Meh.

The letter sat on your coffee table. Your name and the words “hereby tender my resignation” staring up at you. Your signature at the bottom looked shaky, like your hand had tried to change its mind halfway through. You were curled on the couch in your cat pajamas, little cartoon kittens all over them, utterly ridiculous for someone who’d spent the afternoon coming apart in a supe’s penthouse. Your hair was damp, your skin clean, but you still felt… wrong. Like you’d left parts of yourself behind in his hands, in that room and in the way his voice had sounded when he said this isn’t over.

You pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, staring at the letter. Marmalade hopped up onto the cushion beside you, circled once, and flopped down with her back pressed to your thigh, purring like everything was fine.

“I can’t go back”, you whispered. “I can’t— I can’t be around him and pretend this is just… scheduling or stupid talking points”. Your heart stuttered, remembering the way his hips had moved.

If you quit now, maybe you could still be… normal. Take another PR job. Write bland press releases about soup or tech companies. Go back to being invisible. Forget that, for a few awful, perfect minutes, a man like him had looked at you like you were the only thing holding him together.

Your chest hurt. You pressed your forehead to your knees while your eyes were burning, and tried not to have a full-blown panic attack on your secondhand couch.

Tomorrow, you’d go to HR and put the letter down. Caldwell would be pissed, but he’d deal. Vought would assign someone else. Ben would… lose his shit. You knew that. But you wouldn’t have to see it. You could be gone.

You were in the middle of imagining exactly how badly he’d react when a knock came. A loud one. You jolted so hard Marmalade shot off the couch with her tail puffed and started sprinting under the coffee table. Your heart launched itself into your throat, because nobody knocked like that. Not your neighbors, not delivery guys. The door rattled in its frame, dust shivering down from the cheap molding. You stared at it frozen. Another round, even harder. “Open up”, his voice snapped through it. “Before I fucking kick it in”. You went cold. Then hot. Then both.

Your first instinct was to pretend you weren’t home. Lights off, TV off, dead silent. Maybe he’d think he got the wrong apartment. Maybe he’d— “Doll, I can hear you fucking panicking” he said very impatient. “And your cat too. Door. Now”.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Oh my god”, you whispered to yourself.

He sounded like he was about two seconds from putting a you-shaped hole in the door. “Doll”, he barked and his knuckles hit the wood one more time. “Either you open this, or I’m remodeling your fucking hallway”.

You swallowed hard while walking to the door. Your fingers were fumbling with the chain before you finally got it free and eased the door open just enough to peek out. He took up the entire frame. He was still in the suit. The real suit. Soot streaked across his jaw. There was a smear of something darker drying on his collar and one forearm.

“Hi”, you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes swept over you in one quick pass. His mouth twitched, something almost like fondness flickering there before the other emotions shoved it aside. “You gonna let me in”, he said, “or you gonna make your neighbors hear this conversation?”.

That did it. The idea of Mrs. Flores from 3b hearing any of this through the stairwell made your skin crawl. You opened the door wider and stepped back. He brushed past you, bringing the smell of metal and sweat with him.

Up close, the damage looked worse. A thin tear in the fabric at his side, scorched edging. A spatter of dried red was on one thigh that definitely wasn’t his, because he was moving too easily for that.

“You’re hurt”, you blurted.

He looked down, then snorted. “This? Please. I’ve had hangnails worse than that”. He looked up again, eyes already scanning past you, into the room. “Where is it?”.

Your pulse jumped. “Where is what?”.

He gave you a look. “Your fucking love letter. Few too many big words. Smells like ink and shitty decisions”. You froze.

His gaze cut to the coffee table. To the single sheet of paper lying there. He didn’t go for it. Didn’t even move his feet, only his jaw tightened. “Thought so”, he said.

You suddenly wanted very badly to be back inside your own skin instead of standing there in cat pajamas in front of a bloody superhero looking at your resignation letter like it had personally insulted him.

“I… haven’t turned it in yet,” you said, defensive even to your own ears.

“Yeah, no shit”, he said. “Kinda hard to quit when you’re still busy shaking in your living room”.

You flinched. “How did you even—”.

“I know you".

You swallowed and wrapped your arms around yourself. “You shouldn’t be here”, you whispered. “You should be… resting. Or debriefing. Or whatever it is you do after…”. You gestured vaguely at the soot and cracked armor and blood.

He watched the movement, then shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll live”. His eyes pinned you in place. “You, on the other hand, were five minutes away from nuking my sanity, so. Priorities”.

Your throat closed. “Don’t say things like that”.

“Like what?”, he demanded. “Like I just ran through hell and the only thing spinning my head is the idea of you handing that in and disappearing? ‘Cause that’s the truth, sweetheart. Doesn’t get less true ‘cause it scares you”.

You swallowed, looking down at your feet. Your toes curled on the cold floor. “I can’t do… earlier”, you said quietly. “Not again. I can’t handle…”. You flushed hard, the memory of his hands, your own body, crashing over you. “…all of it. You. The job. The way it makes me feel”.

“The way what makes you feel”, he asked, stepping closer, “me touching you, or me not?”.

You went pink to your ears. “Ben”.

He stopped himself then, exhaling hard as if wrestling something back down. “Okay”, he said, rubbing a hand over his face, smearing soot a little more. “I’m not here to drag your cute little ass back and pick up where we left off”.

Your brain shorted. “You’re… not?”, you said suspicious.

He gave a short, half-wild laugh. “Trust me, I want to. But every time I get near you lately you look like you’re torn between kissing me and jumping out a fucking window”. His gaze softened just a fraction. “I’m not gonna push you ’til you break”.

“You keep saying that”, you whispered. “That you won’t hurt me. But you’re… you. You hurt people just by being in the room. You scare them. You scare me”.

He went very still at that. Not in the brittle explosive way you’d seen in other people before they yelled. This was colder and sadder. His jaw flexed like he’d just taken a hit. He looked away, to the peeling paint by your kitchen light switch, then to the IKEA bookshelf you’d put together crooked, anywhere but your face. “Yeah. I know”.

You shifted your weight. “That’s… kind of the problem”, you said softer. “I’m… not like you. I’m not built for… high-stakes anything. I do emails. PowerPoints. I talk to my cat”.

“You also walk into my suite when I’m coked out and pissed off and tell me no daytime talk shows”, he said. “Everyone else gets sent in with a team and exits pre-planned. You just… show up. Tiny and shaking and still standing”. His mouth pulled into a crooked not-smile. “Don’t sell yourself short”.

Your chest squeezed and you dropped your eyes, blinking hard. “It doesn’t feel like standing”, you whispered. “It feels like I’m going to fall apart all the time and you just… happen to be there when I do”.

“Yeah”, he said quietly. “And I kinda like being there, if that’s not obvious”. That didn’t help.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. “Which is exactly why I wrote that”, you said, nodding at the letter. “Because I can’t think straight around you anymore. I can’t tell where my job ends and… whatever this is begins. And if I screw up? People get hurt. You get hurt. I can’t have that on me”.

He studied you. “So your solution”, he said slowly, “is to run. Pretend the last weeks didn’t happen. Pretend I’ll just… go back to being the asshole in the suit who doesn’t listen to anyone”.

You fidgeted while your guilt started pricking. “You’d be safer that way”.

His laugh was short and grim. “Sweetheart, I have been unsafe since 1935". He shook his head. “Not lettin’ you blame yourself for shit I was already doing before you were born”.

“Then what do you want?”, you asked helpless. “Because I can’t be your… I don’t even know. I can’t be the only thing standing between you and a crater. That’s too much”.

He looked at you like he wanted to argue. Then he visibly forced himself to swallow it. “What I want”, he said finally, voice low, “is you not to disappear without giving this a fucking shot. A real one. Not this halfway professional-only bullshit where we pretend I’m just your calendar with muscles”.

Your heartbeat stuttered. “Ben—”.

“I know you’re scared”, he went on. “Hell, I’m fucking-… You think I like the idea that one little PR girl can get under my skin more than a goddamn rocket launcher?”. He huffed a humorless laugh. “It’s fuckin' pathetic”. He blew out a breath and finally closed the distance between you. When he was right in front of you, he stopped. “Alright”, he said. “You want the truth? Here it is. I don’t want a fucking Handler. I’ve had those. They were leashes. I want…”. He grimaced, like the word tasted strange. “I want you. And that messes with my head. So congratulations. You freak me out just as much as I freak you out. Happy?”.

You let out a small, helpless laugh. “No?”. He snorted. “Yeah. Me neither”.

Silence stretched.

You shifted your weight again, then forced yourself to look up at him. “What if I screw it up?", you asked. “What if I run, or… just can’t do it?”.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Then we slow down. Or we yell at each other and fuck. I dunno, doll, we figure it out. You don’t gotta have a five-year plan for this”.

You stared at him. “Since when do you believe in ‘figuring it out’?”.

He made a face. “Since someone started crying in my elevator and I realized I’d rather eat glass than make her do it again”. His eyes dropped, flicking briefly over your pajama pants. “Even when she’s dressed like a kindergarten field-trip chaperone”.

You glanced down at the cats with heated cheeks. “They’re comfortable”.

“Yeah”, he muttered, something warm in his tone, “I bet”.

You swallowed. Your heart was still racing, but it wasn’t pure panic now. It was… something else. Something that felt like standing on the edge of a pool, deciding whether or not to jump.

“You’re really not here to…”, you gestured vaguely, face heating, “…do anything?”.

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t say that”. At your alarmed look, he held up both hands. “I’m not here to push anything. Big difference. You want me to stay on the other side of the room, I will. You want a fucking hug, you get a hug. You wan´t me to pop that cherry? My fucking pleasure”.

Your gaze snagged on his hands, big and empty and strangely controlled. Your cheeks went even more pink. “…a hug sounds kind of nice”, you admitted quietly.

He went very still, like you’d said something much bigger. Then, carefully, he stepped in, wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, snug but not crushing, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades. You fit there obscenely well.

Up close like this, the smell of him was… a lot. Smoke and metal and sweat, that harsh tang of burnt concrete and something coppery underneath. It soaked into your clean skin, into your freshly showered hair, like he was overwriting the day whether you wanted him to or not.

“You know”, he rumbled eventually, voice vibrating through your ribs, “I did just get back from turning assholes into pavement art”.

You swallowed. “…I noticed”.

His hand slid a little lower between your shoulder blades. “Kinda unfair you’re all warm and clean and smellin’ like vanilla and I’m over here wearin’ whatever’s left of some guy’s spleen”.

You made a horrified noise into his shirt. “Ben”.

“What?”. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You wanted honesty”.

“You are getting me dirty”, you mumbled, pulling back half an inch and looking down at where his suit was pressed against your front. There were definitely new smudges on your cats now.

“Yeah”, he said utterly unbothered. “Best you’ve ever looked”.

Your face heated. “That is not a compliment”.

“Sure it is”. He tipped your chin up with a knuckle, meeting your eyes. Up close, you could see the streaks on his jaw, the tiny cut at his hairline, the tiredness thinking about settling in around his eyes but not quite there yet. “Means you’re mine”.

You opened your mouth, then shut it, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “You’re disgusting”, you whispered.

He smirked. “And you let me in anyway. What’s that say about you, sprinkler?”.

“That I make poor choices”, you said under your breath.

He huffed a laugh and then you saw that flicker again, that quick little glance down at your pajama top, then back up like he was reminding himself not to push. “C’mere”, he said, loosening his hold just enough to look you over. “Before I’ll ruin your whole kitten parade”.

You glanced down at yourself. “Damage is done”.

“Nah”, he said. “This is just level one. You keep me in this suit much longer, you’re gonna need to burn the whole outfit”.

You grimaced and he chuckled, finally stepping back a little. His gaze flicked toward your bathroom, then back to you. “You got towels?”.

You blinked. “Yeah?”.

“Good”. He hooked a thumb under one cracked shoulder pad, testing it. “’Cause if I sit on your couch in this, it’s never recovering. So you might wanna let me de-gore first”.

The word made you wince. “Can you… please not phrase it like that”.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go… freshen up”. He said it in a horrible fake-posh accent.

Your brain short-circuited for a second at the implication of him in your bathroom, in your tiny apartment, taking off that suit— You shoved the image away before your cheeks could catch up.

“Clean towels are on the shelf. Please don’t break the shower”, you said while backing up a little to give him space.

“No promises”, he muttered, already angling toward the doorway. He paused as he passed you, eyes catching on the new smudges on your pajamas. “You look good messy, by the way”.

“Go wash off your… organs”, you whispereds shyly.

Eventually, while Ben was in the shower, you crossed to the coffee table on autopilot. The paper felt heavier than it should when you picked it up. All those words that had felt so certain this afternoon looked flimsy now. Premature. You thought about him in the elevator, saying 'I’m not gonna hurt you' like he meant it more than he’d meant anything in years. About tonight and the fact that he came straight from hell to your crappy apartment, because he couldn’t stand the idea of you leaving without a fight. You thought about how it had felt, just now, with his arms around you and the way your body had gone quiet for the first time all day.

Your fingers crumpled the top corner of the letter. “Okay”, you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “Okay”. You tore it and carried the pieces to the trash, dropped them in, and shut the lid. “Fine”, you muttered at the air. “We… figure it out”.

-

A few weeks later, your world had gotten… different. Ben was everywhere. Not just in the literal, he-takes-up-the-entire-room way, though he did. But everywhere in the ways you’d never let yourself imagine before. You woke up tangled with him, legs over his, his hand on your hip, Marmalade’s tail flicking against your bare calf because she was jealous of the space he took in your bed.

He’d spent exactly one day pretending to take things slow after your first time. One. After that, it was like a switch flipped in him, like once he’d tasted softness he realized he’d starved for it all his life.

He was greedy for you, and he didn’t care who saw. Not Vought, not your neighbors, not the city through your living room window.

But it wasn’t just you he was greedy for. He was greedy for every part of you. The way you blushed when he teased you, the way you’d hide your face in his shoulder after a compliment, the way your hands trembled when you touched yourself in front of him for the first time, shivering and wide-eyed and trying to be brave for him.

And when he figured out just how deep your self-consciousness went, how quickly you’d hide from yourself if he let you, he decided that was one thing he wasn’t going to let stand.

Which is how you ended up here.

In his bed, knees tucked under you, blanket bunched at your hips. Ben behind you, hands bracing your thighs apart, his body pressed flush to your back. The big standing mirror across from the foot of the bed caught every inch of you both.

You’d protested, but he hadn’t listened.

“Look”, he murmured with his lips rough on your ear and one hand splayed low on your belly. “You spend all this time thinkin’ you’re not enough, or not pretty. Look at you now. Look how fuckin’ gorgeous you are”.

You tried to duck your head, but his other hand caught your jaw, tilting your face toward the mirror. His eyes met yours in the glass, bright and hot and so unguarded it made you ache.

“Ben”, you whispered, mortified at the sight of yourself.

He only grinned, hungry and soft all at once. “That’s it. See? That’s mine".

His hand slid from your jaw down the line of your throat until his palm rested between your shoulder blades. “Down, sweetheart”, he murmured. “Hands and knees for me”.

Your breath hitched. You hesitated half a heartbeat, but the way he said it, like it was a privilege he was asking, made your arms fold almost on their own. You sank forward and the blanket slipped away while your palms pressed into the cool sheets. The mirror caught how your back arched, your breasts swaying slightly with the movement and your thighs trembling as you settled on your knees.

Ben moved with you, never breaking contact. One big hand stayed splayed across your lower back, while the other guided your hips until you were exactly where he wanted: ass up, face angled toward the glass, eyes wide and glassy with nerves and want. “There we go”, he praised while settling behind you.

The heat of him blanketed your back, his chest brushing your spine as he leaned over you, surrounding you completely. You could feel him against the curve of your ass, but he didn’t push in yet. He just let you feel him, let the anticipation coil tighter.

