ways that is should have. your grip tightens around the glass in your hand.

you didn't prepare for this, to actually see him in flesh. of course you would though, he still lives next door, he had never left. only you did.

he steps out fully, running a hand though his hair, casual, normal like he isn't the reason your chest suddenly feels too tight. like didn't take something with him when you left that you never quiet got back.

then the passenger door opens, you already knew before you look. but you do anyway, she steps out like she belongs there, like she was not the one that left. like nothing ever broke in the first place. your stomach drops in a way that feels almost delayed, like your body is catching up to a reality you were hoping wouldn't still exist. she says something to him, you cannot hear it, but you see the way he turns towards her, the small familiar ease in it. that part hurts more than it should.

your mind screams at you to look away, but your eyes have the mind of their own. staying on him just a second too long, because something in you still refuses to let go.

ben pauses, it's subtle at first, barely noticeable. his hand stills on the car door, his head titling just slightly. like he feels something before he understands it. and then he glances across right at you.

the world doesn't stop, there's no dramatic shift, no sound dropping out, no cinematic pause. though it does feel like it does, because he sees you. there's no mistaking it. no chance he's looking past you or through you, the fairy lights hanging above you highlighting you to him clearly.

his gaze locks, sharp and immediate, like recognition hits him all at once instead of in pieces. like you do. your breath catches, your fingers tightening around the glass so hard it almost hurts, but you don't move. you physically cannot, you are caught there, pinned in place by his intense stare.

ben's expression changes, but not in one clear way. it's layered, there is shock, then unguarded. then something deeper, something harder to name. something that looks a little too much like the past. behind him his wife is still talking, but he doesn't answer, doesn't even look at her. for a minute, it's just the two of you again, not physically, not really, but in the way his attention fixes entirely on you, like everything else has blurred out.

just like it was before, before she came to the picture and he decided what the two of you had was something worth throwing away for history that was hard to let go of. you should look away, as should he. but both of you don't, the distance between you feels impossibly small and unbearably large at the same time, stretched across driveways and months and everything that was left unsaid.

he opens his mouth slightly, like he might say something even from there, even though it wouldn't reach you.

"are you coming honey?" her voice cuts through the moment.

sharp enough to break whatever just happened. his attention shifts, for a second but it's enough. enough to remind you that he hasn't chosen you back then and he won't now either.

you see him nod, before he turns his head at you once more, eyes gazing over you, words wanting to come out. you could see in him he was already trying to build distance between the two of you, like it wasn't enough. you could already feel the wave of tears wanting to spring out. but you hold it.

you swallow hard, forcing your gaze away for the first time, breaking the fragile thread that had been formed. you knew if you didn't you would end up heartbroken again, and you don't think you were ready to go through that again. taking a slow sip of your drinks, hands not steady enough to be holding the glass. but you needed a distraction.

a car door shuts, footsteps and then nothing. but it's not the same kind of nothing as before. it's louder, heavier, it's real. he saw you. and for some reason that feels worse than if he hadn't.

As you laid beneath his massive frame in your bed, trembling, spent and incredibly over sensitized, you tried to drag more air into your lungs. "Ben, please!" you begged. "I can't take anymore," you rasped as another aftershock rolled over you. 

Still thrusting into you lazily, he raised a brow. "You sure? With the way you were running your fuckin’ mouth earlier, I thought this is what you wanted?" 

"Bennnn," you whined.

 Ben chuckled with that infuriatingly smug grin firmly in place. "Alright, sweetheart," he said with a jagged breath. He surged back into a relentless rhythm, his movements blurring into a raw display of power. When he finally broke, it was with a guttural groan as he flooded you with a heavy, pulsing heat that seemed to anchor you to the bed, leaving your entire body trembling in the aftershock.

He pulled out and rolled onto his back, with one hand behind his head and the other draped across his stomach, a sheen of sweat glistening over his chest. He turned his head towards you, your breath still coming in heavy bursts, and said "What's for lunch?" like he hadn’t just completely wrecked you.

You let out a huff of a laugh and rolled your eyes. "Unbelievable," you muttered under your breath, knowing damn well he could hear you, but the small smile tugging at your lips gave you away.

"What?"

You shook your head, finally finding the strength to sit up, the sheets pooling around your hips. "You just put me through a literal workout, Ben. I can barely stand, and you're thinking about your stomach?"

“What else would I want after working up an appetite, taking care of my woman?” he asked in his smooth, deep voice, clearly proud of himself for the latest round. 

 Taking the phone off the nightstand, you began to swipe through glowing screens. “What do you want to eat? Chicken, burgers, salad?” you asked, lifting a brow with a small grin playing on your lips at that last word. “I’ll order us something.”

“A salad?” Ben scoffed. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he glared at you with no real heat behind it and then dropped his gaze to the phone that your fingers were expertly flicking through screens on quickly. He stared at it, like it was an alien from outer space, eyes widening slightly. “Who are you going to call in the middle of the day to get food from? You can just go to that diner down the street and grab us something.”

A small, soft laugh popped out of your mouth before you could stop it. “It’s delivery, Ben.” You clicked on the screen and flicked your eyes up to meet his which were still focused on the screen. “There. A guy named Todd in a Honda will be here in 20 minutes with burgers and fries.”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours. “A guy named Todd in a Honda?”

“Hondas are a type of car-”

Ben cut you off, dragging his hand down his face, “Christ on a Cross, woman,” he muttered, “I know what a fucking Honda is. What I don’t know is how you didn’t even speak to a soul, and now some kid is headed here with a bag of food..”

You turned to him, showing him the screen. “These are apps. Each one does something different and this one,” you said pointing to a red icon, “is a food delivery service. You can order food and have someone show up at your door with it. Isn’t the future great?” you grinned up at him, waiting for his reaction. 

“Great?” he echoed, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “Back in my day, if you wanted a man to bring you something, you had to be really important and have an assistant. Now, everyone is too lazy to go get their own food? It's not great, sweetheart. It’s weird. And I bet the fries are soggy,” he grumbled.

You sighed softly even though the grin was still in place. You placed a hand on his chest and leaned in a gave him a firm kiss on his lips, “Okay, Grumpy.”

Before you could pull away, Ben’s hands moved with that startling supe-speed, catching your shoulders and hauling you back in. He hummed against your lips, a low vibration that you felt in your chest before he deepened the kiss, slow and possessive.

You finally pulled back, breathless and smiling. “I’d better go shower before the food gets here.”

“We better go take a shower,” he corrected, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, but only a shower, Ben,” you insisted, though your resolve was already crumbling. “We don’t have time for another round, and honestly? I don't think I'd survive it.”

“Oh, doll, you’d survive just fine,” he rumbled, sliding out of bed with a predator's grace. “But I’ll be good. For now.”

The shower had been a battle of wills, mostly you trying to keep Ben’s hands from wandering while he grumbled about the piss-poor water pressure of modern plumbing. 

The food delivery hadn’t gone much more smoothly. When the doorbell rang, Ben immediately strode over to the door in nothing but his sweatpants, chest puffed out and swung the door open so hard you thought it might come off of the hinges. It was the hair-pin trigger reflex of a soldier who had spent forty years in a Russian box. Before you could reach the door, he was there, stepping in front of you, his large frame blocking the hallway.

"Stay back," he muttered, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone.

"Ben, it's a burger, not a hit squad," you whispered, but he ignored you. 

Poor Todd was on the receiving end of an interrogation until you quickly stepped in and laid a hand on the back of Ben’s shoulder. “Ben, just take the food,” you urged softly. You said thank you and gave Todd a look of apology. Ben let you pull him back into the apartment, barely. 

After lunch, Ben was sprawled on your sofa, looking too big for the furniture and you were tucked into his side. You flipped on the tv and the news was playing. Shortly after there was an ad for the newest Vought superhero movie. Ben let out a huff. 

You didn’t comment on it. He turned to you and tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. “I need to get back to work. I need to find the members of my team. Teach those bastards a lesson.”

“A lesson?” you echoed, searching his eyes. 

“I told you before, I’m hunting them. I am going to kill each and every last one of them,” he stated flatly. 

“Ben,” you started slowly. “Why-” you hesitated, choosing your words carefully. Clearing  your throat you tried again, “Does this have anything to do with your nightmares?” 

He dropped his hand from your chin and turned away. “I don’t want to talk about that,” he grunted. 

