🪽

Working with the Boys was never pleasant, and no matter how far you ran, they always dragged you back. Yet here you were, holed up in a dingy motel room that reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey.

You’d been sent to “babysit” Soldier Boy weeks ago, and somehow it ended with you screaming his name into the dark. But tonight was different. Tonight, the weight in your chest told you the unthinkable—you’d fallen for him.

The joint passed between you, smoke curling in the dim light. Your head buzzed, eyes glassy, but his nearness cut sharper than any high. His hand hovered close, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to reach or retreat.

Ben had faced bullets, fire, entire wars—but the silence between you scared him more than any battlefield.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered, voice low, almost pleading.

“Like what?” you asked, brushing his knuckles as you gave the joint back.

“Like I’m worth a damn.”

The words were gravel, heavy with years he’d never get back. And still, when your hand brushed his, he didn’t pull away. For once, the great Soldier Boy let himself be held together instead of falling apart.