“Look at you”, he said again, softer this time, almost awed. His hands smoothed up your sides, thumbs tracing the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips. “Look how pretty you are like this. All soft and open for me”.

You whimpered, tried to drop your head, but his fingers were already threading through your hair, gentle but firm, tipping your face back toward the mirror. “Uh-uh. Eyes up, baby. You don’t get to hide from this”. His voice dropped. “Watch what I do to you. Watch how fucking perfect you look taking me”.

He shifted behind you, one hand sliding down to grip himself, dragging the thick length of him through your slick folds, coating himself in you. Every pass over your clit made your hips jerk, a broken little sound spilling from your throat. “Ben—”. It came out a plea, while you weren’t even sure what for.

“I know”, he soothed, leaning down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades, then another, open-mouthed and hot. “I’ve got you”.

He lined up, the thick head nudging at your entrance, and paused. Just long enough for you to feel the stretch before he even moved. “Eyes on the mirror”, he ordered, voice strained now, like holding still was costing him. “Want you to see the exact second I make you mine again”.

Then he pushed in. Slow, watching your face in the glass as he sank deep. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, back arching sharper as he filled you inch by inch. The mirror showed everything: the way your thighs shook, the way your fingers clawed at the sheets and the way your body took him like it was made for it.

He groaned, bottoming out with a final roll of his hips that made you sob his name. “That’s it”, he rasped, both hands gripping your hips now, holding you steady. “Look at you. So fucking sweet, and you’re taking all of me”.

He drew back, almost all the way out, then slid home again, slow and deep, forcing you to watch every second. To watch the sight of him disappearing into you, the flushed, desperate girl in the mirror who didn’t look shy anymore, just undone and beautiful and his.

“Keep watching”, he growled, starting a steady rhythm while one hand slipped around to circle your clit in time with his thrusts. “Don’t you dare look away. I want you to see what I see every fucking time I’m inside you”. And you did. You couldn’t have looked away if you tried.

-

Three months later, the gala dress lived in the back of your closet in a garment bag that smelled faintly of his cologne. The diamonds came out only for cameras. The cardigans stayed. You wore both, your softness and your shine, depending on the day and what the world demanded.

Vought tried, of course. There were meetings with too many bullet points, memos about “optics”, a brief-but-memorable moment where Legal asked if you could “refrain from being seen breathing in photos with Soldier Boy”. You smiled, sent back edits, and stood at Ben’s shoulder anyway.

He learned, too. Not the PR stuff (God help anyone who tried), but you. How to say please without choking on it. How to pull back when your shoulders crept up to your ears. How to ask, quietly, “good?” when the color drained from your face, and how you’d nod (yes, slow down) until the room felt breathable again. He never stopped being himself. He was still brash, dangerous and so damn loud. But with you, there was a lane carved through all that noise that no one else got to use.

At home, the world got smaller in the best way. Marmalade made peace with the intruder and began sleeping on his sternum.

Work found a new equilibrium. You drafted statements with fewer apologies and more truth. He stopped torching rooms just to feel the heat.

You never turned in a resignation letter. You did, however, rewrite your job description in a way that made HR blink and then sign it because nobody wanted to be the one to tell Soldier Boy he couldn’t have the handler he’d finally started listening to.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

You barely slept. Instead you’d stared at the ceiling. When you did drift off, it was shallow and anxious with images looping in your head of your lips on his. Or the heat of his palm at your waist. The feel of him when your hand slipped lower ad the look on his face when you bolted.

You showered twice, because you couldn’t get the smell of him off your skin, no matter how hard you scrubbed. You had put the green dress back in the garment bag and folded the diamonds into a sock drawer.

For work you pulled on your favourite cardigan and a black skirt that hit below the knee. Nothing that hugged or shone or could be mistaken for “trying”.

During that, Marmalade watched you from the kitchen table, very judgmental and unimpressed. “Don’t look at me like that”, you muttered while buttering half a bagel. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—”. You cut yourself off, remembering the press of Ben’s lips and the way his hands had trembled when he held you. Your stomach twisted and you shoved the bagel aside.

Half an hour later, you got to Vought Tower early than Caldwell, earlier than the security desk was used to seeing you. You hid at your desk, answering emails, rescheduling Soldier Boy’s gym slot, triple-checking press releases, anything to stay busy, anything to avoid the memory of last night. Any time a bootstep echoed in the hall, your heart leapt and fell in the same second.

Eventually Trish’s bag hit her desk with a thud big enough to make your pens roll and you jump.

“Morning, sunshine”, she said, dropping into her chair across from you and immediately unlocking her computer with one hand while peeling off her coat with the other. “You look like you saw a ghost”.

You kept your eyes on your monitor. “Just… tired”.

She squinted at you. “You’re never this early. Did the museum call you in at dawn? Did he make you polish his shield or something?”.

Your brain helpfully chose that exact moment to flash you an image of your hand on something very much not his shield and heat shot up your neck. “No. It was just… a long night”.

“Aha”, Trish rolled herself closer. She lowered her voice. “Okay, enough. Spill. You went to the gala with him. I saw the pictures. You looked hot, by the way, don’t argue with me. So? Was he awful? Did he punch the VP? Did you have to tase him?”.

You swallowed, eyes glued to an email you weren’t reading. “He didn’t punch anybody”.

“That’s… honestly disappointing”, she said. “But good for Legal, I guess. Did he at least embarrass himself? I’ve got twenty bucks on ‘calls someone a fucking pussy’ at a charity event”.

“Not really”, you murmured.

Her eyes lit up. “And? You’re being weird, why are you being weird? Oh my God, did he hit on you? Like, actually, not just the usual harassment?”.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Only your fingers tightened on your mouse until it squeaked.

Trish’s jaw dropped. “No way”.

“Nothing happened”, you said quickly. Way too quickly.

She leaned all the way over her desk now, invading your personal space with zero shame. “Okay, now I know something happened. You get all pink whenever you lie”.

“I do not—”. Whatever you were about to deny died on your tongue, because the energy in the bullpen shifted all at once, like someone had flipped a breaker. The hum of conversation dipped, the keyboard clacking slowed. Even people who pretended they were too cool to care went still in that particular way that meant supe in the vicinity.

Bootsteps. Your whole body recognized them before your brain did.

Trish’s eyes widened over your shoulder. “Oh, shit”, she whispered. “There we go".

You didn’t turn. You stared at your inbox like if you clicked fast enough you could open a portal and fall through it.

He stopped at the end of the aisle. “Morning”, Ben said.

A couple of people actually flinched. You made yourself look up.

He wasn’t in full gear, but he might as well have been. Dark green tactical jacket over a fitted black shirt, dark pants and some heavy boots. No shield, no gloves. It was the softer version of the suit they put on posters, the one for “serious interviews” where they wanted him dangerous but not too dangerous.

His eyes were clear enough to tell you he hadn’t hit anything too hard this morning. His gaze landed on you and stayed there.

“Hi”, you managed, but your voice came out thinner than you liked.

Trish swiveled in her chair so fast it squeaked, pasting on a bright, professional smile. “Good morning, sir”.

Ben’s eyes slid to her for half a second. “Yeah”, he said. “You’re… the friend, right”.

Trish blinked. “Uh. Yes?”.

He hummed, filed that away, and promptly lost interest in her. His attention snapped back to you like it hadn’t actually left. “Didn’t see you upstairs yet”, he said way too casual.

You swallowed. “I, um… wanted to get through the late night emails”.

He let his gaze flick down and back up, taking in the cardigan and the way you were about three inches shorter without the heels. “Back to uniform, huh”, he said. “Shame”.

You felt your face get hot. “It’s… work”.

“Last night was work”, he countered easily. “This is… overtime”.

Trish made a strangled sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Ben ignored it and leaned his hip against the corner of your desk, close enough that you could smell the familiar mix of smoke and cologne. “We got shit to go over”, he said.

You clung to that word like a lifeline. “Debrief. Right. I can send you a calendar invite for—”.

“Now”, he said.

Your heart misfired. “Now?”.

He tilted his head, studying your face. “You too busy, doll?”.

You opened your mouth. You had emails, drafts. A to-do list long enough to drown in. But none of that mattered. “No”, you whispered.

He straightened and pushed off your desk. “Then let’s go”. You hesitated with your fingers still on your keyboard.

He dropped his voice, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that only you could hear the next part. “You ran outta my car like I had a fucking bomb strapped to my dick”, he murmured. “We’re not pretendin’ that didn’t fucking happen”.

Your lungs forgot their job for a second. You darted a glance around. No one was close enough to hear, but they were close enough to watch and half the bullpen was doing a terrible job of pretending not to. And by now, Trish’s eyes were the size of dinner plates.

Ben straightened again. “Bring your little tablet, sweetheart. We’ll talk upstairs”.

You fumbled for your tablet, hit save on a document you hadn’t edited and stood on legs that felt like borrowed furniture. Ben stepped back just enough to let you out from behind the desk, then fell into step beside you without waiting to see if you’d keep up. You did. The alternative was… worse.

“Shit”, Trish mouthed as you passed. You wished you could disappear into your cardigan.

You walked side by side toward the elevator while you stared straight ahead. “We don’t… have to talk about it”, you said, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah”, he said. “We do”.

He hit the call button with two knuckles, and the elevator instantly slid open. Ben stepped inside, his broad frame filling the doorway as if it had been built around him. Then he turned just enough to glance back at you. His hand came out casually, as though he were simply steadying you as you crossed the gap, but his palm brushed the small of your back as you stepped past. Two women by the bullpen entrance sucked in matching little breaths, like they’d just seen something indecent. Their eyes went wide, one’s mouth actually dropped open a little.

You shuddered as Ben let his hand fall away, then hit the top-floor button. The doors slid shut, cutting off the murmur of voices outside. You stared straight ahead at the brushed metal panel, your reflection warped and pale with eyes too big. Your heart was racing. Not just fast, wild. Your chest hurt with it. Your palms were damp on the smooth plastic of the tablet. Your throat burned. And he could hear it. You knew he could hear it.

You tried to swallow it down. Tried to breathe quiet, even breaths like HR videos told you to. Instead, your lungs stuttered, catching on the tight, ugly knot of fear and humiliation and leftover heat in your chest.

What if he was mad? What if last night had just been another story for him, and now you’d messed up the only thing you were good at, your job? What if he decided you were more trouble than you were worth?

Your eyes blurred. No. No, no, not here. You blinked hard, looking up at the little red numbers ticking higher: 73, 74, 75. They doubled, smeared. You dragged in a breath that shook on the way out.

“Jesus”, he muttered, not unkindly. “You gonna fucking pass out on me?”.

You shook your head. It was all you could manage. If you opened your mouth, it wouldn’t be words that came out. It would be the panic sitting in your throat like a fist. Your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet. The air felt too thin and too thick at the same time.

“Hey”, he said. Just that. But your lungs locked. Every ugly what if slammed into you at once. What if he is mad. What if he does hurt you. What if you pushed too far and now you’re just another story, another body, another fun little incident report for PR to spin.

You pressed back against the wall without meaning to, shoulders flattening against cool metal. Your breath started coming faster, shorter, catching on the jagged edge of fear. Your eyes burned and the red numbers blurred again.

Whatever he’d been about to say died in his throat. “Whoa”, he said softer. “Hey. Look at me”.

Your gaze skittered sideways, then up, like it had been yanked on a string.

He wasn’t smirking. No lazy amusement, no mean little curl of his mouth. His brows were drawn together and his eyes sharp in a way that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with alarm. “You think I’m gonna hit you or somethin’?”, he asked low but weirdly careful.

You didn’t answer. But your body did. Your shoulders drew in even tighter, chin dipping, every muscle trying to make you smaller.

“Fuck”. He lifted his hand and you flinched so hard it made a tiny sound in the back of your throat. He froze with his hand still in the air, palm out like I surrender. “Okay”, he said, more to himself than to you. He dropped his hand deliberately, fingers spreading at his side. “Alright. I’m not touching you. Just listen”.

The elevator hummed past another floor. You stared at him with your chest shuddering, and tears finally spilling hot over your lower lashes.

“I’m not gonna fucking hurt you”, he said, enunciating each word like he was pushing it into your skull. “You hear me? I’m not mad. I don’t kill people for kissing me. That’s not a fucking thing”.

Your breath hitched. “You— you do kill people”.

“Yeah. Not you”.

He shifted his stance, bracing one hand against the opposite wall so the car rocked just barely. Not trapping you, he kept his arm high, giving you a clear path if you wanted it. Just grounding himself. “You think I’d drag you into my car, put diamonds on you, walk you around in front of every rich cocksucker in New York and then snap your neck over one little panic run?”, he asked, something rough and incredulous in his voice. “C’mon, doll. Give me a little credit”.

A wet, choked sound escaped you that might’ve been half a laugh, half a sob. You pressed your wrist to your mouth, mortified. His eyes tracked that and softened around the edges. "You’re really leakin’, huh”.

You sniffed, mortified. “I’m s-sorry, I just—”.

“Don’t apologize for cryin’”, he cut in, frowning like that was what offended him most. “You’re allowed to freak out, sprinkler”.

You blinked. “Sprin…kler?”.

His mouth twitched. “Yeah. Turn the pressure up a little and you start mistin’ everywhere”.

“That’s… a terrible nickname”, you managed.

“I didn’t say it was good branding”, he said. “But it fits”.

You huffed out a wet little almost-laugh and wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand. Your mascara smudged on your skin and his gaze tracked it, mouth flattening like he wanted to go back downstairs and rearrange some jaws. He let out a breath instead. “Alright. Listen up, ‘cause I’m only sayin’ this once”.

You went still.

“I am not going to kill you”, he said, slow and clear, like he was reading cue cards. “Not for crying, not for panicking, not for kissing me, not for—”, his mouth ticked, “—grabbing my dick like you were checking if it came fucking standard”.

Heat detonated in your face. “Ben”, you choked mortified. “Please don’t— don’t say it like that”.

“What?”, he asked. “You want me to call it somethin’ else? ‘Equipment’? ‘Patriotic hardware’?”.

You made a strangled noise and tried to disappear into the elevator wall. “Can we not talk about your… anything… in confined spaces?”.

He watched you for a second, the way your fingers dug into the edge of your tablet. “Relax”, he said. “I’m messin’ with you. Mostly”.

“Mostly?”, you repeated weakly.

“Yeah. ’Cause I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen”, he said. “You touched me. I liked it". His eyes flicked over your face, your swollen eyelids, the wet flush on your cheeks. “But I’m sure as hell not gonna punish you for it”.

Your throat clenched around whatever you meant to say. “I just… I shouldn’t have—”.

“Why not?”, he cut in. “You wanted to”.

You stared at a spot over his shoulder. “That’s not the point”.

“Yeah, it is”, he said. “That’s exactly the point. You wanted to. I wanted you to. Nobody forced anybody. Nobody got fucking hurt. That’s what matters”.

You shook your head, a tiny, helpless gesture. “I’m your assistant”.

“And?”, he said. “You think the job description says ‘no touching dicks’? Pretty sure it just says ‘answer emails and keep the supe from saying fuck on air’”.

“Ben”, you whispered clearly overwhelmed.

He watched your eyes shine again and the way you bit down on your lower lip like you could hold everything in if you just tried hard enough. “Hey”, he said quietly. “Sprinkler”.

You sniffed, hating how the nickname made your chest ache and ease at the same time. “…yeah?”.

“I’m not mad”, he said. “You hearin’ me? You’re shaking like you think I’m about to rip your head off. Only thing that pissed me off last night was you running before I could ask if you were okay”.

Your vision blurred again. “I panicked”.

“I know”, he said. “I got the message when you bailed like your fucking ass was on fire”. You let out another tiny laugh.

The doors slid open on 87. He didn’t touch you this time. Just tipped his chin toward the hallway and waited until your feet remembered how to move. You stepped out and he followed.