“Is it Russia?” you asked, your voice a whisper. 

His head snapped back to you. “What? How do you know about that?”

Your eyes widened a little but then you stiffened up your chin and found your voice again. “You talk in your sleep sometimes,” you said.

“I told you I don’t want to talk about that,” he snapped, standing up and running his hand through his hair. 

You decide not to push. Not yet. 

You stood and walked over to the kitchen island, grabbing a bottle of water from the counter. 

"I need names," he said abruptly, stopping in front of you. "And I need to know where they’re hiding."

"Names?" you asked slightly caught off-guard, lost in your own thoughts of his restless nights. You watched the way his muscles corded under his skin.

"Payback." He spat the word like it was poison. "The team. The family that stood behind me for thirty years and then watched the Russians put a bag over my head." He stepped closer, his shadow looming over you. "Crimson Countess. Gunpowder. The Twins. Noir. I want to know who’s still breathing and where they’re spending Vought’s blood money."

You swallowed hard. You knew those names from history books and old Vought documentaries. "Ben... that was forty years ago. Most of them have retired, or they're..."

"I don't care if they're in a nursing home or a coffin," he growled, his hand coming up to rest on the counter next to you, pinning you in place. "If they're alive, I'm going to see the look in their eyes when they realize I'm back. And if they're dead, I'll find out who helped them."

He looked at your phone, then back at you. "You found the guy with the burgers in twenty minutes. Find them."

“Uh,” you stumbled, the weight of his request sinking in. You hazarded a glance at his face and saw the rage simmering just beneath the skin, a heat that felt more dangerous than the fire he’d brought to your bed earlier. “Yeah, okay,” you whispered.

You grabbed your laptop off the coffee table and brought it back to the island, climbing up onto one of the stools. Ben loomed over your shoulder, his presence a heavy, suffocating wall of muscle. You were hyper-aware of every breath he took, knowing exactly what he was capable of if that anger finally boiled over.

Images of the members of Payback flashed across the screen as you searched for them online. Ben let out a sound that was half-growl, half-snort, devoid of any humor.

“There,” he grunted as he pointed to the screen. “Gunpowder. Where is his worthless ass?”

Your heart stuttered and you swallowed hard, as you scrolled through a news alert. “He’s… he’s actually in the city, Ben. He’s scheduled for a Vought-sponsored appearance at an arms convention tomorrow. It’s only ten blocks from here.”

Ben pulled back, a dangerous, jagged look settling over his features. “Good,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “He’s first.”

You turned on your stool to face him. His stance was wide, his body rigid, there was a rage in his eyes that seemed to slightly vibrate through his whole body. It made your heart stutter. Not in fear. Well, at least not fear for yourself. You were more worried about what could happen to the man you'd spent the last three weeks with on his mission for revenge. The man you were starting to fall for. Hard. 

The next few hours were stifling. Ben was a ghost in the room, quiet and wound so tight you felt like he might snap if you touched him. When he suddenly announced he was going back to his own apartment to prepare, he didn't elaborate. You didn't ask. You weren't sure you wanted to know what a living weapon did to get ready for a slaughter.

By 8:00 p.m., the TV was on, but you were staring right through it. Your mind was a tangled mess of everything: the Russia comments, the nightmares, the names on the hit list. You were sleeping with a man who could level a city block- a weapon of mass destruction, and now you were his accomplice. You were helping him map out a murder. And yet, all you could think about was the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he made you feel.

The silence of the apartment was shattered by a sudden, heavy pounding on your door. You nearly jumped out of your skin, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared at the door.

Ben said your name in his booming voice from the other side of the door. You released the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding and got up to let him in. 

As soon as he stepped into the room, slamming the door closed behind him, he had you pinned against the wall. He kissed you hard, his hand tangling in your hair and your arms coming up to wrap around his neck. 

You pulled back breathless, eyes finding his. His emerald eyes were dark with desire, as his hands were beginning to roam over your body. They were everywhere. “Ben,” you gasped. 

He didn’t reply. Instead, he yanked your shorts down and you obediently stepped out of them. Your over sized tshirt was next as he pulled it up over your head with a grunt of approval as he lowered his head to your breasts. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, causing your body to arch involuntarily. Your heart was slamming against your ribs at the drastic change in his mood since he had left earlier. 

Ben hauled you up his chest in one quick motion, hooking your legs over his shoulders. He pinned you against the wall, hard, burying his face in between your thighs.

He didn’t hesitate, he wasn’t starting slow or gentle. He attached his mouth to your clit and sucked. Hard. You let out a gasp, your palms coming down and slapping the wall loudly to brace yourself as your hips bucked and your back arched into him.

“Ben!” his name ripped from your throat. 

He groaned in response, vibrating into your clit and through your entire body as you shivered and moaned. He pulled back slightly and looked up at you through his lashes. You could feel him grin against your slick pussy more than you could see it. “Doin’ okay up there, sweetheart?" he teased and you felt the vibrations of his words and heat of his breath roll over you. 

You nodded frantically, your hands moved to his head, tangling your fingers in his hair and gripping tight. He leaned the fraction of the way back in and began to give your clit kitten licks before lowering down further to your entrance with open mouth kisses. He thrusted his tongue into your dripping entrance and began to move his powerful jaw as he eats you alive, tearing loud, feral moans from your throat. Even though your thighs were squeezing together against his head, he didn’t seem to notice or maybe he just didn’t care. 

You were sitting on his shoulders mostly but his hands were still supporting you on your hips and his fingers dug in almost painfully as you started to buck again, legs trembling. He noticed and pulled his tongue out of you, dragging it slowly up your slickened curves to return his attention to your clit once more. He was switching back and forth between soft licking and wild harsh movements, like a shark thrashing its head back and forth with prey in its mouth. It sent you spiraling over the edge. Fast. Hard. You thought you screamed his name but you couldn’t swear to that. You were flying so high you have no idea what was actually coming out of your mouth or if it was even actual words. 

Ben worked you through it, slowing down just slightly, allowing you to come down with him. You were gasping for breath when he pulled his head back and gazed up at you with those magnetic green eyes, a smug, devious smile, and you glistening all over the bottom half of his face. He lowered you back down to your feet gently, his hands on your waist, supporting you in case your legs were weak. They were. He seemed to know they would be. Of course he did.

“Hi,” he said coolly, like he didn’t just ruin you. 

“Hi.” You laughed, a long breathy laugh, as you tried to steady your breathing. 

Ben scooped you up into his arms and carried you back to your bedroom. You rested your head on his shoulder as he did. 

Two hours and three rounds later, you were once again spent and lying in his huge, strong arms, covered in sweat and wondering if you’d be able to walk tomorrow. In between ragged breaths, you said hesitantly, “So about tomorrow…”

Ben, chest heaving, dropped his gaze down at you, his eyes shifting to something darker. “What about it?”

“Well, um, I have to go to work but, um, are you going to go after Gunpowder in the middle of a crowd?” you asked.

He didn’t hesitate, “Good. I don’t want you anywhere near here,” he said with a deadly serious tone. “And yes. He’s as good as dead.”

“Oh.” Your eyes remained on his. 

Ben turned, with you still on his chest, and reached for a joint he had laid on the nightstand. He leaned back again, lighting it and relaxed back into the pillows like the two of you weren’t just discussing a hit on a famous supe.

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Get some sleep, doll. Everything will be fine.”

You watched the tip of his joint glow in the dark room, the smoke curling around his head like a halo. It was surreal. Moments ago, he had been worshiping your body with a primal intensity that made you feel like the center of his universe. Now, he was reclining against your pillows, discussing the premeditated murder of another supe with the same bored detachment someone might use to read a grocery list.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. You weren't just the girl from next door anymore or even the lover he couldn’t get enough of. You were the one who had tracked Gunpowder down. You were the reason a man was going to die tomorrow and as you looked at Ben’s relaxed face, you realized you weren't trying to stop him.

You were falling for a legend, but you were waking up next to a hitman. If you truly thought about it, which you didn’t want to, one man was nothing to the amount of blood Soldier Boy probably already had on his hands. That thought didn’t make you feel any better.

You hate that you were so exhausted that your body practically obeyed him; your eyes grew heavy despite the screaming alarms in your head. Sleep came so quickly you didn’t get to discuss it any further, leaving your mind to wander through restless, dark dreams of what tomorrow— and Ben— would bring.