Inside his suite you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Okay. He wasn’t mad. You weren’t dead. He’d said it, out loud, in full sentences. You’d survived the elevator. In your head, that was the end of it. So you moved automatically toward your usual spot, the armchair across from the couch, setting your tablet down on the coffee table.

You were halfway into your seat when his voice came from behind you. “So”.

You froze, half-perched on the edge of the chair. He didn’t sound done. You turned slightly. He was just inside the door, hands braced on his hips, watching you like you were a problem set he was determined to solve.

Your stomach dipped. “So…?”.

He jerked his chin in the vaguest possible gesture. “Was it the size?”.

Your brain blue-screened. “What?”.

He shrugged, casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “You kiss me, you crawl into my lap, you get a handful—”, his eyebrows twitched, “—then you go full cartoon dust cloud out the door. I’m connectin’ dots, sweetheart”.

Blood roared in your ears. “Ben”.

He ignored the warning in your tone, taking a few unhurried steps closer. “Look, if that’s what freaked you—kinda fair. I’ve scared grown women who knew what they were doin’”.

“Can you not—”, you pressed your palms over your face, “—say things like that”.

“Why?”, he asked. “I’m tryin’ to troubleshoot here”.

You dragged your hands down your face and left them over your mouth, like that might hold the words in. “It’s not just…”, you flapped one hand vaguely in his direction, “that”.

His brows tipped up. “Uh-huh”.

“It’s everything”, you blurted, staring at the tablet instead of him. “You. Me. My job. The… car. The fact that you’re—”, your voice dipped, “—you”.

“Try again”, he said. “Use the big girl words”.

You sucked in a breath. It tasted like dust and his cologne and your own nerves. “You’re a supe”, you said quietly. “You’re… big, and loud, and everyone’s afraid of you, and you don’t care. And I’m…”. Your throat tightened. “I’m not built for that”.

He snorted. “You been in the same building as me the last eight weeks? You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch outta my way”.

“I flinch all the time”, you argued.

“Yeah”, he said. “And then you stay”. That shut you up for a second. You twisted your fingers together in your lap.

“I’m your assistant”, you said finally. “I schedule your interviews. I bring you coffee. I’m supposed to be… safe. Background. Not…”. Heat crept up your neck. “…not climbing into your lap like I know what I’m doing”.

“You think I expected you to?”. His mouth tugged. “You damn near knocked my soul out of my body with those little training-wheel kisses”.

You made a strangled sound. “Please don’t call them that”.

“Point is, you’re not the problem”.

You laughed once. “I really think I am”.

“Why?”, he pressed. “’Cause you blush if someone says ‘fuck’ too close to your coffee? That’s not a flaw, doll. That’s just…”, he searched for the word, grimaced, “…how you’re wired”.

You hesitated. Your chest squeezed. “If it were just that”, you said slowly, “maybe it’d be… less terrifying. But it’s not. It’s everything. You’re not just some guy at a bar. You’re Soldier Boy”. The name tasted ridiculous and heavy at once. “And I’m the girl who makes your calendars color-coded. It’s—”. You broke off. “It’s stupid”, you muttered. “And I really, really don’t want to talk about it anymore”.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, see, that’s the problem. You light a fuse and then you wanna walk away before it hits the charge”.

“I’m not—”, you started. “You are”, he said, but there wasn’t much heat in it. More… frustration. “You think I’m used to people freakin’ out before they really touch me? This is new. I’m tryin’ to figure out if it’s worth not… fucking this up”.

You dragged in a breath, steadier this time, and made yourself meet his eyes. “That’s exactly why”, you said softly. “Because if you get bored or annoyed or decide this was stupid, you’ll just… walk away. And I’ll still have to be here. With a job I need and a boss I can’t look at without remembering that I… that I climbed into his lap in a car like a… prostitute”.

His jaw clenched. “You’re not a prostitute”.

“That doesn’t change the math”, you said. “So I think—”. You swallowed. “I think we should keep it professional from now on”, you whispered.

He went still in that particular way you’d learned meant danger for other people. For you it just meant every ounce of focus came crashing down on your face. “Professional”, he repeated, flat.

You nodded with hands white-knuckled in your lap. “No… more of that. No touching. No kissing. No… whatever that was. Just work”.

His mouth did a strange little twitch, somewhere between a smirk and a flinch. “You’re really sayin’ that after you tried to crawl down my fucking throat last night”.

Your cheeks flared hot once more. “That’s why I’m saying it. It was a mistake. I can’t— I don’t want things to get messier than they already are”.

“So that’s it?”, he asked. “You freak out, you bolt, and the solution is you pretend you don’t want it and I pretend I don’t remember?”.

“Yes”, you said, too fast. “That’s exactly it. We can… move on. I can be useful without—”. “Without touching the fucking merchandise”, he cut in.

“That’s not funny”. “Not trying to be”, he snapped. Then bit it back, shutting his mouth like he’d almost let something slip he couldn’t afford.

You watched his throat work. His hands had curled into loose fists on his thighs. You could tell he was keeping his voice down on purpose. For you.

“Professional”, he said again, testing the shape of it in his mouth like it was a word in a language he didn’t speak. “You sure that’s what you want?”.

It was… the only thing that felt remotely safe, anyway. And also the last thing some traitorous part of you wanted. You nodded. “Yes”.

For a heartbeat, his ego flared across his face offended and wounded. No one said no to him. Not like this. His gaze darkened, heat flashing there, but it wasn’t desire this time. It was temper, bruised and coiling. He sucked in a breath and you saw the split second where he could choose to be the asshole the files said he was. But he didn’t. He exhaled slow instead, like it hurt. “Fine”, he said. “You want professional? You got it”.

Your chest loosened a fraction. “Okay. Thank you”.

-

Two weeks later, “professional” had turned into something weird and sideways.

You stuck to the rules. No more kisses. No more wandering hands. You never sat closer than one chair away in his suite if you could help it.

But your body did not stick to the rules. It betrayed you constantly.

A hand on the small of your back to steer you through a crowd? Your cheeks went hot. His thigh brushing yours on a studio couch? Your breath hitched. Him saying “good girl” when you got a network to agree to his terms? You had to pretend to cough so he wouldn’t hear how your heartbeat jumped.

If anything, it was worse than before. At least before you hadn’t known how his mouth felt.

He didn’t push. He didn’t touch more than he’d always touched. But he sure as hell didn’t keep his distance. If anything, he got clingier.

He wanted you in the gym when he did “controlled demos”, just in case PR had notes. He had you sit in on calls he didn’t need you for, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed while you did all the talking. He dragged you on a studio visit he could’ve done with three handlers and a driver, and then spent the ride back asking why the hell that anchor looked at you like that. He didn’t like people looking at you. You’d thought the Silvernet thing was a one-off. It wasn’t. Any time a supe’s eyes lingered a beat too long on your legs, or “accidentally” brushed your elbow and didn’t move fast enough, Ben moved. A look, a shoulder bump, a hand landing on your waist with casual precision—all it took. Space opened around you like a force field.

No one said anything directly. They didn’t have to. The bullpen did it for them. “Guaranteed, he’s fucking her”, someone from Legal whispered near the coffee machine one morning. “I heard she’s just there to keep him from losing it”, someone else said. "No one would fuck that", a third snorted.

You pretended not to hear. You got good at pretending.

-

One afternoon you lost track of time. You had four different email chains open, three drafts half-written and Caldwell on Slack sending you passive-aggressive “any update?” messages every twenty minutes about a press release Legal kept gutting. After lunch you’d told yourself you’d run upstairs in “just a sec”. “Just a sec” turned into an hour. Then ninety minutes.

You were buried enough that you didn’t feel the shift in the room until it was already too late. The bullpen noise thinned out, like always. “Uh oh”, Trish murmured under her breath. And you didn’t look up fast enough.

“Where the fuck have you been?”. His voice rolled over your shoulder, close enough that your skin prickled.

Your fingers froze over the keyboard. Slowly, like you were rewinding a horror movie, you turned.

He was standing at the end of your desk, one hand braced on the divider, the other on his hip.

“Hi”, you said, small. “I was just—”. “You were just not upstairs”, he said. “Again”.

You could feel your coworkers’ eyes ping-ponging between you and him. No one even pretended to work anymore. “I had emails”, you said swallowing. “Caldwell needed—”.

“Caldwell can send you an email in the morgue when his fucking heart gives out”, Ben cut in, rolling his eyes. “You’re supposed to come up after lunch”.

You tried again, keeping your voice small and careful. “Ben, I really just needed to finish—”. He huffed out something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You really just needed to finish pretending you’re invisible”. His gaze swept across your desk. “You hiding from me now, sprinkler?”.

That nickname, said right there, in front of half the floor, made the blood drain from your face. “Please don’t call me that here”, you whispered.

He ignored that completely. “You got a whole tower full of handlers and PR hacks”, he said. “But when I ask where my girl is, nobody’s got an fucking answer”.

The words landed in the room with the force of a thrown grenade. My girl. Two people across from Legal made actual sounds, a sharp little inhale and a muffled “holy shit”. Trish’s head snapped up, mouth open in a silent scream of gossip. Even the guy from Comms dropped his water bottle.

You felt it like heat under your skin, blooming up your neck, spreading across your cheeks, even tingling at the tips of your ears. You could feel your own blush rising, full-force and impossible to hide. Your face was on fire.

Ben caught your blush. His gaze locked on your face, tracking the color as it crept up your cheeks, then down your neck. The way your throat worked as you swallowed, the way you shifted in your chair and tried to disappear behind your tablet.

And it hit him hard. Right there in the PR bullpen, with half the floor watching, the flush that spread across your skin went straight to his groin. So sudden it almost made him bite down on a curse. You were all wide eyes and trembling hands and he wanted you. Fiercely. Now. More than anything, he wanted to drag you out of that desk chair and into his lap, to bury his face in the heat of your neck and make you blush even deeper.

He could feel himself thickening in his jeans. He shifted his weight, jaw flexing, trying to will himself back under control. The last thing he needed was a tent in his pants in the middle of your office.

But you didn’t notice. You were too busy staring at the keyboard, trying to breathe, your lips parted on a sound that never made it out. Ben almost groaned out loud at just the sight of you like this, all flustered and pink.

And his patience, never the most stable thing to begin with, snapped. He leaned in, his voice pitched low. “Get the fuck up. Five minutes. My suite”.

It wasn’t a bark, but it was the closest he’d ever come to raising his voice at you. The tone vibrated down your spine, all grit and barely leashed hunger. The air between you felt electric, dangerous, charged with something that wasn’t anger but still made your nerves light up like a warning.

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just straightened, jaw tight, eyes lingering on your blush as if memorizing it for later and then he turned and stalked out.

The bullpen stayed silent for a second longer. You couldn’t move. Your mind spun, scrambling to parse what you’d done wrong, if this was it, if he’d finally lost patience, if you’d actually crossed some invisible line. You had no idea it was because you’d undone him so badly he could barely see straight.

Trish mouthed something at you, probably are you okay?, but your ears were still ringing. Your hands shook as you grabbed your tablet, eyes burning with humiliation, confusion and a wild pulse of heat you didn’t know what to do with.

You stepped inside his suite, pulse still skipping from the elevator ride, hands locked tight around your tablet. You weren’t sure what you expected. Maybe him barking orders or maybe cold silence, maybe another snapped command.

Ben’s eyes landed on your face, your blush still high, your lashes still wet from the rush and your mouth parted in some lost attempt at an apology. He just crossed the room, caught your chin and tipping your face up rough, but not unkind. His mouth came down on yours with a force that made your knees buckle, a hungry, desperate kind of kiss that told you everything words couldn’t. His hand dropped your tablet to the couch, the other sliding around your waist, hauling you up on your toes.

You whimpered soft, caught-off-guard. He groaned into your mouth, his body pressing you back against the door so you could feel every inch of him, especially the heavy heat of his cock straining against his jeans.

“Fuck”, he growled, voice muffled in your hair. “You’re killin’ me, you know that? Look at you—still blushing’. You have any idea what that does to me?”.

Your answer was another soft, desperate noise, fingers curling in his shirt for balance as he kissed you again, deeper, licking into your mouth like he couldn’t get enough. Every little shiver, every whimper, only seemed to stoke the fire in him. His hands growing hungrier and his restraint thinning with every breath you let out against his lips.

You tried to pull back, just a fraction, just enough to catch your breath and murmur the word bubbling up in your throat. “Ben, st—”. But the syllable dissolved into nothing as he shifted his hips, grinding forward with deliberate pressure, his dick pressing right against your clit through the thin layers of fabric between you. The sensation hit you, blooming into heat that made your whole body arch involuntarily. You’d never felt a someone else there before. The ridge of him rubbing exactly where you ached most. It was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once, and instead of “stop”, what escaped your lips was a sweet, breathless moan that sounded nothing like protest.

Ben froze for a split second, his breath hot against your ear, then he let out a ragged chuckle. “Yeah? That’s what I thought”.

He rolled his hips again, slower this time, savoring the way you trembled, the way your fingers dug into his shoulders like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

Three slow rolls of his hips and your knees nearly gave out. Your whole body locked up, trembling so hard he had to tighten the arm banded around your waist to keep you upright.

“For fuck´s sake", he rasped, voice shredded with raw awe. “You’re gonna come just like this, aren’t you? On my cock through your little skirt. Not even had me inside you yet”.

You whimpered mortified, heat flooding your face, and tried to turn it into the pillow of his shoulder, hiding. Your hands flew from his chest to cover your own mouth, like you could smother the sounds, like you could pretend this wasn’t happening, that you weren’t about to shatter in the entryway of his penthouse from nothing more than dry humping like a teenager.

But Ben wasn’t having it. He caught your wrists in one big hand and pinned them above your head against the door, gentle but immovable. His other hand slid down to grip your hip, angling you exactly where he wanted, forcing you to feel every inch of the next slow grind. “Look at me”, he ordered. When you shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning, he leaned in and dragged his open mouth up the column of your throat. “Baby. Look at me while you fall apart on my dick. Want to see those pretty eyes when you come for me”.

Another roll of his hips, harder, the seam of his pants catching just right, and you broke with a broken little cry you couldn’t hold back. Your whole body seized, thighs shaking, hips jerking helplessly against him as the orgasm tore through you.

He groaned like he was the one coming, forehead dropping to yours, watching every second of it, drinking in the way your lips parted, the way tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. “Fuck, that’s it”, he whispered wrecked. "So fucking sweet. Never seen anything more beautiful than you creaming your fucking panties just from this”.

You were still trembling in the aftershocks, hiding your face against his neck now, small and overwhelmed and trying to curl in on yourself. Your face was buried in the warm crook of his neck, heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it against his chest, when a few knocks cracked against the door right beside your head. “Soldier Boy!”. A man’s voice. “Sir, we’ve got a situation downtown. Multiple hostiles, possible supe involvement. You are requested".

You went rigid. The haze of your orgasm snapped. You were still pinned between Ben and the door with your skirt rucked up, thighs trembling and his cock still hard against your soaked panties. If anyone opened that door right now… You shoved at his chest with both hands, panic flooding every vein. “Ben—let me go, let me—”. He didn’t, not at first. His arms only tightened, a low growl rumbling in his throat like the interruption offended him. “Ben!”, you whispered, frantic, trying to wrench your wrists free. “They can’t see me like this. Please”. That got through. The muscle in his jaw flexed. Something raw and furious flashed across his face at the timing, at the world daring to drag him away the second he finally had you shaking in his arms.

Another knock, harder. “Sir! We have to move!”.

Ben’s forehead dropped to yours for one fierce, stolen second. “This isn’t over”, he said with his voice so low only you could hear the tremor in it. “Not even fucking close”. Then he stepped back, letting you slide down the door until your feet touched the floor. Your legs almost gave out, but he caught your elbow, steadying you while you frantically smoothed your skirt, wiped at your wet eyes and tried to look like a professional human being and not a girl who’d just come on Soldier Boy´s clothed dick thirty seconds ago. He yanked the door open.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 5

-

You’d watched three different YouTube tutorials before you trusted yourself not to burn a chunk of hair off. By the time you finished, the bathroom counter was a disaster with clips and bobby pins and the curling iron cord knotted around your straightener like they’d been fighting. But your hair fell in loose, soft waves around your shoulders. Not perfect, and sure not professional-salon glossy, but good.

You’d done your makeup twice. The first time you scrubbed it off because you looked like you were trying to cosplay someone else. The second time you kept it simple with liner, a bit of mascara and the kind of lipstick that was technically “nude” but actually made you look like you had lips.

The dress was the last thing. You’d waited until ten minutes before the car was due. The bracelet felt way too heavy on your wrist and the earrings itched a little. It felt just… unfamiliar. The shoes made you a full three inches taller and twice as unstable.

Eventually, you stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of your closet door. “It’s just one night”, you murmured and started smoothing your shaking hands down the dress. “You don’t have to… be her. You just have to look like her”.

Your phone buzzed on the dresser. The car had arrived. Your stomach dropped to somewhere near your knees.

You grabbed your clutch (tiny and borrowed from Trish) and did a last frantic check. Phone. Key. ID. Lipstick. Sanity. The last one was questionable.

“Hold the fort”, you told Marmalade. “Don’t let anyone steal my IKEA furniture”. She flicked her tail as if to say no promises.

You stepped out into the cool night air and there was the car already waiting at the curb. Sleek and black and glossy enough to reflect the streetlights. Not a limo, but close. The driver spotted you immediately, stepped out and walked around, opening the back door with professional smoothness. “Miss (Y/L/N)?", he asked. You nodded, throat too tight for words.

Then you saw Soldier Boy. He was already inside,sprawled on the far side of the back seat. For once, he wasn’t in the green suit or the training jacket or anything that could be remotely called “costume”.

All black. Black suit, clean lines, the fabric sitting on him like it had been cut with him in the room. Black shirt, top buttons undone. No tie. The beard was trimmed neat. His hair was pushed back, not quite tamed, like he’d run his hands through it right before the driver came up. Even from the sidewalk, you could see the faint dilation in his pupils.

He’d been looking at the opposite window, one arm thrown along the back of the seat, boredom and irritation in the line of his body. Then he looked at you. His gaze caught, dragged up and down in one long, unhurried sweep. For one heartbeat you forgot how to move.

His eyes tracked the dress first, because how could they not? The green against your skin. The neckline. The line of your waist. The glimpse of leg where the slit fell just so when you took a cautious step off the curb. Your hair around your shoulders. The diamonds flashing at your wrist. Something in his face went dark.

He straightened without meaning to. His breath stalled in his chest while a sudden, hot punch shoot low in his gut. The pleasant buzz in his system jumped. He shifted in his seat, just slightly, legs spreading a fraction wider like he needed room that hadn’t been a problem thirty seconds ago. His hand flexed once on the leather.

“Careful, miss”, the driver said, offering you a steadying hand as you navigated the last step in the heels. You nodded with eyes locked on the open door. The inside of the car felt like a mouth waiting to swallow you. You ducked your head automatically and slid in, trying not to flash too much leg, trying not to step on your own dress. The scent of his cologne hit you at the same time as the heavy warmth of his presence. Then the door shut with a soft thunk and the outside world cut off.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

“Hey”, you managed eventually, too quiet.

He was still looking at you. Really looking. Not the usual lazy up-and-down scan designed to make you squirm. This was slower, almost stunned, like he’d expected something and gotten something else instead. “Well, shit”, he said softly.

Your heart lurched. “Is… that… bad?”.

The corner of his mouth kicked up, but it wasn’t his usual smirk. This one was strained. “Not from where I’m sitting”, he said with his voice rough.

You shifted and let your fingers fidget with the clutch in your lap. “It’s… a lot”.

“Yeah”, he said, eyes dragging over you again, lingering at your throat, the line of your collarbones, the dip where the dress hugged in. “It is”.

You swallowed. “If it’s too much—”. “Too much for who?”, he cut in sharply.

“The donors”, you said. “PR. Caldwell. Whoever’s going to have a heart attack first”.

He snorted. “If Caldwell strokes out, that’s a bonus”.

You huffed a little laugh you didn’t mean to. It came out thin and shaky.

“You clean up nice, doll”, he said, and this time there was no bite in it. Just honesty, raw and unvarnished. He watched your hand smooth nervously over your thigh, the flash of skin where the slit eased open. His jaw flexed. He shifted again, subtle, trying to find a new way to sit that didn’t advertise exactly how much he appreciated his own purchase.

“You wear the diamonds”, he said, nodding at your wrist.

“I felt rude not to”, you said. “Since someone apparently emptied a small country’s GDP on my doorstep”.

He snorted. “Relax. I got money rotting in accounts I forgot about. Might as well spend it on something I feel like looking at”.

Heat flared under your skin. “Soldier Boy—”.

“Ben”, he said.

It threw you. “What?”.

He rolled his eyes and let them finally flicking up from the line of your legs to your face. “If we’re going to a fucking gala together, you can stop calling me my own brand name for five minutes. It’s Ben. Try not to make it awkward”.

You blinked. “Ben”, you echoed. The name felt… strange in your mouth. Softer and more human. Dangerous in a different way.

He watched your lips shape the syllable, something tight in his expression easing just a fraction. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “Like that”.

You looked away while your heart was tripping all over itself.

The car pulled into traffic, city lights streaking past the tinted windows. You were hyper-aware of the gap between you on the seat, the way his knee was a few inches from yours and the way your bare arm tingled where it hovered too close to his.

“You nervous?”, he asked after a minute.

You let out a breathless little laugh. “Terrified”.

“At least you’re honest”, he said. “Last girl they stuck on my arm told me she was ‘excited to network’. Thought she was gonna fucking piss herself when the president showed up”.

“I’m not… excited to network”, you said. “I’m just… trying not to fall on my face”.

“You won’t”. His tone was flat and certain.

“You can’t know that”.

He shifted, turning more toward you. In the low light, his eyes looked even darker. “I’ve seen you in those sad little flats”, he said. “You trip all the time. You always catch yourself”.

You blinked at him. “Have you… been watching me walk?”.

“You’re hard to miss”, he said simply.

You didn’t believe that, not really. But the way he said it made something in your chest do that molten-lava thing again.

His gaze dipped to where your fingers clenched around your clutch. “For real.. you okay?”, he asked. It came out gruffer than it probably sounded in his head.

You nodded too fast. “Yes. No. Maybe”.

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”, he asked, but there was no real bite to it.

“It means”, you said, staring straight ahead, “that this is a lot. I’m not used to being… looked at”.

“You get used to it”, he said.

“I don’t want to get used to it”, you blurted. “I just want to do my job and go home and hang out with my cat and not think about whether I’m… a ‘view’”.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “So you do have a cat”.

You glanced over, thrown by the shift. “I told you that”.

“Yeah, but you say a lotta shit when you’re nervous”, he said. “Could’ve been some sad metaphor”.

“It’s not a metaphor”, you muttered. “Her name’s Marmalade”.

He huffed a laugh. “Of course it is. Bet she’s real proud of you right now. Her little mom all dressed up like fucking dessert”.

You pressed your lips together, heat creeping up your neck. You could barely breathe. The inside of the car felt too warm. You tried to focus on anything except the dangerous way he was looking at you… and the fact that you’d let him.

Your knees pressed tighter together, the dress tugging a little higher on your thigh, and you forced yourself not to squirm. You stole a glance at him, meaning only to look at his face, but your gaze slipped, just for a second, down to his lap. That was a mistake. You saw the hard line straining against the dark fabric, the spread of his thighs. He wasn’t doing anything to hide it. If anything, he looked… satisfied.

You jerked your eyes back to your hands, twisting the strap of your clutch. You could feel him looking. You tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a tiny, nervous laugh.

He leaned in, not close enough to touch, but close enough you could smell his cologne more strongly. “I can barely keep my hands to myself when you look at me like that”, he murmured. You swallowed while your pulse was hammering in your ears. “I’m not… looking at you”.

He laughed softly. “You’re lookin’, doll. Nothin’ wrong with that”. His knee nudged against yours, just enough to make you notice how much bigger he was, how much space he took up. You pressed yourself a little closer to the door, as if you could melt into the leather, as if that would help. But you didn’t ask him to stop. Didn’t ask him to move away. You just sat there, small and silent, trying not to look at his hands or his lap or the way his eyes burned when you finally met them again.

The car slowed, turning toward the curb. You realized with a jolt you were grateful for the interruption, grateful for the cool rush of night air when the driver opened the door.

Ben looked at you, mouth softening just a fraction. “Stay close, sweetheart”, he said. “Let ‘em stare. Just means I got the only thing in this city worth a damn on my arm tonight”.

When you stepped out, you barely had time to process the wall of sound, before his hand slid from the small of your back to your waist. Not a casual brush, not an accident. His fingers wrapped around you firmly, palm spreading over the side of your ribcage where the dress hugged tight. You went rigid.

“Easy”, he muttered low against your ear. The word vibrated more than you heard it. “I got you”.

Even in heels, you didn’t reach his shoulder. You were tucked in against him, the heat of his body bleeding through the suit fabric.

“Soldier Boy! Over here!”. “Soldier Boy give us a smile!”. “Who’s the girl?”.

The last one made something in him twitch. His fingers tightened minutely on your waist in a little possessive flex that squeezed a tiny, startled breath out of you. It left your lungs before you could catch it in a soft, involuntary sound that got snatched away by the noise. But not from him.

You felt his attention flick to you without him even looking. The corner of his mouth curled, not for the cameras, but for you. “Breathe, doll”, he said under his breath, lips barely moving.

You tried. You really did. You dragged air in past the tight band of your dress and his hand and the way his thumb was resting just under the curve of your ribs like he was checking every inhale. It still came out shallow and quick. You hoped the reporters would chalk it up to nerves, to being next to him, to the lights. At least they couldn’t hear how fast your heart was racing. But he could.

He leaned down, just a fraction, bringing his mouth nearer to your hair. To anyone else it looked like he was angling for a better shot. You felt the whisper of his breath against the shell of your ear. “Relax”, he murmured. “You look fuckin’ incredible. Only thing you’re gonna break out here is their brains”.

Heat shot down your spine. Your fingers tightened around your clutch hard enough to ache. You didn’t trust your voice, so you kept your attention fixed on some point ahead. One foot in front of the other. Don’t trip. Don’t throw up. Don’t think about his hand.

He moved you like he’d done this a thousand times. A gentle pressure at your waist turned you just so toward one bank of cameras; a subtle tug kept you from drifting back when the crowd pressed. Every time he shifted, you moved with him automatically, like the two of you were attached.

“Soldier Boy! Any comment on Stolers statement?”, someone shouted.

He snorted, a harsh puff of air that almost counted as a laugh. “Yeah”, he called back, loud enough for the nearest mics. “Guy’s a fucking pussy”.

Laughter. A ripple of delighted horror. You felt him straighten up, shoulders squaring, sliding easily into the version of himself the public thought they knew. But his hand never left you.

His thumb stroked once, absently, over the bare skin of your backside just above the waistband. The tiny drag of calloused skin made your breath catch in your throat.

He tipped his head just enough to glance down at you, eyes hooded. For a second you saw how careful he was being. How much effort it cost him not to haul you in closer, not to let the grip turn into something else.

“Soldier Boy, who’s your date?”, another voice yelled. He didn’t even glance at the guy. “Mine”, he said flatly.

Your head snapped up, while you heard the reaction ripple along the line. Murmurs, a few surprised laughs and lenses angling to get better shots of your face. You could feel yourself going pink. Your heart hammered against the cage of his fingers. “Ben”, you hissed under your breath, mortified.

He didn’t look down. His mouth barely moved. “What?”, he muttered. “You are. Tonight”.

“That’s not—”. “Let ‘em write their little storys”, he murmured. “Better they ask who you are than why I put a senator through a fucking wall”.

You nearly tripped. His hand tightened reflexively, hauling you back into balance without breaking stride. To anyone watching, it looked smooth. To you, it felt like your whole body was briefly suspended against him, only his grip keeping gravity from winning. You landed, breathless.

“See?”, he said, low. “You wobble, I catch you. Not a big deal”.

“Not a big—”, you whispered, “—you act like I’m not wearing three inches of death on my feet”.

“You are”, he said. “And you’re still fucking short. Funsize, actually”.

It was almost funny, if you hadn’t been in the middle of Vought’s PR machine, with all its rules and dress codes and talking points, cared so little about Soldier Boy as a person that nobody had even bothered to question why you, his assistant, the girl who wasn’t supposed to be in the shot, was glued to his side all night. Caldwell hadn’t texted. HR hadn’t panicked. Not one of the glossy, lacquered executives standing by the champagne bar even blinked at you in that dress.

As long as Ben didn’t blow up the building or end up trending on Twitter for sexual harassment, Vought didn’t give a damn who he had on his arm. You could’ve shown up in pajamas and as long as he didn’t detonate, the only thing that would’ve gotten you a call was if your cardigan had “Eat the Rich” embroidered on the back.

That knowledge hit you hard as the ballroom doors swung wide. The first blast of chilled air and perfume and music almost covered the spike of anxiety, but not quite.

You could do anything tonight and nobody would stop you. Or him.

Ben steered you easily through the lobby, never giving up his hold on you. People parted for him. Not like fans parting for a celebrity, and not even the way powerful people made space for someone richer. No, this was something colder. Fear disguised as etiquette. A little shudder of silence followed in his wake. You felt it in the way laughter dimmed as he passed, how conversation thinned at the edges.

He didn’t care. Not a bit. Didn’t drop his hand from your waist, didn’t temper his stride or slow down for anyone who wasn’t you. If someone made the mistake of looking at him too long, he looked right back, lazy and challenging, like he was daring them to try something stupid.

He leaned in as you passed a group of supes, his lips brushing your hair. “You see that?”, he murmured, a faint huff of amusement. “They’d rather piss themselves than say hello”.

You glanced sideways, catching the nervous half-smiles from a cluster of men in suits, all pretending not to flinch.

“Isn’t that… uncomfortable?”, you whispered. “Having everyone so—”. He grinned, feral. “Fuck no. Means I can actually breathe”. His thumb traced a slow, absent line along your waist, grounding you in a way you’d never admit. “Better scared than sniveling”.

At the edge of the room, you watched a pair of marketing directors you’d seen in meetings visibly debate coming over to “welcome” you both, only to turn away when Ben cocked an eyebrow. It was like you’d slipped inside a bubble, a perimeter nobody dared cross, enforced not by status but by the silent, teeth-baring edge of his presence.

But it wasn’t just the men. Women, too, sidestepped you both, but you felt their eyes. Some slid off you, cold and unreadable. Some lingered, subtle once-overs disguised as curiosity, their eyes flicking from your face to the neckline of your dress and back again.

A handful of them, the ones who knew you from the office, from elevator rides and awkward bathroom small talk, didn’t hide it at all. Pity. Their lips pressed in gentle, I-wouldn’t-wish-that-on-my-worst-enemy lines. One or two even shot you a silent, are you okay? look from across the floor, eyes round and full of concern you did not want.

Worse were the ones who weren’t scared. The ones with tight, hungry smiles. The ones who eyed Ben the way he was supposed to be eyed. Like a prize, a trophy and a story to brag about later.

You pressed your palm against Ben’s chest and felt muscle give under your fingers. “I have to use the bathroom”, you whispered with your head ducked low, not quite able to look at him.

He arched a brow, amusement flickering for half a second before he caught the tremor in your voice. “Yeah?”. His hand didn’t move from your waist, eyes searching your face. “Alright. C’mon”.