You knew a new neighbor had moved in but you hadn’t seen the person yet. You hurried over to the wall in your living room which shared a wall with the neighboring apartment’s only bedroom. You’d been in that apartment many times when the last resident, Kayla, lived there. You pushed your ear up against the wall like the nosy ass person you were and you waited. 

A minute or two passed and then you heard what sounded like someone groaning. Then you heard him mutter, “Shit.” His voice was deep and annoyed. 

Turning back to your brownies, you attempted to ignore what you had just heard. You tried to decide on whether to try baking a new batch, but you couldn’t get your mind off what had just happened. I should check and make sure he’s okay. What if he’s hurt and needs help? You paced a couple more lengths of the kitchen and decided to go next door. 

You shifted on your feet in front of his door, suddenly second-guessing whether you should be at a stranger’s door in the middle of the night, in your pajamas, at that. Before you could talk yourself out of it you raised your hand and knocked softly. Almost too softly. 

The door swung open and you looked up at the tall, muscular, shirtless man standing in front of you, with a frown on his bearded face. “What do you want?” he muttered, taking up almost the entire doorway. His sweatpants hung low on his hips and you could see the v there that slipped beneath the waistline of them. He had a short, well groomed beard and his brown hair was messy and half hanging over one side of his face. His broad shoulders were catching the low light of his apartment making the muscles there appear to dance as he shifted to lean against the door frame. 

He shamelessly looked you up and down with piercing green eyes. You shifted on your feet, under his gaze, realizing just how little you were actually wearing. His eyes took in your short, pink terry cloth shorts that were barely peeking out from a long black tank top. You didn’t have a bra on and you were pretty sure with the way his gaze paused on your chest that he could tell. 

His frown eased into a smirk. “What can I do for you, doll?” 

You opened your mouth to speak, but your brain felt like it had been fried right along with those brownies. Up close, he smelled like expensive bourbon, marijuana, and something metallic. 

“I...um, I heard screaming,” you finally managed, hating how breathless you sounded. “I live next door in 4B,” you said, gesturing with your hand. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

He didn't move. He didn't even look embarrassed that he might have woken up half of the building. Instead, his gaze traveled slowly back up to your eyes, his smirk turning into something a bit more dangerous. “Screaming, huh?” He let out a low laugh that vibrated in his chest. “Bad dream, sweetheart. Nasty habit of mine.”

He didn't offer an apology. Instead, he stayed rooted in the doorway, subtly inviting you to keep looking. “You usually go door-to-door in your underwear at one in the morning, or am I just lucky?”

Your mouth parted slightly, shocked and unsure how to respond for a moment, but his eyes followed the movement, tracking the way your lips moved as you took a shallow, nervous breath. The weight of his gaze was heavy and it made your heart stutter. 

"I’m not in my underwear," you finally stammered, though even to your own ears, the defense sounded weak. You instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide the fact that the coolness of the hallway and his intense scrutiny was making your nipples harden against the thin fabric of your tank top.

The movement only drew more attention to what you were trying to hide. His eyes dropped to your arms, then flicked back up to your face, his smirk widening as if he’d just won a bet with himself.

"Could’ve fooled me," he rumbled. He straightened up from the doorframe, moving into your personal space just enough to make you realize how much smaller you were than him. He was towering over you and sculpted like a Greek god. "So, you’re the neighbor and apparently you’re a light sleeper."

"Hard to sleep through when it sounds like someone is being murdered next door," you countered, finding a spark of your own temper to hide the fluttering in your stomach. "And I wasn’t asleep but you still didn't answer my question. Are you okay? You sounded... in pain."

The smirk didn't disappear, but it tightened, something flickering behind those emerald green eyes, a flash of that old trauma you’d heard through the wall. He reached out, his hand hovering for a split second before he used two fingers to hook under your chin, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to look at him. His skin was warm, his touch steady.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Just a little restless. Though, I think I just found a much better way to spend the rest of the night than staring at the ceiling."

He stepped back just an inch or two, not to let you leave, but to open the door wider, gesturing into the shadows of his apartment.

"You want to keep standing in the hall where the whole floor can see you, or are you gonna come in and tell me what else you heard?"

Your heart was stumbling, tripping over itself and face planting. Much like what you thought you might do if you attempted to move towards him right now. “Uh,” you stammered. “I guess I have a few minutes.”

You stepped past him, trying your best not to brush against his bare chest, though the heat radiating off him made your skin prickle. As soon as you were inside, the heavy thud of the door closing behind you echoed through the small entryway. The click of the deadbolt sounded unnervingly final.

His apartment was sparse. It didn't look like someone had just moved in and there were no moving boxes. Just a couch, a coffee table and a chair that looked like it was from another century. You noticed that there was no tv or any decor at all.  A half-empty bottle of Beam sat on a scarred coffee table next to a heavy glass ashtray, and a vintage radio sat on the counter.

"Make yourself comfortable, doll. Not like I’ve got much for guests," he muttered, walking past you with a heavy, confident stride. He didn't head for the kitchen, he went straight for the bottle on the table.

You stayed rooted in place, your eyes fixated on the way his back muscles rippled, a literal map of power and old scars. "You don't have to call me that," you said, your voice finally regaining some of its strength.

He paused, the bottle halfway to a glass. He looked back over his shoulder, a dark, amused glint in his eyes. "Call you what? Neighbor? Light sleeper?"

"Doll," you corrected, though your heart gave another one of those clumsy stumbles.

He turned then, pouring some of the amber liquid and holding it out toward you. "And what should I call you instead?"

You took the glass, told him your name and looked at him expectantly. He arched his brow. 

“You don’t know my name?” he asked, turning fully towards you to study your face. 

“How would I know your name? We literally just met, well sort of, since I don’t actually know your name yet,” you countered. 

His smirk returned and you couldn’t decide whether it turned you on or annoyed you, more. “Ben,” he said in his booming voice. “The name’s Ben,” he said, taking a drink straight from the bottle. 

His eyes danced with amusement but you weren’t quite sure why. You took a sip of the drink, just to keep your hands busy. It burned going down but maybe it would help steady your nerves. 

“Well, Ben, sorry I’m not much of a welcoming committee. Most people would expect a pie or something. Not a neighbor eavesdropping on their night terrors.” 

His amusement vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp stillness. “You think that’s what that was? A night terror?” He started toward you, his movements slow and predatory. Every step he took made you feel smaller and more exposed in your thin pajamas.

You didn’t back down, even though every instinct told you to run. “I think you were dreaming about something that hurt. And I think you’re using that bottle to pretend it didn't.”

He stopped inches from you. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin. He reached out, not for your chin this time, but to take the glass from your hand. His fingers brushed over yours—rough, calloused, and overwhelmingly large. He didn't take the glass yet, he just held his hand over yours, his gaze dropping to your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve for someone whose heart is beating loud enough for me to hear it from across the room,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. 

You lifted your chin defiantly, setting your jaw to keep the slight tremble you felt from showing. "Yeah, my heart's racing," you admitted, your voice steady despite yourself. "But it’s not because I’m scared of you, Ben. It’s because you’re standing in a darkened room, half-naked, trying to bully a woman who only wanted to make sure you were okay."

You looked down at the hand he had wrapped around yours, then back up into those piercing green eyes. "You want to be the big bad wolf? Fine. But you’re the one who opened the door. The one who invited me in. So either drink your Beam and tell me to leave or stop trying to scare me. It’s not working."

The silence that followed was heavy. Suffocating. For a second, his expression was unreadable. Then a low, rumbling sound vibrated from his chest. It wasn't a laugh exactly. It was the sound of a man who had finally found something interesting enough to distract him from his own thoughts.

"You've got a hell of a mouth on you," he murmured, his voice dropping lower. "Most people know better than to talk to me like that."

He didn't let go of your hand. Instead, he increased the pressure, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull you that final inch forward until the tips of your breasts brushed against his bare chest through your shirt. The contact was electric, sending a jolt straight to your core. His skin was hot and his chest was solid like stone. Then he took the glass out of your hand, setting it down on the counter behind him, without looking back.

"You think I'm trying to scare you?" he rasped, his breath ghosting over your lips. He slowly licked his own lips, moistening them while his eyes stared straight into yours. He leaned down, his face so close that you thought your legs might give out, your heart pounding even faster, if that was possible. "Sweetheart, if I wanted to scare you, you wouldn't be standing. You'd be screaming. And it wouldn't be because of a bad dream."