“I can go by myself”, you tried, but he was already steering you through the ballroom. Ben stopped just outside the corridor to the restrooms. He didn’t follow, he wasn’t that far gone, but he waited, close enough to block the view from anyone who might be watching.

As you walked from the toilet stall to the sinks and started washing your hands, you noticed two women on the other side. “…Did you see her?”, one stage-whispered, not bothering to lower her voice when you stepped in. “Why did he brought (Y/N) out of all”. The other snorted. “Right? If she makes it to midnight without crying, I’ll be shocked”.

You tried to ignore it, but your hands shook as you dried them. Your face in the mirror was too pale, eyes too big, makeup already threatening to run at the corners.

“She looks ridiculous”, the first went on. They laughed. One eyed your dress in the glass, taking inventory, lips pursing. “At least she finally got out of those ugly cardigans”.

You stared at your hands. “Excuse me”, you managed, slipping past them.

One caught your arm with fingers too-tight, too-friendly on your bare skin. “Honey”, she said, sweet as arsenic, “you really don´t belong here”.

You yanked your arm free, stumbling a little on the too-high heels. You ducked into a stall and shut the door, hands pressed to your chest, fighting for breath. You sat there, dress bunched in your lap, waiting for your pulse to slow.

The women’s laughter had faded into the clatter of their heels. You tried to steady yourself. Reminded yourself they didn’t matter. Reminded yourself you’d survived worse. But it still stung. Being so visibly out of place. Knowing that no matter how expensive the dress or real the diamonds, you still looked like the before photo next to the afters in a magazine.

You were trying to blink away the dampness at the corners of your eyes when you heard the unmistakable thunk of the heavy bathroom door swinging open much harder than usual. You froze.

Ben didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even check if the bathroom was empty. “Alright, which one are you in?”.

You stayed silent, mortified.

He sighed, not even pretending at patience. “Doll, don’t make me knock these goddamn doors down”. You squeezed your eyes shut as his knuckles rapped on your door. “C’mon, sweetheart. Out”.

“You can’t—this is the women’s—”. He just snorted. “What, you think anybody’s gonna throw me out?”. He leaned closer to the stall. His tone went softer, meant for you alone. “Let me in, or I’ll just break the fucking the lock”.

You relented, pushing the door open. Your eyes were bright, lashes wet. Ben’s face changed the instant he saw you. His own version of going soft, which just meant the angles of his jaw unclenched, the dangerous energy burning in his eyes redirected at anything but you. He crouched a little, bringing himself to your level. “Hey”, he said, his voice were rough with something that wasn’t anger. “You alright?”.

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak.

He reached out, gentle in a way nobody would believe if they saw it, and cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin. “Let me guess”, he muttered, glancing at the door. “Office piranhas giving you shit?”.

You tried for a shrug, but it just made you smaller. He sighed, jaw tightening, but his thumb never stopped its slow, soothing arc. “You want me to throw ’em out a window?”. He wasn’t joking, you could hear it in the tone.

You let out a tiny, watery laugh. “No. I just…”. You trailed off, embarrassed. “I shouldn’t care. I know better. I just—”. “Yeah, you should care”, he said, cutting you off. “Means you’re not a dead-eyed bitch like the rest of ’em. Don’t ever apologize for that”. You blinked, not sure what to do with the sincerity in his voice.

He ducked his head, catching your gaze. “You listen to me, doll”, Ben said, his voice still rough but not unkind. “Those bitches out there? They wouldn’t last five minutes in my world. They see a girl like you and they think it’s fucking open season. But softness like yours… Most of ‘em lost it a long time ago, and they hate you for not trading yours in”.

You swallowed, trying to hold his stare but faltering, gaze dropping to his broad chest, anywhere but his eyes. He nudged your chin up with a finger, stubbornly gentle. “Hey. Look at me”.

You did, even if your cheeks were burning, even if your lip trembled. “I don´t fit in here Ben”.

He shrugged, still cradling your cheek. “Who gives a fuck about fitting in? Look at me”. He gestured at himself. “I was never made to fit in. Neither were you. Different’s better. Trust me”.

You found yourself smiling, just a little, because right now, it was impossible not to.

He grinned. “There’s that face. You save that for me, yeah? You want to cry in the bathroom, fine. You want to punch someone, fucking better. But don’t let ‘em steal your fuckin’ night”.

You blinked up at him. “Are you going to keep giving me pep talks in bathrooms?”.

He laughed, the sound echoing too loud against marble. “If that’s what it takes to keep you from hiding, fuck yeah. C’mon, doll”. He offered his arm, old-school, something halfway between a challenge and a dare. You hesitated just a second, then slid your hand through the crook of his elbow.

You stepped out of the bathroom with your hand tucked through Ben’s elbow, doing your best impression of someone who hadn’t just cried in a stall. Your chin was up, shoulders back. You could do this. You could fake it, if only for yourself, if only to get through the next hour.

You made it maybe five minutes before trouble found you.

The gala’s music had changed to something slower. People were pairing off for a few polite turns on the dance floor, but most were content to watch and gossip from the edge.

That was where a tall man with a deep, almost bronze tan and a thick mustache found you. He looked like he’d been poured into Armani at the last minute. A supe. You’d seen him on old posters in the Vought “museum”, grinning beside Soldier Boy. Silvernet, his name had been. Back in the day.

“Benjamin”, he drawled, appearing right in front of you both like he owned the carpet. His smile was just a little too sharp, eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle. “Didn’t expect to see you tied down tonight”.

Ben’s body went subtly tense under your hand, every muscle alert. You felt it through his suit. “Samuel”, Ben replied, voice flat. No fake warmth, no old-friends act. He kept you close, thumb absently brushing the side of your hand.

Silvrenet’s eyes were all over you, like he was weighing what Vought’s golden boy could pull now compared to the old days. “Didn’t think you were into dates, Ben. Usually you’d have half the room in a lap by now”. His gaze lingered on your neckline, then your lips.

You shifted closer into Ben without meaning to, the subtle shiver running through you not missed by either man. Ben’s grip on your waist tightened, a clear, silent fuck off that even someone with half a brain would understand.

“I’m not here for a reunion”, Ben said, deadly casual. “And she’s not here to be handed around”.

Silvernet’s grin faltered for just a second, surprised, amused, maybe a little insulted. “Since when did you start playing gatekeeper, old man? Relax, I just wanted a dance“.

Ben’s jaw flexed. “Try again”.

Silvernet lifted both hands, palms out like whoa, calm down, but the smirk stayed. “It’s a dance, man. Not a proposal”.

Ben’s arm tightened around your waist, slow, drawing you in until your hip was flush against his. “She said no”, Ben said, even though you hadn’t said anything. You realized then, he wasn’t going to give you the chance.

Silvernet let out a disbelieving scoff. “She didn’t even answer”.

“She doesn’t need to”, Ben shot back. “I answered”.

Silvernet blinked. Really looked between the two of you. “You serious?”, he asked, laugh dropping out of his voice. “Since when do you not share?”.

“Since it’s her”.

You felt your pulse thud in your wrists, your throat, everywhere. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe. Silvernet stared at Ben like he’d grown a second head. “You?”, Silvernet said to you, disbelief dripping. “Really? He’s playing house with you?”.

Ben´s hand leaving your waist long enough to grip Silvernet by the front of his designer suit. He didn’t lift him, but he pulled him in close. “You got something you wanna say”, Ben murmured, “say it to me. Not her”.

Silvernet swallowed, smirk gone completely. “Didn’t mean anything by it”.

“That’s the right fucking answer”, Ben said. “Now walk away before I decide to redecorate this place with your insides”.

-

Two hours later, the night had settled into a rhythm you didn’t totally hate.

Ben hadn’t killed anyone. You hadn’t cried again.

That was practically a fairy tale.

You’d done the rounds of donors, board members, one nauseating “fireside chat” with a tech CEO who kept calling Ben “buddy” and you “miss” without ever looking at your face. Ben had smirked, said a few outrageous things, and then ignored his cue cards so spectacularly you were pretty sure Caldwell was drinking straight from the bottle somewhere.

But the building was still standing. No one was bleeding. And your breathing had finally edged back into something that resembled normal. Your heart still skipped embarrassingly when Ben’s hand shifted on your back or when someone looked at you a second too long, but you weren’t white-knuckling your clutch anymore.

You were standing with him near one of the tall tables on the edge of the room, half-hidden from the worst of the crowd by a decorative pillar. Ben had braced one hand on the table, body angled toward you, his other resting possessively at the small of your back.

The band slid into another slow number. Couples drifted to the dance floor. You watched them for a moment.

Next to you, Ben huffed, almost under his breath. “Huh”.

You glanced up. “What?”.

He didn’t look at you. He was watching the dance floor, jaw grinding a little, thumb tapping an uneven rhythm against the table. “Nothin’. Just… weird”.

“What is?”.

His mouth twisted. “You didn’t ask”.

Your brows knit. “Ask… what?”.

He shrugged, faux-casual, eyes still stubbornly on the couples. “To dance”.

You blinked, thrown. “What?”.

“Usually”, he went on, words careless but edged with something that didn’t match, “by now I’ve had five different girls hanging off my arm dripping wet whining ‘dance with me, Soldier Boy’, like it’s gonna get ‘em a lifetime pass”. He snorted. “Always said no. Pain in the ass”.

You stared at him. “Okay…?”.

He shifted his weight, finally flicking a glance down at you. There was something almost… sulky in it. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it hurt. “You didn’t ask once”, he said. “Not even a little pathetic ‘oh, can we, please’. Nothin’”.

“You… wanted me to?”, you asked incredulous.

He scoffed. “That’s not what I said”.

You watched him, the way his mouth tightened, the way his fingers curled on the table. “It kind of is”.

He didn’t answer, which was as close to admission as you were going to get.

Your face warmed. You looked down at your empty glass, thumb tracing the rim. “I didn’t think you’d want to”, you said, honest and small. “Or, um… maybe couldn’t".

His expression did something strange. “You think I can’t dance?”.

Your cheeks went pink. “No, I—yes—I just… I mean, you’re not exactly the slow-dance type. I figured you’d hate it. Or maybe you just… wouldn’t know how?”.

He stared at you, deadpan, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking or just hopeless. “You think I don’t know how to dance?”. He leaned in a little, his voice dropping—part mock-offended, part genuinely surprised. “Sweetheart, I was cutting up USO floors before your grandma was in fucking pigtails. PR back then was real big on ‘charm the dames, sell the war bonds’”.

Your lips parted, half a smile forming. “Wait, really?”.

He smirked, just a little. “Yeah, really. They used to parade me through the fancy parties. Some general’s daughter, senator’s niece—half the time I didn’t even know who I was stepping on. I could do this drunk and concussed on cocaine”.

Your heart stuttered. For a second, you just stood there, caught in the odd, vulnerable sincerity of his gaze. “Okay”, you said, almost whispering. “So… do you want to?”.

He rolled his eyes, but there was something sheepish in the gesture. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t”.

You set your empty glass down, suddenly shy and all too aware of the music drifting through the ballroom. “I’m… not very good. I’ll probably step on you”.

He offered his hand. “I’ll risk it”.

You slid your hand into his. He squeezed, just once, then led you out toward the edge of the dance floor.

It was awkward for half a second, your heels too tall, your balance too nervous. But Ben just settled his hand at your waist, right where it had been all night, and pulled you in, slow and sure.

The dance floor spun around you slow and steady, effortless under Ben’s guiding hand. You started to forget about the crowd, the cameras, the glossy Vought world that only cared about surfaces. With every turn, the room blurred, sharpening your focus until it was just his eyes, his breath and the warmth of his palm steady at your waist.

And then, in one turn, his hand slipped just a little lower. Innocent enough to play off as an accident, but deliberate enough that you felt the burn of it through the dress. His broad palm ghosted over the curve of your ass, not lingering, just a brief, claiming press that made you nearly stumble in your heels.

Ben didn’t smirk. Didn’t even look at you right away. But you felt the heat of his attention. His thumb tracing a slow circle at the small of your back, guiding you closer until there was barely any space between your chest and his.

“Easy”, he murmured against your hair. “Don’t want you tripping in those shoes. Couldn’t live with myself if you ended up flat on your pretty little ass”.

You felt your face flame, nerves sparking everywhere he touched. You tried to look away, but Ben only dipped his head lower, his stubble just barely grazing your temple, his lips so close you could feel the shape of his words.

“You got no idea, do you?”, he whispered, his tone gone rougher, lower. “What you look like right now. Got half the room thinkin’ about how sweet you’d sound if you moaned in their ear”. Your breath hitched. “Good thing you’re with me”, Ben went on, “or I’d have to start breakin’ fingers just to keep ‘em in line”.

He leaned in, pressing his mouth against the shell of your ear. You felt the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body, the solid, unmistakable intent in the set of his jaw. Then, just as the music swelled, he caught your earlobe gently between his teeth, a soft nip that sent a bolt of sensation down your spine and right between your thighs. Your heart thundered, every inch of you suddenly electric.

“God, you blush pretty”, he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “Bet you’d sound even prettier”. Your pulse stuttered, your body giving you away. You could feel the wetness blooming between your legs.

-

Later that evening, Ben noticed the way you shifted your weight and heard the tiny wince you didn’t quite hide. “Alright”, he muttered, leaning down so only you could hear it. “You did the fucking dog-and-pony. Time to go”.

You nodded, relief washing through you so fast your knees almost went weak. He kept his hand on your back all the way out.

The car was already waiting at the curb. The driver started to move, coming around to open the back door, but Ben beat him to it. “Got it”, he barked, giving the guy a look that made him freeze mid-step. Then he turned to you.

You weren’t used to this part. No one had ever opened a door for you like that, not really. Not like it meant something. He swung it open with an easy flick of his wrist and then… waited. One hand on the top of the frame, the other held out toward you, palm up.

“Careful”, he said. “Step, then slide. Don’t wanna rip my dress".

Your stomach did something wholly unhelpful. You slipped your hand into his and let him guide you down the last little drop, into the car. The slit in the dress pulled high over your thigh for a second and his gaze flicked down, lingered, then dragged back up with a tightness in his jaw that said he’d noticed and was pretending to behave.

You settled into the seat, smoothing your skirt. He shut the door gently. Not the careless slam you’d seen him give everything else. Then he walked around the back of the car and slid in beside you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The world felt… smaller in the darkened car. You could still feel the ghost of his hand at your back, the echo of his fingers brushing too low during that dance, the warm bite of his teeth on your ear. You risked a glance at him. He was already looking at you. “You did good tonight”, he said finally, voice low and rough from too many conversations and not enough filter.

You huffed a laugh, still a little dazed. “You didn’t blow anything up. Legal’s going to build you a shrine”.

He smirked at that, but it didn’t linger. His gaze dropped, tracing the line of your legs where the dress lay over them, the shimmer at your wrist, the soft waves of your hair over bare shoulders. “Can’t believe they said that shit to you”, he muttered, almost to himself.

The memory made your stomach twist. You looked down at your hands. “I’m used to it”, you said quietly. “People deciding what I am before they even know my name”. You swallowed. “You were… really gentle. Before. In the bathroom”.

He scoffed softly. “Don’t spread it around. Gotta keep up my fucking rep”.

You smiled, a thin, shaky thing. “Right. America’s First Asshole”.

“America’s First, America’s Best”, he corrected dryly, parroting the slogan. Then his mouth twitched. “Sometimes both”.

Your heart was beating harder now. You were suddenly, acutely aware of how close he was. You couldn’t stop thinking about the last hour. About his hand on your lower back, about the tight note in his voice when he told Silvernet he didn’t share anymore. You couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth at your ear, the soft nip of his teeth, the dirty little promises he hadn’t quite finished.

He heard the way your breath hitched and stuttered, felt the faint tremor in your hands on your lap, the rabbit-quick thrum under your ribs. Supe hearing made it unfair; he could read you like a metronome.

“Hey”, he murmured, shifting closer until his shoulder brushed yours, heat licking across the thin strip of bare skin at the top of your arm. “Breathe for me”.

You did. Tried. It didn’t help. He turned a fraction more, knees angling toward you, palm braced on the seat behind your hips so you were half-penned in by the breadth of him and the door. His voice dropped. “You look like you’re gonna break”.

Maybe you were. But not the way he thought.

Before he could say anything else, before you could think yourself out of it, you reached for his jacket, curled your fingers in the lapel, and pulled.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t neat. Your nose bumped his, your mouth landed a breath off target and slid into place on instinct. For a heartbeat he went still, surprised, like he’d been winding himself tight all night just to keep from doing exactly this. But then he answered you.

His hand came up, big and warm, cupping your cheek like he’d been starving for an excuse. The other settled at your waist, thumb finding the seam of the dress and holding there, firm, as if the only thing keeping him gentle was the feel of that fabric under his palm. He kissed you back like he meant it. Slow first, testing, then deeper when you didn’t flinch, when you chased him, soft and clumsy and honest.

You made a sound in your throat without meaning to. He swallowed it with a low groan, the kind that lived in the chest more than the mouth.

You didn’t know the rules to this game, didn’t have the map for where hands should go or how breaths should mingle, but instinct drove you forward anyway.

Your free hand found his chest, pressing your palm flat against the solid wall of him under that jacket, feeling the steady thud of his heart that matched the frantic one in your own.

He let out a ragged breath through his nose, his mouth parting yours with a gentleness that felt foreign on him. He was used to taking, to claiming without apology, but here he was, letting you lead this clumsy dance. Your kisses were soft, exploratory, like dipping toes into water you weren’t sure was safe. A brush here, a linger there, your tongue shyly tracing the seam of his lips without daring to push further. And fuck, it was undoing him.

He shifted under you, the leather of the seat creaking as his hips adjusted, trying to ease the growing ache between his legs. You had no idea. No clue that every innocent nip, every hesitant suckle at his bottom lip, was stoking a fire he’d been banking all night. His cock twitched in his pants, straining against the fabric, hard and insistent from the sheer sweetness of it all.

Women usually came at him bold, knowing, ready to play the part. But you? You were pure, unscripted want, and it hit him like a drug. “Sweetheart", he growled low, the word vibrating against your mouth as he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “You’re killin’ me here”.

You blinked up at him, lips swollen and slick from the kiss, confusion flickering in your gaze. “Did I… do something wrong?”.

A rough laugh escaped him, more breath than sound, and he shook his head, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “No. Fuck no”. His other hand slid up your side. He could hear your pulse racing, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and it only made him harder, the pressure building to something almost painful. “You’re doin’ everything right. Too right”.

Emboldened, maybe by the rasp in his voice, or the way his body leaned into yours, you leaned in again, capturing his lips with a little more confidence this time. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly without meaning to, and he groaned outright, the sound muffled as he deepened the kiss.

His tongue finally swept in, coaxing yours into play, teaching without words. Slow strokes that made your head spin and your body arch toward him instinctively.

But in the heat of it, your hand seeking purchase, or maybe just more of him, slipped lower, brushing down his chest, over the taut ridges of his abdomen, and then… right against the hard, insistent bulge straining at the front of his pants. Massive and unyielding, like the rest of him. Your palm pressed flat for a split second before you registered it, the heat of him searing through the fabric.

You froze. Breath hitching sharp in your throat, a flush exploding across your cheeks like wildfire. Oh shit. Shit. What were you doing? This wasn’t just some guy, this was your client. You were his assistant, the one who scheduled his interviews, handled his bullshit and kept his secrets. And not just any client: Soldier Boy. The legend, the walking ego with a body count longer than your resume. The man who’d seen wars, women and worse, and here you were, pawing at him like a starry-eyed idiot in the back of a damn car.

Panic slammed into you like a freight train, your heart jackhammering so loud you swore he could hear it, hell, with his supe senses, you know he could. Your mind raced: What if this ruined everything? What if he laughed it off tomorrow, or worse, expected more? You weren’t built for this, whatever “this” was. You were the reliable one, the professional, not… not whatever desperate version of yourself had just climbed into his lap with kisses and wandering hands.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the engine humming down as the driver announced quietly through the intercom, “We’ve arrived at your apartment, miss”.

Perfect timing. Or the worst. You didn’t wait to decide. You yanked back, scrambling for the door handle with fumbling fingers, your dress hiking up awkwardly as you twisted away. “I— I have to go”, you stammered, voice high and cracked, not daring to meet his eyes. The confusion on his face, mixed with that lingering heat, burned into your periphery, but you couldn’t stop. Couldn’t explain.

The door swung open to the cool night air and you bolted, heels clacking unevenly on the pavement as you fled toward your building. You didn’t look back, didn’t hear if he called after you, though part of you hoped he wouldn’t. The lobby door slammed shut behind you, and only then did you lean against the wall, breath coming in shaky gasps, cheeks still flaming. What had you just done?

Ben sat there in the back seat, the door still hanging open like a goddamn invitation to the night. Air rushed in, cool and mocking against his heated skin. His hand hovered mid-air where you’d been a second ago, fingers curling into a loose fist as if he could grab the ghost of you and pull it back. But you were gone. Fleeing up those steps like he’d lit a fire under your ass instead of in your veins. What the fuck?

He blinked, the haze of arousal clinging to him. His cock throbbed painfully against his zipper, hard as steel. It strained there as a reminder of just how far you’d pushed him with those sweet, fumbling kisses. He’d been ready to lay you out right there on the leather, to show you exactly who Soldier Boy was. But now? Now he was alone, fucking blue-balled and bewildered, with the car idling softly as the driver cleared his throat from the front.

Not once in his long, twisted life had a woman left him like that. Bolted like a spooked deer, leaving him hanging with nothing but the taste of her on his lips and a ache that bordered on fury. Sure, there’d been plenty of human women who’d sobbed and begged him to stop back in the day, when he took what he wanted without a second thought, their tears just background noise to the rush. But this? This was different. You hadn’t begged; you’d ignited him, teased him and then vanished.

He shifted, wincing at the friction against his pants, and let out a low, frustrated growl. “Drive”, he barked at the driver, slamming the door shut himself.

The car pulled away from the curb, but his mind stayed right there, replaying the feel of your hand brushing him and the way your breath hitched. Ben leaned back, head thumping against the seat.

-

Inside your apartment, Marmalade was already padding toward you, tail high, ready to greet you, until she saw your face. She stopped mid‑stride, head tilting, meowing once in a small, confused chirp.

You pressed your back to the door, hands shaking so hard you fumbled the deadbolt. Your pulse hadn’t slowed and your mouth still tasted like him. Your hands still felt the shape of his chest, the heat of him. And your palm… God. You squeezed your eyes shut. What did you do?

Your breath hitched in a tiny, broken gasp before you could swallow it down. You shook your head hard, like you could scatter the memory of his mouth and his hands.

Then you moved on autopilot toward the bedroom. Your fingers found the zipper of the dress, but they trembled, catching on the fabric again and again before it finally gave and the dress slid off your shoulders. You stepped out of it like you were stepping out of a crime scene.

“I’m so stupid”, you whispered into the empty room.

You weren’t angry. Not exactly. You weren’t regretful, either. You were terrified and confused and overwhelmed, everything crashing together in your chest until it hurt to breathe.

You sank onto the edge of your bed, hair falling around your face in soft waves you’d spent forty minutes curling and pressed your palms to your eyes. A few quiet tears slipped through your fingers. “I kissed him”, you whispered, like saying it out loud made it more ridiculous. “I kissed him. I touched him— oh God”. Your face burned hot again, even alone.

And he’d kissed you back. Gently. Like you mattered. That was the part that broke you all over again.

You drew your knees up, resting your forehead on them, breathing through the dizzy whirl of shame and longing and something else you didn’t have the courage to name.

Marmalade hopped onto the bed beside you, pressed her little body against your thigh and started purring like she could drown out your heartbeat. You curled a trembling hand around her. “I can’t go to work tomorrow”, you whispered into the quiet. “I can’t look at him”.

But you knew you would. Because you always did.

-

Meanwhile Ben didn’t remember the elevator ride up. Didn’t remember barking at the security guards in the lobby, or the way the glass doors slid open at the top floor like he was royalty and a prisoner all at once. By the time he stepped into the penthouse, he slammed the door a little harder than he meant to. The sound echoed, bouncing off marble and steel and that stupid chandelier.

He shrugged off the jacket, tossed it over the nearest chair. The dress shirt was next, buttons yanked loose. He was still half-hard, cursing under his breath as he kicked off his shoes. No amount of cold air or city noise could cool the ache left simmering under his skin.

His mind replayed the car ride on a loop. Your hands, uncertain but wanting, tugging him close. Your lips, soft, unpracticed but desperate for something you didn’t even have a name for. The way your hand had slid down, pressing right against the bulge straining at his pants so innocent it nearly killed him.

Then the panic. The bolt. The click of the door and the sudden absence, like he’d been sucker-punched with a ghost.

He cursed again, running a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the wall of glass that overlooked half of Manhattan. He could still smell you. The faintest trace of fear and excitement that wasn’t like any other woman he’d known.

He’d had hundreds. Thousands. He’d been begged, screamed at, sobbed on. Never—never—had he been left like this. On fire and wanting. Alone.

And not just with the hard-on. With the question: What the fuck did she do to me?

Ben grabbed a bottle off the minibar. He poured a glass, knocked it back, and felt nothing change. The ache was under his skin, not in his blood.

He slumped into the couch with the glass dangling from his fingers and his eyes fixed on the skyline he could barely see. The suite was too quiet. Too clean. He wanted to smash something, yell at someone, find a fight, but nothing would give him back the feeling of your mouth, your hands, the way you’d chased him with kisses like you were starved for something only he could give.

He remembered the look in your eyes, right before you ran. The fear wasn’t of him. Not really. It was bigger. Like you were afraid of losing yourself, or not being enough, or maybe, just maybe, wanting too much.

He drained another glass. “Fuck”, he muttered to the empty room.

Ben wasn’t built for softness. But he’d seen it in you. Tasted it. And now he wasn’t sure he could let it go.

He thought about tomorrow. He knew you’d hide. Try to pretend nothing happened. He knew you’d expect him to act like a bastard. But that wasn’t happening. Not anymore.

“You started this, sweetheart”, he murmured to the dark. “I’m not letting you run”.

And for the first time in years, Ben felt something almost new: Excitement.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 4

-

The next morning you overslept by ten minutes. Not enough to be a disaster, but enough that everything felt slightly off-kilter. Your coffee was a little too hot, the subway a little more crowded and your heartbeat a little too fast as you squeezed into the elevator with a dozen other Vought employees pretending they weren’t hungover, overworked, or both.

You’d grabbed clothes on autopilot. Another pencil skirt from the small rotation in your closet. Dark gray, this one. A simple white blouse you’d ironed on Sunday. The only heels you owned. They were black and not very high. They made you just tall enough to see over some people’s shoulders but not tall enough to twist an ankle.

It wasn’t until the elevator to the “museum” floors hummed up past eighty that you realized the skirt didn’t fit quite the way you remembered. You shifted your weight, the fabric pulling snug across your thighs. Had it always done that? Maybe you’d shrunk it in the wash. Or maybe you’d just never worn it with this blouse, the combination making the cut feel… different. More fitted. More… there.

You glanced at your reflection in the brushed steel. The heels changed your posture, tilting your hips, arching your back just a bit. The blouse, buttoned to a perfectly reasonable place, still seemed… bright. The white stood out against your skin and the dark skirt in a way your usual soft colors didn’t.

“It’s fine”, you murmured under your breath. “It’s work clothes. Nobody cares”.

The elevator chimed and you stepped out into the quiet hallway. You checked the time on your phone. 8:01. Caldwell had wanted “a quick morning touchpoint” before he had to talk to Legal at nine. The networks were circling the exclusive like sharks; you needed to know what you could actually promise before they smelled blood. You took a slow breath, adjusted the grip on your tablet, and walked to 87-C. The camera eye beside the door tracked your movement. You lifted your hand and knocked. You weren’t expecting it to actually do anything. You knew he was a supe. Enhanced strength, durability, blah blah blah. You’d seen the footage of him throwing trucks like toys. He also could probably hear your heartbeat from the other side of the door.

Locks thunked and your stomach dropped. The door swung inward and everything in your brain just… shorted out.

He was naked.

Not in underwear, not a towel. Nothing. Just skin and scars and a lot of muscle and absolutely zero fabric.

You registered broad shoulders, chest hair, the line of an old jagged scar sweeping across one rib, and then your survival instincts finally kicked in and you yanked your gaze up so hard your neck popped, staring somewhere in the vague area of his collarbone.

“Jesus Christ”, he rasped, voice rough with sleep and something else. “It’s eight in the fucking morning”. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils a little too blown for the time of day. He blinked at the hallway light.

You, meanwhile, were fairly sure you had forgotten how to exist. “I—I’m so sorry”, you stammered, every word tripping over the next. “I didn’t—I thought— I mean, Caldwell wanted me to—”. You could hear yourself babbling and couldn’t stop. Heat tore up your face so fast your ears burned. You tried to angle your body so your tablet was as much of a shield as possible, even though you weren’t the one missing clothes.

He squinted at you, then down the empty hallway, then back at you again. His gaze dropped for a second, taking in the pencil skirt, the white blouse and the heels. A slow, crooked grin curled his mouth. “Well, shit”, he said. “If I’d known you were bringing the church picnic outfit, I’d have put pants on”.

Your brain, unhelpfully, supplied a vivid image of him doing exactly that. You strangled it with extreme prejudice. “I should’ve— I’m early”, you blurted. “I can come back later. It’s fine. You should, um, sleep. Or… not—”.

He made a low sound that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a groan. He wasn’t even trying to cover himself. Just leaning one arm on the doorframe like a guy on a porch in the suburbs, except for the part where there was absolutely nothing between his skin and the air.

You stared pointedly over his shoulder where a light fixture hummed faintly.

“You knock that soft”, he said, “you’re lucky I hear you at all. Half the chicks Vought sends up here would’ve been banging on the door with a shoe and wet lips by now”.

You made a strangled noise that was supposed to be some kind of polite laugh and came out like your soul trying to escape.

“Cute shoes, by the way”, he added, voice dipping. “Didn’t peg you for the ‘fuck-me heels’ type”.

“They’re not—”. You bit down on the rest mortified. “They’re just… shoes”.

“Yeah”. You could hear the smirk in his tone. “Sure they are”.

He sniffed once, sharp, and wiped under his nose with the back of his wrist. Not the frantic, jittery motion you’d seen yesterday. Just… casual. Maintained. The kind of adjustment that said whatever he’d done last night was still humming in his system.

“Are you high?”, you heard yourself ask before your brain could slap a hand over your own mouth.

His eyebrow arched. “You always this fucking forward before breakfast, doll?”.

“I just… we have a lot to go over today, and if you’re—”. “I’m fine”, he cut in. “Takes more than a little pick-me-up to knock me on my fucking ass”. You believed that. That was the problem.

He shifted his weight, the movement making you flinch automatically even though he hadn’t come any closer. Some part of you expected the door to slam in your face, or for him to bark at you to get lost. Instead he sighed, long-suffering, like you were a raincloud that had followed him home. “You gonna stand out there blushing ’til noon”, he asked, “or you gonna come in so I can put on some damn pants before security thinks I’m assaulting you?”.

You startled. “Right. Yes. Sorry. Um. Right”. You shuffled inside sideways, eyes glued to the floor. The suite smelled like stale beer, something stronger under it, and his cologne. The curtains were mostly shut. The TV was off this time, but the coffee table was still a mess.