He let your hand go, but only so he could slide his palm up your arm, his thumb dragging over the sensitive skin of your shoulder before tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. He gripped it firmly, tilting your head back to expose the line of your throat.

"Now," he growled, his gaze devouring the sight of your pulse jumping in your neck. "Are you gonna keep playing tough or are you gonna show me what else that mouth of yours is good for?"

The smart-ass comment you had on the tip of your tongue died right there. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. At least not with words. Instead, you reached up and placed both of your palms on his muscular chest. He was hot to the touch. Almost too hot, feverish. You could feel his slow, powerful heartbeat. Your fingers twitched slightly. He was solid muscle and you felt the ache in between your thighs grow stronger. 

You lifted your gaze from where you were touching him to meet his eyes which were locked on you like you were prey. Ben’s green eyes darkened as he took in your slightly parted lips and felt your light touch on his body. He noticed immediately how blown out your pupils were and how your heart was still racing. There was a desperate, starving intensity from the man who’d been in the dark for forty years. He could smell your arousal but of course you didn’t know that. Didn’t know who he was. What he was. 

It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. This wasn’t a game anymore. It was more like a live wire. 

Despite yourself you offered a small grin, quirked an eyebrow and retorted, "You're doing a lot of talking for a man who looks like he’s starving. I’m still here. Are you going to keep staring, or are you going to do something about it?" You sounded steady despite barely being able to keep yourself upright given the nerves pulsing through you. You weren’t even sure where your boldness was coming from but you weren’t backing down. 

Ben let out a low, guttural sound—halfway between a growl and a sigh of relief—and his hand moved from the nape of your neck to cup your face, his thumb pressing almost painfully hard against your cheekbone. "You're a dangerous little thing, aren't you?" he rasped.

He didn't wait for an answer. He closed the distance, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that felt like an explosion. It wasn't polite. It wasn't careful. Ben didn't just kiss you, he took over your entire personal space. His free hand slammed against the doorframe behind your head, pinning you between the wood and his strong body, his heavy thighs forcing their way between yours, making you acutely aware of just how much he wanted you.

A gasp escaped you as he raised his thigh to push into your core, your thin shorts not offering much of a barrier. Without a thought, you ground down into it searching for friction. Ben grinned down at you. “Needy, aren’t you, doll?” he rasped. 

Ben pulled back an inch or two to haul you up his chest. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist and he grunted in approval. His lips were on yours again as he carried you back to his bedroom.

He dropped you onto the bed and you bounced slightly with a small squeak. The smug grin on his face shifted to something more hungry, more dangerous. The mattress sank under his unyielding weight as he climbed over you, hovering just above you. Ben positioned himself between your legs, rutting his hips down into yours as he moved up to kiss you again. His tongue swept into your mouth and down your throat. The power emanating from him and his desire was intoxicating. 

You ran your fingers over his back, feeling his muscles shift under your touch as you mapped out the scars with your fingertips. Ben broke the kiss and lowered his head to lick and suck hot, almost painful bruises along your neck. Marking you as if you were his. 

His rough, calloused hand slid under your tank top to cup your breast, lightly caressing your nipple with his fingertips, while he continued his assault on your neck. You let out a soft whimper. The gentle attention he was giving to your breast contrasted starkly with the fact that he had started to nip at your collarbone, teeth grazing roughly over your sensitive skin. 

A smug grin once again spanned his face and he pulled back to look down at you with blown out pupils. "You've got a lot of spirit," he rumbled, his voice vibrating through you. He reached down, his large hand easily spanning the width of your waist, pinning you to the sheets. "Let's see how long that lasts when I'm not just talking."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of those pink shorts, his knuckles grazing your hip bones. He paused for a second, a dark, possessive look crossing his face. "You have no idea what you just walked into, do you?"

You stared up at him, breathless, and just hummed in response. There was no more talking. The air in the room was thick, charged with a desperate kind of hunger that made every second of lingering fabric feel like a punishment. Ben’s hands were everywhere at once- large, heavy, and frantic.

He didn't gently slide your tank top off, he bunched the hem in his fists and hauled it over your head in one sharp motion, tossing it blindly into the shadows of the room. You didn't care. You were too busy fumbling with the drawstring of his sweatpants, your fingers clumsy with a need that made your chest ache. When you finally shoved the pants down his hips, he let out a low, rough growl of approval, kicking the pants away without breaking eye contact.

He was a force of nature over you, all hard lines and muscle. You ran your fingers over his back, feeling his muscles shift and coil like steel cables pulled too tight. 

His hands found the waistband of your shorts again. He didn’t wait for you to lift your hips, he simply hooked his thumbs into the elastic and stripped them away with a sharp, downward tug. The cool air hit your skin for only a fraction of a second before he replaced it with the crushing heat of his body.

"You have no idea," he rasped against your skin, his voice deep like velvet and sin. "No idea how long it's been since I had someone like you under me."

He wasn't being careful. He was being thorough. He caught both of your wrists in one of his massive hands, pinning them above your head against the pillow. It wasn't to hurt you- it was to keep you still while he devoured the sight of you, his eyes roaming over your body with a terrifyingly beautiful intensity. You arched your back, seeking the friction of his chest against your bare breasts, a small, needy sound escaping your throat.

"Look at me," he commanded, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of your inner wrist. You obeyed immediately. 

"That's it," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your chest as much as you heard it. "I want to see those eyes when I'm taking what you're so damn eager to give me."

He released your wrists, but you didn't move to pull away. Instead, you immediately reached for him, grabbing his long hard length in your hand. Ben let out a hiss. You grinned up at him. He was already leaking and you slid your hand up his shaft and twisted at the top smearing the precum all over the head. Ben’s eyes closed and he dropped his head to the crook of your neck, letting out a low groan. 

Ben didn't need another invitation. He lifted his head a few inches to find your lips, while his hand slipped between your thighs, rubbing your soaked pussy with quick firm motions. His mouth devoured yours with a raw, unrefined power. His tongue was a hot, demanding intrusion that you met with equal fervor, your moans going straight down his fucking throat. 

The frantic energy hadn't dissipated, it had settled into a heavy, rhythmic desperation. His hands, massive and rough, now moved down your sides, and he gripped your hips with enough pressure to leave fingerprint shaped bruises. He hiked your legs higher, draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely to his gaze and his touch.

"You're so small," he rasped, “I feel like I could break you in half if I don’t watch myself."

"Then don't watch yourself," you said with a ragged breath, your fingers digging into the muscles of his upper arms. "I told you, Ben... I'm not going anywhere."

He let out a huff of a laugh. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” You felt the sheer, solid mass of him settle between your thighs, the blunt reality of his desire pressing against you. Just like the rest of him, his cock was very large and impossibly thick. 

He paused there for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing the same ragged, whiskey scented air. His muscles tight, trembling with the effort of his own restraint.

"You asked for the real thing, sweetheart," he whispered against your lips, his hand sliding down to guide himself to you. "Hold on tight. I don't know how to do this any way but hard."

Ben wasn’t lying. He didn't ease in. With a sharp, guttural grunt, he drove forward, seating himself deep within you in one forceful motion. The breath left your lungs sharply, your eyes flying wide as your body struggled to accommodate the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him. He didn’t give you time to adjust before he was pulling almost all the way out and then thrusting back in 

You gripped his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough that it should have drawn blood. It didn’t. “Ben!” you cried out. 

He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with an unbelievable speed. Your legs, still thrown over his shoulders, began to shake. You felt the heat coiled tightly in your stomach. You couldn’t understand how you could be so close so soon. Ben groaned as you began to flutter around him. He picked up his pace just slightly, pushing you over the edge, clenching tightly around him. He didn’t slow down, he worked you through the first orgasm.

As you came down, Ben pulled out and lowered your legs, flipping you over without warning. You were on your stomach, when he drove back into you from behind. One large hand came up to pin your hands above your head again. Ben leaned down, growling into your ear in between heavy ragged breaths. The heat of his chest pressed to your back as he thrusted into you ruthlessly, made you a little dizzy. Or maybe it was the way he was taking you, owning you, claiming you, that had your head spinning. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” he rumbled in your ear, the sound vibrating down your spine that he was pressed into. 

You nodded frantically. “Yes, Ben! God, yes!”

You couldn’t see the smug smirk on his face but you just somehow knew it was there. You weren’t wrong. Ben chuckled darkly at your response. “That’s right. Taking me better than I thought, doll.”

You turned your head so that your lips were just a breath apart. "Ben," you whimpered, the name a broken plea against his mouth. You pushed your hips back into him, meeting his thrusts. You began to tremble again, legs shaking, pussy fluttering around him. “Please, Ben! Please,” you begged, followed by loud moans. He adjusted his angle, expertly hitting that spongy spot inside of you with each thrust and picked up the pace again which didn’t seem possible to you but somehow it was. The second orgasm slammed into you harder than the first. Your vision went white and you cried out his name, your entire body shaking violently as your hands gripped the pillow. 

Ben’s breathing was ragged when he pulled out again, turning you back over so that he could look into your eyes. He grunted as he slipped back into your soaked pussy. Ben’s composure was gone. He wasn't Soldier Boy anymore, he was just a man starving for friction, for heat, for the sound of someone else’s pleasure. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing coming in harsh, ragged breaths that matched the frantic pace of his hips.

"God, you're so tight," Ben groaned, the words muffled against your skin. "You're gonna ruin me," he breathed your name. Not doll, not sweetheart, but your actual name. That registered somewhere in the back of your mind as you continued to drown in the pleasure he was giving you.

Moments later you were close again.  The tension in your core was coiling into something unbearable, a sharp ache that demanded release. "Ben, please."

He heard the change in your voice, the way it climbed into a desperate, broken moan. He tightened his grip on your hips and raised them even higher, his own breathing coming in jagged, violent hitches. He wasn't even pretending to be in control anymore. His movements were frantic, driven by a decades-old hunger that was finally being fed. Just as your tension snapped and release flooded over you, Ben let out a low, primal roar. He drove into you one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go, and stayed there. You felt the rhythmic, heavy pulses of his own climax, a hot, overwhelming flood that seemed to cement the connection between you.

Heavy, ragged breaths from both of you filled the room as he laid on top of you, chest heaving, still buried deep inside you. After a moment, he pulled back and laid down beside you, propping himself up on one arm as he gazed down at you. The Soldier Boy mask was gone. His green eyes were soft, filled with a mix of exhaustion and something that looked dangerously like gratitude. He reached over, his thumb grazing your lower lip, which was swollen and red from his kisses. Ben leaned back into the pillows, and closed his eyes for a couple of minutes while his breathing returned to normal. A moment later, he opened his eyes and gazed down at you again. 

"You're still here," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. It wasn't a question, it was a realization. “You’re really something else, you know that?” he rasped, his voice still thick and gravelly. He reached out, brushing a sweat-dampened strand of hair away from your forehead. His touch was unexpectedly gentle now.

You let out a breathy, tired laugh, your fingers tracing over his ribs and down his side. “Is that your version of a thank you, Ben?”

A ghost of a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, not the arrogant, predatory one from the hallway, but something more grounded. Something human. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, doll. I’m just saying... most people would’ve been halfway down the fire escape by now.”

“I’m not most people,” you murmured, meeting his gaze.

“I can see that,” he replied. Ben cleared his throat, his eyes flicking toward the door and then back to you, a rare flicker of hesitation crossing his features. “Look, the bed isn’t very big and I’m a restless sleeper…” He paused, his gaze dropping to your mouth before his eyes locked back on yours. “But I don't feel like letting you go back to 4B just yet. So... you staying? Or do I have to come up with another reason to keep you here?”

You felt your heart do one more of those clumsy stumbles, but this time it evened out quickly. “I think I can handle a little restlessness,” you replied softly.

Ben pulled you into his side, tucking your head against his chest with a possessive arm that felt like a heavy, warm anchor. “Good,” he grunted, closing his eyes as he settled into the pillows. “Because if you left now, I’d just have to go door-to-door in my underwear to find you. And I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh and snuggled into the warmth of him. Your exhausted, sore, and likely bruised body let sleep pull you under. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Light sifted in through the blinds on the window, streaming across your face. You opened your eyes slowly, squinting into the light. You felt the heat of Ben’s chest on your back and it quickly pulled you out of the haze of sleep. A large, strong arm was draped across your waist.  Last night came flooding back to you. A small smile played across your lips as you slipped out from underneath his arm, trying not to wake him. Ben was still dead to the world, his breathing deep and rhythmic.

You needed to get some water after last night’s activities had you feeling absolutely dehydrated. Where did Ben throw your tank top and shorts? Those would be a good idea too. As you stood up, you realized just how much of a toll he took on you. Your entire body ached but especially in between your legs. You ran your hand over your neck, as you could feel some of the more painful bruises there whenever you turned your head. Jesus, Ben.  

As you stepped forward your foot hit something big, cold and metal tucked partially under the bed frame.. You kneeled down to see what it could be given that Ben’s apartment was so sparse. You pulled the edge of the blanket up and your breath caught in your throat.

It was heavy, impossibly heavy as you barely moved it an inch or two off the floor, made of a dull, reinforced brass-colored metal. It was shaped like an eagle’s crest, scarred with deep gouges that told stories of battles no normal man could survive. You knew that shape. Everyone knew that shape. You’d seen it in history books, in old movies, and on vintage memorabilia. 

It was the shield of Soldier Boy.

A cold shiver raced down your spine. You looked back at the man sleeping soundly on the pillows. In the light of day, the Ben you had just spent the night with didn't look like a ghost or a neighbor. He looked like a god who had been dragged through hell. The scars you had mapped with your fingers weren't just accidents, they were the history of a hero, a supe- no, the supe, who was supposed to have died decades ago.

"You're a nosy little thing, aren't you?"

The voice was low, gravelly, and dangerously awake.

You bolted upright, the shield clattering against the floor with a heavy thud that seemed to shake the entire room. Ben was propped up on one elbow, his eyes tracking you with a sharp, predatory focus that made your heart hammer against your ribs, not with desire this time, but with the sudden, terrifying realization of who was actually in the room with you. Who you slept with and then spent the night with last night.

"Ben.." you whispered hesitantly, the name feeling foreign on your tongue now.

He sat up fully, the sheets falling away to reveal the massive, scarred expanse of his chest. He didn't look ashamed or even surprised that you'd found it. He just looked tired.

"Don't call me that," he said, his voice hardening into the legendary authority of the superhero. He gestured toward the shield with a tilt of his chin. "I think you just figured out that 'Ben' is a luxury I don't really have."

He stood up, still unabashedly naked, moving toward you with that same heavy, confident stride, but now it felt different. It felt like a threat. He stopped just inches from you, looking down at the woman who had called his bluff and practically laughed at his temper.

"So," he rasped, his eyes searching yours for the shift in your expression. "Now that you know what you actually walked into... are you still planning on staying for breakfast?"

Ignoring his question, your mind racing with everything you knew about Soldier Boy- the history lessons, movies, documentaries, Vought propaganda, and even more terrifying, the recent rumors that had been circulating recently. 

He wasn't just a guy with a bad past. He was the First Supe. He was a weapon of mass destruction that had supposedly died forty years ago. Soldier Boy was the most dangerous of them all and right now he was towering over you with sharp eyes but an unreadable expression. 

You stepped back until you were backed up against a wooden dresser that creaked in protest. "You’re... you’re him. You’re Soldier Boy. The superhero. You’re supposed to be dead,” you croaked out, eyes wide.

Ben. No, Soldier Boy, barked out a dry, humorless laugh. He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a man who had been to hell and back, but mostly he just looked exhausted.

"Yeah, well," he said, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you. He didn't try to cover himself, he stood there in his naked, scarred glory, looking every bit the untouchable legend he was built to be. "The world says a lot of things. Most of it’s horseshit. Vought’s bullshit, the history books are bullshit, and the 'hero' part? That's the biggest lie of the bunch. I’m no hero." Ben’s eyes continued to study your face, your expression, as if he were trying to look into your very soul. 

“There it is. That’s the look I’m used to. The look that says you’re trying to decide if I’m going to save you or hurt you.”

He leaned in closer, his scent, that mix of expensive bourbon and sweat from last night, overtaking your senses. "Which one is it, doll? You looked so brave last night when you were telling me you weren't going anywhere. You still feel that way now that you know I'm the guy who can level a city block when I have a bad dream?"