He shut the door with a heavy thunk. You zeroed in on the nearest wall and tried very hard to think about nothing at all. “Relax”, he said again, like that was something people could do on command. “I’m not gonna flash you on purpose”.

You had the wild urge to ask if this counted as on purpose, but your tongue was currently attempting to tie itself into a noose. You heard him pad away across the carpet but you kept your eyes on the wall, tracing the pattern in the wallpaper like it was suddenly fascinating. A drawer slid open. Something soft flopped. Fabric rustled. He cursed under his breath something about laundry and Vought and “you’d think America’s First Hero would get a damn hamper”.

You risked a glance back. He had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and now scrubbed a hand over his face, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. “See?”, he said, dropping onto the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. “PG-13 again. You can stop looking like you’re about to pass out”.

You were still blushing so hard your whole body felt overheated. You adjusted your grip on the tablet with fingers shaking just enough to make the screen wobble. “I wasn’t— I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable”, you said, which was insane, given the circumstances.

He stared at you for a beat, then cackled. “Sweetheart”, he said, “if I was uncomfortable being naked, this fucking company would’ve gone bankrupt in ’84”.

You made another helpless little noise that wasn’t quite a laugh.

He took you in again, head tilted slightly. Your hair was pulled back neatly, but a piece was already slipping out to curl by your cheek. “Caldwell make you dress up?”, he asked.

You frowned, thrown by the question. “This is… how I always dress”.

“Yeah?”. His gaze lingered on the line where your blouse tucked into your waistband. “How’s that working out for you?”.

You weren’t sure what he meant. You weren’t sure you wanted to ask. Instead you clung to the one thing that made sense. “We have an update on the interview”. you said, your voice snapping back into professional mode with almost audible whiplash. “Three networks responded. One’s willing to agree to your conditions”.

-

An hour later, you were back at his door with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing again. The coffee cup tray shook faintly in your hands when you pressed your badge to the panel. The light blinked green and you knocked a little louder this time. Still soft by normal standards, but practically a shout compared to earlier.

“Yeah”, his voice came muffled from inside. “Door’s open”.

You eased it inward with your shoulder, careful not to tilt the tray. The suite smelled different now. Steam and soap had cut through the stale beer and old cologne, leaving everything warm and damp. The bathroom door was open, light spilling out, and that’s where you found him. He stood in front of the mirror with a towel slung around his hips, one hand braced on the sink, the other holding a buzzing trimmer to his jaw. Water still clung to his shoulders, rolling down over muscle and old scars. His hair was wet, pushed back off his face. He looked… almost cleaned up.

Your body seized up in the doorway like someone had unplugged you. “Oh”, you said, brilliant as ever.

He met your gaze in the mirror, eyes flicking from your face to the coffees and back. The corner of his mouth twitched. “You ever knock like you mean it”, he said, “you might actually surprise me, doll”.

“I did knock”, you protested weakly.

“Uh-huh”. He turned his head a fraction, checking the line of his beard. “You´re lucky I´m a supe. I hear a fucking mouse fart three floors down. Your little tap-tap-tap’s not exactly waking the dead. Remember that for your life”.

Your cheeks warmed. You edged farther into the room, trying to keep your eyes on the back of his head and not on the broad expanse of bare back in front of you. “I brought your coffee”, you said. “Black. No sugar, no cream. Double shot”.

He turned off the trimmer with a click and set it down on the counter. “You remember that”, he said, almost to himself, like he was testing the words out.

You swallowed. “You… said it yesterday. ‘Anything in it and you’ll throw that fucking gay ass drizzle shit at the wall’”.

“Sounds like me”. He reached for a hand towel, scrubbing it over his jaw to get rid of stray hairs. “Most people hear that and bring me some bullshit oat milk anyway. ‘For your heart, Soldier Boy’”.

His gaze dropped briefly, taking in how the pencil skirt hugged your hips when you leaned forward the tiniest bit. The heels made you just tall enough that your head would fit neatly under his chin if he stood behind you. You straightened so fast your spine twinged.

“Which one’s mine?”, he asked.

You pointed. “Left. The other’s for Caldwell. He’s in a meeting with Legal in twenty minutes. I’m supposed to bring him caffeine so he doesn’t have a stroke when I tell him you picked NCN”.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel hitched carelessly with one hand, and reached for the cup you’d indicated. You had to tip the tray toward him and his fingers brushed yours as he closed them around the cardboard. You snatched your hand back like you’d touched a hot stove.

“Easy”, he said amused. “I don’t bite”.

You remembered him saying that yesterday. It had felt like a threat then. Now it just made your stomach do an unhelpful little flip.

“Outside the bed”, he added, after a beat. “Most of the time”. That didn’t help.

He took a long sip, eyes closing for a second. His throat worked as he swallowed. When he opened them again, he looked… fractionally less wrecked. “Huh”, he said. “You actually got it right”.

“That was… the assignment,” you said.

“Gold star for the good girl”, he said, like it was just the obvious thing to call you.

You pretended your face didn’t immediately go hot, while he watched you fidget with the edge of the tray. You were all soft edges with big eyes darting away from his, lips parted just enough to show you were biting back words you didn’t trust yourself to say. Sweet and small and delicate, without even trying. The way you stood there, shoulders hunched a little like you were trying to make yourself smaller in that fitted blouse and skirt, only made it worse. Or better, depending on how he looked at it. God, you were shy. Barely a peep out of you beyond the necessities and it was driving him fucking insane.

Most women threw themselves at him, all bold and brazen, but you? You hovered like a damn butterfly, too timid to land.

It made his blood run hot, stirring something he hadn’t felt in decades. Not since before the Russians turned him into a lab rat. His dick twitched under the towel, hardening just from watching you avoid his gaze, your cheeks flushing that pretty pink again.

He set the coffee down on the dresser, closer to you than necessary, and leaned in a fraction. The steam from the cup mingled with the leftover heat from his shower, wrapping around you both. “You gonna stand there all fucking day, or you got more errands to run for the suits?”.

You blinked up at him, finally meeting his eyes for a split second before dropping them to his chest. Bad move, because now you were staring at the water droplets tracing paths over his pecs, down to the V where the towel barely clung on. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed hard. “I… um. Caldwell’s waiting. I should—”.

He stepped closer, crowding you without touching, his voice dropping. “Or you stay and see if I really don’t bite”.

Your breath hitched and you clutched the tray tighter. You were so close he could smell your shampoo. Something clean and floral, nothing like the heavy perfumes the Vought bitches usually drowned themselves in. It made him want to bury his face in your neck, see if you tasted as sweet as you looked.

He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your jaw, and you froze, while your eyes went wide like a deer in headlights. Fuck, that innocence, or whatever it was, had him rock hard now while the towel doing a piss-poor job of hiding it. But he didn’t bother adjusting.

“You’re killing me here, doll”, he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “All quiet and cute. Makes a man think about all the ways he could make you… talk”.

Your lips parted, but again, no words came out. Just a soft, involuntary sound that went straight to his groin. He grinned and leaned in until his mouth was inches from yours. “Or maybe you like being watched. Like knowing what you’re doing to me right now”.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But your eyes flicked down, just for a second, and he knew you’d seen the bulge straining against the towel. Your face burned hotter, and he chuckled. “Yeah”, he said. “That’s what I thought”.

Just then, your phone shrieked from inside your bag, shattering the too-thick silence. You nearly dropped the tray as you scrambled to grab for it. “Shoot—sorry”, you breathed shaky as you fumbled for the device. Your hands shook so badly it took three tries to swipe the screen. You didn’t even bother checking the notification. You knew what it was: your alarm for Caldwell’s meeting. Ten minutes until you had to sell the plan you’d somehow wrangled out of Soldier Boy. An unfiltered, live NCN interview, no script, no pre-approval and no leash.

You glanced at him while every nerve in your body was still vibrating from the way his thumb had brushed your cheek and the way his eyes had darkened at the sight of your blush. He watched you with a smirk and arms crossed, a challenge in every line of his body. “Duty calls?”, he drawled, like the words were a private joke.

You nodded, your breath coming short. “I—I have to go. Caldwell—meeting—he’ll want the update”.

He cocked his head, looking you over in a unashamed way that had heat crawling up the back of your neck. “Tell him the hero’s ready for his fucking closeup”, he said with his voice dipped in sarcasm. “Just make sure he knows if anyone tries to muzzle me, the deal’s off”.

You nodded so fast you almost lost your balance in your heels. “Right. I’ll—um. I’ll be back before the car gets here for the studio”.

He didn’t move to let you pass, but he didn’t block you either. He just watched, towel tented, as you skirted around him. You barely breathed until you were through the door.

-

The interview itself was a blur of adrenaline and lights and the kind of panic that left your hands cold, your mouth dry and your heart doing laps in your chest. You barely remembered the questions or the host’s polite smile or the audience’s nervous laughter every time Soldier Boy said something not fit for primetime. He didn’t blow up, didn’t storm out. He even shot you a sidelong look in the middle of one answer, the tiniest tilt of his mouth that told you he knew exactly how much trouble he was causing. And somehow, somehow, it went well.

You texted Caldwell from the green room: He didn’t swear. Once. The reply was a single thumbs-up emoji, which might as well have been a Nobel Prize from Caldwell.

When it was over, the network wrangler hustled you both down through a service corridor and out into the street, past fans and a few hopeful journalists. Soldier Boy let you lead, which made your skin crawl in a way you didn’t have a name for. The company car was waiting at the curb. You slid into the back seat and Soldier Boy followed, folding himself into the space with a grunt while making the plush interior feel two sizes smaller than before. The door thunked shut, the driver checked the rearview—“Back to the tower?”—and you nodded, your voice small: “Please”.

You didn’t realize how close he was until the car merged into traffic, and you caught the weight of his stare from barely a foot away. Your shoulder almost brushed his. Every shift he made was magnified in the cramped silence. The slow spread of his thighs, the flex of muscle under his pants and the way his hand landed on the seat just behind your back.

You tried to focus on the passing city lights, pretending you didn’t notice his knee bump yours.

“So”, he rumbled, leaning in until you could smell his cologne. “Did I pass your little test?”.

You shook your head, smiling nervously. “It wasn’t… my test”.

“Could’ve fooled me”. He angled himself so he could watch your face, one eyebrow cocked, eyes shining green under the car’s dim lights. “Saw you out there. All stiff and nervous like I was gonna pull a fucking grenade out my ass on live TV”.

You swallowed. “You did fine. Nobody’s fired, so… that’s a win”.

He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You’re shaking”, he observed. “Still scared of me, doll?”.

You pulled your arms tighter around your tablet. “Not scared”.

His hand slid a little closer on the seat, not touching you but close enough you felt the heat. His thigh pressed just barely into yours, as if he was seeing how much you’d tolerate before moving away.

-

A few weeks later, you’d stopped jumping every time your phone buzzed with his name. You still felt little spikes of adrenaline in your chest when SB lit up your screen, but you weren’t dropping things anymore. Progress.

In that time, you’d managed to keep him out of rehab, off the nightly news for the wrong reasons and only mildly canceled on social media. Twice. Which, for Vought, counted as a raging success.

There’d been another live interview. Two photo ops. A “surprise” visit to a veterans’ event you’d had to prep in twenty-four hours and a training session that ended with half the reinforced wall dented and you standing in the doorway pretending you weren’t watching him try not to come apart.

He swore constantly, talked like every sentence was dare and stared at you like you were something he hadn’t decided whether to break or keep yet. But he didn’t blow anything up. He didn’t walk off set. And when you were there with your soft voice, he always pulled back from the edge.

So, you were still here.

Trish had started calling you “The Supe Whisperer” behind your back. “You’re taming a nuclear bear”, she’d said over lunch one day with wide eyes. “Do you have a death wish?”.

You didn’t. Not even a little. You just… had a job. And for all his snarling and leering and lazy, filthy comments, Soldier Boy listened when you talked. Not always and not about everything. But enough that you’d learned the shape of his temper. Like the way it rose fast and ugly and then, if you said the right thing in the right tone, receded just a fraction.

You hated that you were starting to read him that well.

-

Today you were too early. You realized it when you stepped off the private elevator onto “his” floor and the hallway clock read 4:41. The debrief with Caldwell had ended ahead of schedule, Legal miraculously satisfied with his “just let him talk, what’s the worst that could happen” arrangement.

You could’ve gone back to your desk. Answered emails. Pretended you had boundaries. Instead, you found yourself walking toward 87-C.

You told yourself it was better to brief him today than tomorrow. That if you waited, he’d blow off the meeting or ignore the talking points or both. That this was you being proactive, not… whatever else it might look like.

You stopped at his door and pressed your badge to the panel. The little light blinked green. The camera eye watched you. You knocked, a little firmer than the first day. You didn’t get a verbal reply. But the door opened. He wasn’t naked this time. Just… half-dressed. Again. Dark jeans, button fly undone. Bare torso, skin still sheened with sweat, hair pushed back and damp. You wondered if he ever wore normal clothes all the way.

“Four fucking forty-something”, he said, squinting past you at the hallway clock like it had personally offended him. “You early or am I late?”.

You held up the folder a little. “Early. I can come back if you’re—”. “Relax, doll”, he cut in, stepping back from the doorway. “You already saw my dick swinging at eight a.m. once. Kinda hard to top that”.

You felt your face heat immediately. Your brain helpfully supplied the memory. You pushed it away. Hard. “I have tomorrow’s schedule”, you said, crossing the threshold. “And the notes from PR about the charity gala. Caldwell wants you to at least pretend to read them”.

“Caldwell can kiss my—”. He stopped himself, smirk tilting. “See? I’m learning. Using my fucking indoor voice”.

The suite was, surprisingly, less of a disaster than usual. There were still empty bottles on the coffee table, but fewer. The cracked TV was off. The curtains were half-open, letting late-afternoon light spill across the carpet in gold stripes.

You tried not to stare at the line of his spine as he walked ahead of you toward the couch. It was ridiculous, how aware you were of the space he took up. How small and breakable you felt next to that much… everything.

He flopped down onto the couch with one arm along the back and his legs sprawling. You took the armchair across from him, smoothing your skirt automatically before you sat. You perched on the edge instead of sinking back while you balanced your folder on your knees like a shield.

“Alright, sweetheart”, he said, nodding at the papers. “Hit me”.

You opened the folder. “Tomorrow: training at ten. Media availability at two. Charity gala at seven. Red carpet, photos, one short speech”.

“No”, he said immediately. “You want a speech, you write it and get some cocksucker in a tux to read it”. You didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t already Plan B. “And the guests?”, he asked, reaching for a bottle on the table and finding it empty. He made a face, dropped it back with a clink. “Who am I smiling at this time?”.

“Donors. Executives. And some celebrities”. You flipped a page. “They’re positioning it as ‘America’s First Gives Back’. Benefits Vought’s veteran outreach”.

He snorted. “Yeah. Bet all those guys living under overpasses feel real fucking good about me posing with canapés and plastic tits”.

Your stomach twisted. “You could… say something about that. If you wanted”.

He looked at you with one of his eyebrow raised. “On camera?”.

“On camera”, you said quietly.

“You trying to get me blacklisted from my own party?”.

“I’m just… saying you don’t have to follow the script”, you murmured. “Not exactly. People believe you more when you sound like… you”.

He watched you for a beat too long. You forced yourself not to look away, hands pressed flat against the folder so he wouldn’t see them shake.

“Careful”, he said finally. “Start talking like that, they’re gonna think I’ve rubbed off on you”.

Your face flamed. You dropped your eyes back to the papers, your teeth pressing into your lower lip.

“Relax”, he added softer. “You’re doing that fucking turtle thing again”.

You blinked. “What… turtle thing?”.

He mimicked you. Shoulders hunching, chin tucking down toward his chest, eyes going wide and darting away. It was a terrible impression and also… painfully accurate.

You let out a small, unwilling laugh. “I don’t do that”.