You hesitated, still trying to process everything, your mind and pulse both racing. "I..." you started, your voice cracking. Then you took a deep breath, gathered your thoughts and steadied your voice, "I don't know Soldier Boy. I only know the man who was screaming for help at one in the morning. The man who pulled me close and fell asleep with me in his arms last night."

His jaw tightened. For a second, you thought he might actually lose it. His hand was resting on the dresser next to you and his grip tightened until the wood splintered under his fingers. But then, he let out a long, slow breath and stepped back, his eyes darkening.

"That man is a ghost," he said, his voice flat and final. "And the one standing in front of you is a mistake you probably shouldn't have made."

He turned his back to you, walking over to the window to stare out at the street. "Put your clothes on. I’ll give you five minutes to get out before I decide I don't like the way you're looking at me anymore."

The silence that fell over the room was deafening. Your mind was still racing but all you could think about was the man who cried out in pain, the man who made you feel more wanted and alive than you had in a long time, the man who pulled you into his arms and wanted you to stay with him. 

"No," you said, your voice stronger.

He didn’t turn around, but you saw his shoulders tense. "I told you to get out. You’re smart enough to know what I am. Go while you still have the chance to pretend this didn't happen."

"I don’t care what Vought or the news says you are. Soldier Boy didn't bring me into this room. Ben did. And Ben was the one who held onto me like he was drowning."

Ben was right, most people would have been running out the door, afraid for their life from a man who could crush them without even trying. You didn’t run though. Instead, you stepped up behind him and placed a hand on the back of his shoulder, pulling gently, urging him to turn towards you. 

Even though his face was hard as stone as he turned to you, you could see a flicker of something else in his eyes, surprise maybe, or even the tiniest sliver of hope. As you wrapped your arms around his torso and pressed your naked body into his, laying your head against his chest, you felt him take in a sharp breath. For a long, agonizing moment, he looked like he might actually shove you away. Ben’s arms were limp at his side for a moment before they finally wrapped around you, pulling you in closer. 

“Ben, I’m still here. I keep telling you that,” you said softly but without fear now, your face turning up to lock eyes with him. Then you felt him let out the breath he’d been holding. 

"You're a fool," he rasped into your hair, his voice breaking. "You're a goddamn fool for staying."

"Maybe," you agreed. "But I'm not going anywhere."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a feather-light touch. The fierce legend was gone. The First Supe was gone. There was just a man, terrified of the silence and the memories, looking at the only person who wasn't afraid to look back.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he muttered, before leaning down to kiss you, this time with a softness that was far more shattering than his strength had ever been. “My life ain't easy and the pussies I’m hunting aren’t the kind of people you want to mess with,” he grumbled. 

You nodded. “Understood,” you replied. 

Ben walked you back to the bed and sat down, pulling you in between his legs. He looked up at you with raised brows and a matter-of fact tone, “And then there’s the obvious issue. Vought’s gonna come looking," he said, his voice quiet, and lacking its usual bravado. "They don't like it when their property goes for a walk.”

You huffed lightly at him, “Ben, why are you still trying to scare me off? I told you–,” you started but he cut you off. 

“If you really plan on staying, you need to know what you’re getting into. You’re not just going to be some girl next door to a supe anymore. Your life won’t be the same if I’m in it. You’ll be a target too,” he grunted, with a conflicted look plastered across his features. You sat down in his lap on the edge of the bed and he leaned his forehead against yours. 

You opened your mouth to reply to him but before you could get the words out, he continued. “I’m not a pussy but I am a bastard," he muttered, his breath mingling with yours. "I’m mean, I’m set in my ways, and I don't know how to use a goddamn microwave."

You laughed, the sound light and airy in the heavy atmosphere of the room. You ran your hands through his hair, holding him there. "I'll teach you the microwave, Ben. As for the rest... we’ll figure it out."

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours one last time. He seemed to find what he was looking for, because the hard, defensive tension of his shoulders finally dropped.

"Fine," he said, the old Soldier Boy smirk flickering back to life, though it was softer around the edges. "But you’re making the coffee. I haven't had a decent cup since 1984, and I have a feeling today's gonna be a long one."

He leaned down, giving you a quick, firm kiss that tasted of finality and a new, dangerous beginning. You sighed into him. 

“Deal,” you murmured as you got up to get dressed.

 You didn’t expect anything that had happened in the last eight hours, but as you looked at him, really looked at him, you felt a quiet hopefulness for the future. You had no idea what was coming, and for the first time in a long time, neither did the man who moved in next door.

you straighten. “and?”

“you may inform him of homelander’s status after he completes today’s psychological evaluation.”

the wording takes a second to settle. “you’re making the answer conditional.”

“i’m establishing an incentive for cooperation with information he wants.”

you look at him. edgar looks back with the calm patience of a man waiting for you to understand something he considers obvious.

“he already knows i’m withholding something,” you start, careful with your words but slightly bothered by the injustice of having to keep the truth about his son’s status hidden for another day. “and you want me to use it to get him through an evaluation.”

“i want you to demonstrate that your rapport with him produces measurable results.”

not trust. not progress. measurable results.

your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag. “someone’s been monitoring our conversations.”

“the suite is under continuous observation.”

“i know that.”

“then this shouldn’t surprise you.” 

it doesn’t. that may be the worst part.

edgar folds his hands on the desk. “he responds to you more consistently than he does to security, medical personnel, or senior staff. yesterday, you redirected a potentially violent incident, secured his cooperation through two appointments, and remained in the suite beyond the end of his scheduled obligations.”

“we ate lunch.”

“yes.”

the simple answer makes it sound incriminating.

“if he completes today’s evaluation without violence, property damage, credible threats, or refusal to participate, you may disclose that homelander is deceased.”

your stomach turns over quietly. “nothing else?”

“not without further authorization.”

“he’ll ask how.”

“you will tell him that additional details remain restricted.”

“he won’t accept that.”

“acceptance is not required.”

of course it isn’t.

you glance toward the folder waiting on the edge of his desk. your name’s printed across the tab beside soldier boy’s file number. something about seeing the two together makes your skin prickle.

“he knows everything here is a test.” edgar’s tone doesn’t change. “the question is whether he understands what earns him the answer.”

you hold his gaze. “and if he doesn’t?”

“then you’ll make it clear.”

the meeting is over before he says so. edgar reaches for another document, attention already moving away from you.

you turn toward the door.

“one more thing,” he says.

you stop.

“do not confuse being useful to him with being trusted by him.” you look back over your shoulder. edgar’s eyes remain on the page. “those are rarely the same thing.”

you leave his office with a knot lodged somewhere between your throat and your chest.

the elevator ride down gives you too much time to think about what, exactly, you’ve just been authorized to do. in a matter of hours, you might be the person who tells soldier boy that homelander’s dead.

his son’s dead.

possibly.

vought spent the past year selling the relationship as some golden dynasty of american strength—father and son, legacy and future, the kind of expensive emotional fiction people bought on commemorative posters and limited-edition cereal boxes. but none of that tells you what soldier boy actually felt. pride? resentment? obligation? maybe nothing at all. you only know what the company wanted everyone else to believe.

and soldier boy reacts badly on good days.

the guard outside makes no comment as you scan your badge. the locks disengage one by one, and you step inside with the unpleasant sense that the folder in edgar’s office followed you down.

water runs beyond the bedroom.

he’s awake, then.

you don’t call out this time. instead, you set your bag on the dining table, sit, and wake your tablet. the psychological evaluation notes open beneath your fingers. approved topics. behavioral indicators. disqualifying conduct. the words blur together more than they should.

the shower stops. a few minutes later, soldier boy comes out of the bedroom properly covered, which feels almost considerate until you remember basic clothing isn’t an act of service. dark trousers sit low at his waist, and he’s pulling a shirt over his head as he walks.

his hair’s damp, the shorter sides still unfamiliar enough to catch your attention before you force it back to the screen. “morning.” 

“good morning.”

he slows.

you can feel him looking at you.

“you get replaced overnight?”

you glance up. “no.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

“i’m sitting in the same chair.”

“you look like somebody died.”

the words strike too close. your expression holds, but only because the practice’s becoming useful. “your request regarding homelander’s been reviewed.”

that gets his full attention. the shirt settles over his chest. “okay.”

“i haven’t been authorized to discuss his status with you today.”

his face hardens immediately. “then why bring it up?”

“because i said i’d tell you when i heard back.”

“that’s not telling me.”

“it’s telling you where the request stands.”

“which is nowhere.”

you turn the tablet slightly, moving into the next document before he can pull you into an argument you’re not allowed to finish.

“your psychological evaluation is scheduled for nine. the results will affect access restrictions, communication requests, and the next stage of your reintegration.”

you scroll through the evaluation outline.

“they’ll ask about your adjustment since revival, your current confinement, impulse control, willingness to follow operational limits, and whether you understand the conditions attached to active status.”

“so they want to know if i’m crazy.”

“they want to know whether you’re predictable.”

“same shit.” he watches you for another moment.

you keep your eyes on the screen, though the knot in your throat hasn’t moved. 

“you should answer directly,” you continue. “you don’t need to agree with the questions. you don’t need to like the person asking them. but refusing to participate will be documented, and anything they interpret as a credible threat will slow down your release and any requests that are already under review.”

the words sit between you. you don’t look up to see whether he understands. you know he does.

soldier boy’s quiet long enough that the silence becomes intentional. then he walks toward the sideboard and pours himself a glass of water. “anything else?”

“don’t threaten the psychologist.”

“what if they deserve it?”

“express dissatisfaction.” you almost smile as you bring back the words.

he looks at you over the rim of the glass. not amused.

“and try not to describe violence in unnecessary detail,” you add.

“what counts as unnecessary?”

“if you have to ask, leave it out.”

he drinks, still watching you. there’s something more attentive in his expression now, less amused than usual. he’s noticed the change in you. the seriousness. the fact that you brought up homelander before he had the chance. but he doesn’t press. not yet.

you close the evaluation notes and slide the tablet into your bag. “ready to go, then?

soldier boy sets the empty glass down. “after you.”

you stand, pull the strap of your bag over your shoulder, and cross to the door. the internal panel wakes when you lift your badge toward it.

a red light flashes. you pause, brow pulling together. you scan it again. red.

“hold on…” you murmur under your breath. 

soldier boy doesn’t answer. when you glance back, he hasn’t moved from the sideboard.

you check the badge, although there’s nothing visibly wrong with it, and press it flat against the reader a third time. the panel gives a short, rejecting beep.

“that’s strange.”

“promising start.”

“it probably needs to reset.” you wait for the display to cycle, then try again. the same red light appears.

there should be security on the other side. two guards, according to the morning assignment. one of them should already be contacting the control room after seeing your failed scan.

no one opens the door.

you press the communication button beside the reader. “security?”

nothing.

you try once more. “this is the executive liaison in containment suite twelve. the internal access panel isn’t responding.”

the speaker remains silent.

soldier boy walks past you and lowers himself onto the couch.

you look over your shoulder. “it’s not opening.”

“door’s been locked every other time i tried it.”

“yeah, but it’s supposed to open for me.”

“special day.”

you pull your tablet back out and wake the screen. the evaluation notes are still open, but a small symbol in the top corner has changed. offline. you swipe down to refresh the connection. nothing.

the internal employee system refuses to load. security communications produce a blank white screen. even the building map stalls before replacing itself with an error notice.

you take out your phone. no signal.

“do you know why this is happening?”

soldier boy looks at you from the couch. “you’re my point of contact with the outside.”

“i’m aware.”

“then if anybody knows, it should be you.”

you give him a look and turn back to the door. the panel doesn’t respond to the emergency release request either. you press it twice, then hold the button down longer, as though determination might be enough incentive to make it work.

every light in the suite shuts off. the television dies. the refrigerator stops humming. the access panel goes black beneath your fingers. morning light continues pouring through the sealed windows, pale and unobstructed, keeping the room from going dark. still, the sudden silence makes something inside you drop.

then the air conditioning cuts out. 

the little sound that leaves the back of your throat isn’t quite a gasp. not quite a whine either. it’s something strangled and embarrassingly small that you’d deny making under oath.

your shoulders drop with it. 

soldier boy’s expression changes, although not by much. the amusement remains, but his attention sharpens as he takes in your face, your hand still resting uselessly against the dead panel. “don’t worry,” he says. “if something bad’s outside, it’s not getting in.”

you stare at him.

the walls are reinforced. the windows don’t open. the door has several inches of metal inside it and was specifically designed to keep the most dangerous man in the building contained.

he spreads one hand. “i’m not the bad. i’m perfectly obedient.”

“yeah, well—” you swallow, your voice thinner than you want. “i’d feel better if the shrink had already given you the green smiling face and a lollipop for good-not-crazy behavior.”

his mouth curves. “you think i’d get a lollipop?”

“not anymore.”

you look back at the door and try the panel again despite the screen being completely dead. nothing.

this is fine. not good, obviously. inconvenient. possibly an indication that something’s gone wrong elsewhere in the tower, but there’s emergency generators, redundant systems, trained security personnel, an entire department devoted to imagining disasters and designing procedures that ensure executives survive them. you simply aren’t sure whether executive liaisons are included in that arrangement.

you can handle small spaces. elevators have never bothered you. trains are fine. crowded rooms are irritating but manageable. there’s a significant difference, however, between choosing to remain somewhere and discovering the room has mechanically decided you aren’t allowed to leave.

you press the communication button again.

“it’s still dead,” soldier boy says.

“i know.”

“then why keep touching it?”

“because someone might restore the system.”

“you think you’ll miss it?”

you step away from the panel before you can press it a third time.

the suite seems smaller now. irrationally so, because the windows still stretch nearly from floor to ceiling and the living area remains larger than your entire apartment. but none of that matters when the door won’t open.

you cross to the windows and look down at the city. traffic continues moving. there are no visible crowds spilling from the building, no smoke, no aircraft circling the tower. from this height, everything looks infuriatingly normal.

“can you see anything?” you ask.

“buildings.”

you glance back. he’s stretched one arm across the back of the couch, entirely untroubled.

“couple clouds.” he adds.

“you’re being very helpful.”

“you keep asking questions you can answer yourself.”

your phone still has no signal. the time remains visible, at least. eight forty-seven. thirteen minutes until the evaluation. you send a message to the psychologist anyway. it sits beneath your thumb with a thin gray line beside it.

not delivered.

you try security. then the administrative desk. then the number edgar’s office gave you for urgent escalation.

nothing leaves the phone.

“they know we’re in here,” you say, mostly to yourself. “the schedule’s logged. security was supposed to escort us. someone will notice.”

soldier boy grunts. you start pacing between the windows and the table. the silence follows you.

without the ventilation, the room’s already losing its artificial chill. sunlight gathers across the floor and warms the dark surface beneath your shoes. it shouldn’t be happening this quickly. perhaps you only notice because the air stopped moving.

you check your phone again. eight fifty-one.

at the door, the screen continues dead. no response.

your chest feels slightly too tight and each breath requires attention, which makes you notice it more, which makes the next one worse.

soldier boy watches you scan the panel with a badge that cannot possibly work without power.

“sit down.”

“i’m fine.”

“you’re wearing a path into the floor.”

“i’m trying to decide what the emergency procedure is.”

“thought you went to school for this.”

“communications. not containment architecture.”

“useful degree.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t look sorry.

you return to the table and set your phone down, but remain standing beside the chair. the useless tablet lies next to it, reflecting your face back at you on the black screen.

“strip poker,” soldier boy says.

you scoff. “absolutely not.”

“regular poker, then.”

“i’m not gambling with you.”

“scared?”

“smart.” you fold your arms. “i don’t know how to play.”

he makes an incredulous sound. “bullshit.”

“well, i’m not a mobster.”

his brows lift. “you think only mobsters play poker?”

“a lot of people don’t know how to play poker,” you say, defensive before you can stop yourself.

soldier boy rises from the couch. “i’ll teach you.”

you open your mouth.

“sit down. now.”

he crosses to one of the cabinets near the television and opens it. vought stocked the suite with board games, books, playing cards, and several other optimistic suggestions for how a man might entertain himself while being held against his will.

he takes out a deck and looks at you expectantly.

the door remains locked. the tablet remains offline. the air’s getting warmer.

you pull out a chair. “don’t start thinking that worked because you used the voice.”

he looks victorious as he sits across from you and tears the plastic from the deck.

“five-card draw,” he shuffles with the unconscious ease of someone who’s handled cards most of his life. they pass between his hands in smooth, quick movements, edges making a soft snapping sound against one another. you watch despite yourself.

“you deal five cards,” he says. “keep what you want. throw away what you don’t. get replacements. best hand wins.”

“best according to whom?”

“the rules.”

“right. sounds fair.”

he deals the cards between you. “look at them.”

you pick yours up.

“not like that.” he actually scolds you. “i can see half your hand.”

you pull the cards closer to your chest. “stop looking.”

“hard not to when you’ve got them on display like that.”

“i hate this game.”

“you don’t know this game.”

he leans forward before you can stop him. one hand closes lightly around the edge of your cards, tilting them inward while the other adjusts your fingers along the bottom.

“hold them here.”

his fingertips brush yours. the contact is brief; barely more than the drag of warm skin across your knuckles as he corrects the angle. your fingers stiffen anyway.

soldier boy’s eyes lift to your face. “like that.”

you pull the cards back. “you could’ve explained it.”

“just did.”

you look down quickly, arranging the cards into a crooked fan. two red ones. three black. “what am i looking for?”

he lists the hands in order. high card. pair. two pair. three of a kind. straight. flush. full house. four of a kind. straight flush.

you make it as far as three of a kind before the rest begin blending together. “why does a straight beat three of a kind?”

“because it does.”

“that isn’t a reason.”

“you want the history of poker or you want to play?”

“i’m questioning the integrity of the system.”

“you work for vought.”

“i’m experienced.”

his mouth twitches.

you discard three cards because he tells you that keeping a seven, a four, and a two is useless. your replacements are no better.

soldier boy lays down a pair of queens.

you arrange your own cards on the table. “i have a king.”

“you have nothing.”

“a king is something.”

he gathers the cards. “not enough.”

“that was a practice round,” you decide.

“you lost.”

“i’m learning.”

“still lost.”

the next hand goes almost as badly, though this time you manage a pair. soldier boy has three tens and takes entirely too much pleasure in explaining that they beat your sixes.

you check your phone between deals. nine-oh-two. the evaluation has officially started without you. or it hasn’t started at all. you have no way to know. 

your thumb hovers over the blank signal bars. soldier boy taps the deck against the table. “cards.”

“i’m checking whether the building’s reconnected.”

“it hasn’t.”

“you don’t know that.”

he nods toward the ceiling. you follow his gaze to the camera fixed inside the dark vent.

“camera’s dead,” he says.

you look more closely. “how can you tell?”

“can’t hear it move.”

you glance at the other camera. then at him. “you can hear them moving?”

“every time they follow me.”

the knowledge sits strangely between you. 

you’ve known the room was monitored. edgar reconfirmed it less than two hours ago. knowing soldier boy’s been listening to the cameras watch him feels different.

you turn your attention back to the cards. “deal.”

he does.

the third hand lasts longer. soldier boy teaches you how to discard without revealing what you’re collecting and explains bluffing after catching you staring too intently at a card you clearly want him to believe is important.

“you’re making a face.”

“what face?”

“the one you make when you think you’re being clever.”

“you’ve known me for three days.”

“long enough.”

you narrow your eyes and push two cards toward him. he gives you replacements.

soldier boy studies you instead of his hand. his gaze moves slowly across your face, watching for every shift in your expression. the slightest pull of your mouth. the way your eyes move between the cards. the small crease that appears between your brows when you’re trying too hard not to react.

“you’ve got a pair,” he concludes.

“do i?”

“a low pair.”

you arrange your features into what you hope is complete indifference. “you seem very confident.”

“you looked disappointed when you picked up the first card.”

“maybe i wanted you to think that.”

“you didn’t.”

his eyes remain fixed on you with irritating concentration. you refuse to look away, even as the attention begins warming your cheeks more effectively than the dead air conditioning.

“now you’re trying not to blush.”

“i’m trying to decide whether staring at employees is covered under your current restrictions.”

“you’re bad at lying.”

“i’m not lying.”

“that's worse, then.”

you hold his gaze and place your cards facedown against the table. “are we playing poker or are you conducting the psychological evaluation yourself?”

his mouth pulls into a grin. “you’d fail.”

“for what?”

“poor impulse control.”

“i haven’t threatened anyone with bodily harm. ever.”

“the day’s young.”

you force your face still as he draws one replacement card. this time, you don’t look at your hand again. you don’t touch the edges. don’t glance toward the card you discarded. nothing.

soldier boy’s eyes narrow.

“you can’t read me.” you perk.

“sure i can.”

“what do i have?”

he leans back in his chair, letting his gaze travel over you once more. “two pair.”

you lay down your cards. three sevens.

his brows lift before he shows his own hand. a straight.

“oh, fuck this game.”

his laugh comes low and pleased as he reaches for the cards. “language, liaison.”

the title loses some of its shape halfway out of his mouth.

you’re already pulling your blazer from your shoulders, the room having grown too warm to tolerate the extra layer any longer. the fabric slides down your arms, revealing the fitted blouse beneath it. you hadn’t thought anything of the shirt when you dressed this morning, but now the material feels too close, the buttons across your chest pulling slightly against the bra underneath whenever you move.

soldier boy sits straighter. his attention drops with absolutely no attempt at subtlety.

“my eyes are up here,” you warn.

his grin arrives immediately. “thought you said we weren’t playing strip poker.”

a laugh escapes you before you can stop it. genuine, surprised, made worse by the triumphant look on his face. “we aren’t.” you drape the blazer over the back of your chair. “the ac’s broken.”

“convenient.”

“that isn’t how this works.”

“could be.”

“it isn’t.”

he begins dealing again, eyes returning to the front of your blouse often enough that pretending not to notice becomes its own exhausting task.

“cards,” you remind him.

“looking at them.”

“the ones in your hands.”

“got those too.”

you shake your head, but the laugh is still caught somewhere behind your lips.

the next round lasts longer. you discard cautiously, remembering his warnings about your face and the way you hold your cards. when he tries to study you again, you look back without moving a muscle.

“nothing,” he decides.

“is that your professional opinion?”

“high card, maybe.”

“you sound less confident.” you taunt. “perhaps i’ve developed an excellent poker face.”

“perhaps you’ve got shit.”

you lay down a full house.

for once, soldier boy’s expression goes completely blank. you look at his cards. one pair.

delight opens through you. “i won!”

“beginner’s luck.”

“you lost.”

“bad deal.”

“you dealt.” you let out a sound that sounds too close to a giggle.

his eyes narrow at your smile. then he pushes his chair away from the table and stands. your satisfaction falters when his hands catch the hem of his shirt.

“what are you doing?”

he pulls it over his head in one smooth movement. the shirt lands across the back of his chair.

“soldier boy—”

he sits again, bare-chested and shameless, sunlight catching along his shoulders and the broad planes of his chest. “you won.”

“we are not playing strip poker.”

“could’ve said something.”

“i have. repeatedly.”

“must not’ve been listening.”

“put it back on.”

“too hot.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

his gaze drops briefly to your blouse again. “you started it.”

you press your lips together, fighting another laugh as he gathers the cards.

“deal,” you tell him.

his smile turns insufferably pleased. by the time the deck’s been shuffled and dealt more times than you can count, the psychological evaluation would’ve ended long ago. neither of you mentions it.

the suite’s grown heavy with heat. sunlight stretches farther across the floor, warming the leather furniture and every surface it reaches. you abandon the dining chair first, carrying your cards to the couch. soldier boy follows with the deck and sits opposite you at the coffee table until the rules gradually become less important than accusing each other of cheating.

eventually, even that loses momentum.

you stretch out along the couch, one arm folded beneath your head. your hair spills loose across the cushions behind you, blazer still abandoned over the dining chair, tablet dark inside your bag. the sealed room no longer feels as though it’s shrinking, though the dead air remains thick against your skin.

soldier boy’s moved to the drinks cabinet. he turns one of the electronic red tags around the neck of a bourbon bottle, testing the seam with his thumbnail.

“think i can tear this off and have a drink?”

you don’t answer.

the tag clicks softly as he twists it again. he calls your name. when silence follows, he turns to see what you’re doing.

you’re watching him from the couch, face more serious than it’s been since the card game began. “soldier boy...”

his hand stills around the bottle.

“i’ll tell you about homelander.”