“Uh-huh”. His mouth quirked. “Next time I’ll get you a shell. Complete the look”.

You shook your head, looking back down at the schedule so he wouldn’t see the way your lips wanted to curl. “The dress code is formal”, you said. “They’ll send up a suit for you to try”.

He groaned. “They wanna put me in a fucking suit again? Thought the whole point of this comeback crap was ‘raw and authentic’”.

“Authentic with a bowtie”, you said before you could swallow the joke.

He stared at you. You panicked internally. Had you gone too far? Was that disrespectful? Was— He laughed. It burst out of him, short and loud and real. You felt it all the way in your chest. “See?”, he said. “Knew there was something under all that vanilla”.

You stared down at the folder, heartbeat skipping in ways that had nothing to do with fear. You’d gotten braver. You could admit that to yourself, at least. You still hovered, still second-guessed, still folded in on yourself whenever anyone raised their voice. But around him, something had… shifted. Maybe because he hadn’t thrown you out a window the first week. Maybe because you’d watched him stop himself, again and again, when he was looking at you.

He’d still said awful things. He still opened his mouth and let filth fall out just to see you blush. He still flouted every rule Vought tried to hand him. But he hadn’t directed that sharp, dangerous temper at you. Not once. He made the room feel unsafe and safer all at once, and you had no idea what that said about you.

You were flipping to the next page when he shifted on the couch.

“Stand up”, he said.

You blinked. “What?”,

He gestured with two fingers. “Up. Lemme see”.

You clutched the folder a little tighter. “See… what?”.

“The outfit”, he said, as if that were obvious. “You gonna wear that tomorrow?”.

You looked down at yourself. Same pencil skirt. Different cardigan. Soft pink this time, over a white camisole. Your heels were in your bag; you’d been at your desk most of the afternoon. “I hadn’t… thought that far ahead”, you admitted.

“Stand up”, he repeated.

You hesitated a second and then pushed to your feet, feeling absurdly like you were in line for inspection. Heat crept up your neck as you smoothed your hands down the front of your skirt.

He let his gaze travel. Slow and thorough. But it was different tonight. Less like he was trying to make you squirm for fun, more like he was cataloguing something for reasons he hadn’t decided to share. “Turn around”, he said.

“Soldier Boy—”.

“Relax, doll. I’m not asking you to strip and rub my dick. Just lemme see”.

You bit the inside of your cheek and did as he asked, turning in a small, awkward circle. The hem of your skirt tugged at your thighs. You fought the urge to tug it back down.

He made a thoughtful sound. “You got anything… dunno… sparkly?”.

You frowned over your shoulder at him. “Sparkly?”.

“It’s a gala”, he said. “They’re gonna throw you in some corner with the other office drones if you show up looking like you’re about to file their taxes”. His mouth tilted. “You got a dress? Something that doesn’t look like HR picked it out?”.

“I don’t… really go to parties”, you said, facing him again. “Or… own party dresses”.

“Figures”. He scratched his jaw, eyeing you like a problem he meant to solve. “What size are you?”.

Your face went nuclear. “I— I don’t—”.

He waved a hand, dismissive. “Forget it. I know already”.

You stared. “How would you… know already?”.

He gave you a look like you’d asked if water was wet. “Been lookin’ at tits longer than you’ve been alive. I can eyeball a size from across the damn room”.

That somehow made it worse. You opened your mouth, closed it again. Your fingers twitched against the folder, wanting something to hide behind. “I don’t need a dress”, you said quickly. “I’m staff. I’ll be in the back with the comms team—”.

“No”, he cut in sharp. “You’re not”. You blinked. “I’m… not?”.

He lounged back into the couch. “Already told ’em I’m not doing their little dog-and-pony show without my handler”. His mouth curled. “They wanted to stick me with some plastic-looking blonde from marketing for ‘optics’. I said no. I pick my own”.

Your heart stuttered. “Pick your own… what?”. His eyes dragged over you meaningfully. “Arm candy”.

The words hit you like a slap and a shove at the same time. “I—I’m not—”. You choked on the rest. Not arm candy. Not the type. Not for you.

He smirked. “Calm down. You won´t climb on my lap in front of the cameras. You stand there, look pretty, smile at the old rich assholes. They feel important, I don’t punch anybody. That’s what they call a win-win”.

“I don’t… look…”. The word pretty lodged in your throat like it didn’t belong there.

He snorted. “You got any idea how you looked on that live hit? Little blouse, big eyes, shaking like a leaf but still mouthing ‘no’ at me when I almost said ‘shit’?”. He shook his head. “You’re sweet, doll. That’s the job”.

You wanted to sink through the floor. “I’m not…”, you tried again, voice tiny. “That’s not… I’m not arm candy”.

He tilted his head. “No? What are you then?”.

“I’m your PR contact”, you said, clinging to the phrase like a lifeline. “I’m here to… manage your schedule. Help with messaging. Not—”. “Messaging”, he repeated dry. “That what they call it when they send you in to keep me from telling the truth?”.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. It wasn’t that simple and you both knew it.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Look, doll. Vought’s gonna put somebody next to me tomorrow. They always do. Makes the pictures look balanced, like I’m not gonna fucking snap and start throwing tables”.

“That’s… graphic”, you muttered.

He ignored it. “Point is, I’d rather it be someone who doesn’t make me wanna drive my head through a fucking wall”.

You blinked. “And that’s… me”. He shrugged. “Could be worse”.

Somewhere inside, past the embarrassment and the panic and the little voice screaming this is wildly inappropriate, something warm flickered.

“I don’t know how to… do that”, you admitted, fingers worrying the edge of the folder. “Be… arm candy”.

He snorted. “You stand there and exist. You already do that just fine”.

“That’s not…”. You exhaled sharply, trying to put it into words. “I don’t go to galas. Or… parties. I don’t know where to look, or what to say, or who you’re supposed to shake hands with first. I’m going to mess it up”.

He watched you as you spiraled, the way your shoulders crept up, how you slowly folded in on yourself like you were trying to vanish between your cardigan and your skirt. Even more than usually.

“Hey”, he said, a little rougher. You looked up, startled. His eyes locked on yours. “You just gotta stay next to me and not run off when some asshole tries to corner you about brand synergy or whatever the fuck. I handle the rest”.

“That’s… not comforting”, you said, but your voice shook less.

He smirked. “I’ll be good”.

You raised an eyebrow before you could stop yourself. “You don’t… do good”.

That actually made him laugh. “Oh, you’re cute”. He reached for the bottle on the table again, remembered it was empty, and let his hand drop. For a second his wrist brushed his own knee, knuckles whitening like he wanted something in them… glass, a neck, anything. Then he looked back at you. “Listen, sweetheart”, he said. “I’ve spent decades in rooms like that. They’re all the same. Too much cologne, not enough spine. You just stick close, let me know if anyone says something that makes you wanna throw up in your own mouth. I’ll make ’em stop”.

There was something disturbingly comforting about the way he said it. Brutal and simple and absolute.

“Anyway”, he said, like you’d just agreed to a lunch order, “I’ll send one of the little assistants over to your place later with a dress”.

You blinked. “You’ll— what?”.

“A dress”, he repeated, slower, like he was checking for a language barrier. “Y’know. Pretty piece of fabric, makes donors open their wallets. I’ll pick one, they’ll drop it off. You put it on, we go smile for the cameras. Easy”.

Your brain kind of fuzzed out on I’ll pick one. “You’re… choosing my clothes now?”, you managed.

He smirked. “You say it like it’s a bad thing”.

“Because it is”, you said, before your self-preservation could kick in. “That’s not— you can’t just decide what I’m going to wear”.

His eyes flicked over you again, quick and unapologetic. “You’re doing a hell of a job deciding beige so far”.

Your cheeks burned. You glanced down at your skirt. “There’s nothing wrong with beige”.

“There is if you’re standing next to me”, he said.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.

He settled deeper into the couch, eyes dragging lazily down and back up like he had all the time in the world to make you squirm. “Means”, he said, “if I’ve gotta haul my sorry ass into a tux and stand under hot lights while rich assholes pretend they give a fuck about vets, the least they can give me is a decent view”.

You blinked. “A… view”.

“Don’t play dumb, doll”. His mouth ticked up. “You got a sweet little body under all those cardigans. Be a fucking shame not to show it off”.

Your brain tripped over sweet little body like it had hit black ice. You’d never thought of yourself that way. You knew what bodies looked like at Vought… tall, sculpted, all impossible curves and legs that went on forever. Starlight in her gold suit. The PR execs in their sleek dresses that never wrinkled, glossy hair and glossy smiles. You were… not that. Your chest was nothing to write home about, thighs that didn’t magically not touch, a stomach that was soft when you sat down. You bought padded bras and high-waisted skirts and lived in fabrics that draped more than they clung because it was easier not to think about whether anyone was looking. The idea of that being something to “show off” made your stomach do a weird, swoopy thing.

“There’s nothing… to show”, you muttered.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, see, that’s where you’re full of fucking shit”.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”.

He pointed at you with two fingers, casual, annoyingly sure of himself. “You think I don’t notice the way every guy in that bullpen suddenly finds a reason to walk past when you´re there? Or the intern who almost walked into a wall staring at your legs last week?”.

Heat slammed into your face. “He tripped”. “Yeah”, he said. “Over his own growing balls”.

You wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that nobody noticed you, that half the time you felt like furniture with a badge. But you remembered the intern’s pink ears, the way he’d stammered out an apology without quite looking at you, and the words died in your throat. “It doesn’t matter what they’re looking at”, you said instead, too fast. “I’m there to work”.

“Sure you are”. He leaned forward a little, forearms on his knees. The motion brought him closer, shrinking the space between you. “But tomorrow night, you’re there to work for me. Which means I get to say no beige, no funeral clothes and no hiding behind some ugly-ass blazer”.

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the folder, feeling shame coil even tighter in your chest. Ugly-ass blazer. You didn’t think you’d ever liked your wardrobe, but you hadn’t thought it was ugly. Not until he said it.

But of course Soldier Boy wasn’t about being gentle or soft or letting things down easy. He was a weapon. Made for war, not comfort. If something needed to be said, he said it. If it hurt, well, you were supposed to get stronger or get out of the way.

You swallowed and nodded, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, not with a man like him, not with years of learning how to take up less space. So you took a breath, made yourself let it go. There were emails to send, a cat waiting for you at home and a dress on the way that you’d probably hate but had to wear anyway. “Alright”, you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll try whatever you send”.

He watched you closely, like he expected you to break or maybe hoped you wouldn’t. When you didn’t, when you just stood there, small and still but not running, his mouth ticked up at the corner. “Good girl”.

-

By the time you got home, your brain felt like it had been left in the microwave too long. You went through the motions on autopilot. Keys in the dish, shoes off by the door and bag dropped next to the couch. Marmalade trotted out from wherever she slept her afternoons away, tail high and rubbed shamelessly against your ankles. “Hey, menace”, you murmured, bending to scoop her up. She flopped into your arms like a sack of warm sand, purring obnoxiously loud. “You’re the only one who likes my cardigans”. She blinked slowly, smug and unconcerned.

You barely managed to shove a slice of toast into your mouth, when your buzzer went. You froze with crumbs on your fingers and Marmalade twining between your ankles like she’d been the one expecting company. You glanced at the clock above the microwave. 7:12 p.m. Nobody rang your bell at 7:12 p.m.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and shuffled over to the intercom, thumb hesitating over the button. “…Hello?”, you said, voice doing that embarrassing little wobble.

“Vought delivery”, a bored male voice answered. “Signature required”.

Your stomach dropped. Right. You’d said yes. You buzzed him in.

A minute later there was a knock at your door. You checked the peephole out of habit. A guy in his twenties and windbreaker with the Vought logo over his heart. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else but here.

You opened the door a crack, chain still on. “Yes?”.

He lifted an eyebrow, then held up a garment bag. It took up most of your doorway. Sleek black, thick plastic, the kind real people used when they traveled first class. In his other hand was a smaller branded shopping bag, the kind that meant trouble. “Delivery for…”, he glanced at the tag, mangling your last name, “from Wardrobe, per special request”.

“Special… request”, you echoed faintly.

He sighed. “Look, lady, I’m just the mule. You sign, I drop, I go back to pretending the seventieth floor doesn’t exist”.

You undid the chain and opened the door fully. The garment bag seemed to grow as he stepped in, the bottom nearly brushing your floor. “Um—just there is fine”, you said, backing up to let him lean it against the wall.

He set the black bag down with a grunt, then handed you a clipboard and a pen.

You looked at the line: your name, your address, the word WARDROBE and then, in a different handwriting, a note in the margin: SB – PERSONAL. Your pulse jumped.

You scribbled your signature before he could say anything. He handed you the smaller bag that was heavier than it looked.

You shut the door slowly and Marmalade immediately trotted over to investigate, nose pressing curiously against the garment bag.

“No”, you said. “Absolutely not. You are not claiming the most expensive thing I’ve ever touched as a scratching post”. You nudged her gently aside and eased the bag upright, fingers tracing the slick material. Your heart hammered absurdly hard for something as simple as opening a zipper. You pulled it down.

The dress inside wasn’t Vought wardrobe.

You knew that instantly. Not from the color or the shape, but from the way the fabric hung. It didn’t drape like polyester or synthetic satin. It fell in a clean, liquid line, the kind of weight that said the price tag had more digits than your rent.

You reached in with careful hands and eased it out. Dark green. At first glance it looked simple. No beading, no rhinestones, no obvious branding. But the cut— You swallowed. Thin straps. A neckline that wasn’t obscene, but wasn’t safe either, low enough you knew you’d be hyper-aware of every breath. The bodice nipped in at the waist, the skirt skimming over hips and thighs before flaring slightly just above the knee. There was a slit, a modest one, but still… a slit.

You caught sight of the tag. You recognized the name, even if you’d only seen it on red-carpet coverage and in the fashion pages you pretended not to read in the break room. You exhaled, a little weak. “Oh my God”.

You checked the other side of the bag on autopilot. No second option, no backup. Just this one dress. You knew in that moment Vought hadn’t paid for this. Caldwell would sooner burn the building down than sign off on this label for a handler.

You glanced at the smaller bag, your stomach sinking, already sure and still not ready. The box inside was matte black with that same designer logo stamped on top. Under it, nested in tissue paper, a thinner velvet case.

You opened the shoe box first. They were black and unmistakable: red lacquer flashing on the soles like a siren. The heel wasn’t insane, but it wasn’t modest either. They looked like the kind of shoes that could ruin your life and your ankles at the same time. You picked one up, thumb running over the arch, feeling a little faint.

Marmalade tried to rub her face against the heel. You yanked it back out of range. “Do you have any idea how much these cost?”, you whispered at her. “Because I don’t. But it’s a lot”. She blinked clearly unconcerned.

You set the shoe down like it was made of glass and reached for the velvet case with hands that were just barely steady. The clasp clicked open. Diamonds. Not the sparklier-than-usual cubic zirconia the Vought party stash used. Real ones. The bracelet lay in the little groove like it lived there, bright. Between were a matching pair of earrings.

There was a folded piece of Vought-branded paper. You hesitated, then unfolded it.

Try it on.

That was it. No name. No from Soldier Boy, no you’re welcome, no smiley face. Just three words that somehow felt like he was standing in the room.

You sat back on your heels on the living room rug with the dress pooled in your lap, diamonds winking from the coffee table, shoes on the floorboards and tried very hard not to freak out.

“This is insane”, you told the cat.

You stared at the dress again. The way the waist narrowed in. The thought of your body in this thing made your throat close.

This had to be from his own pocket. There was no way Vought signed off on this when wardrobe already had a sponsorship deal with some mid-tier designer who gave them ten red carpet looks for the price of one of these.

You were still staring at the diamonds like they might bite when your phone buzzed across the coffee table.

FaceTime: Trish

You considered not answering. You considered throwing the phone in the laundry basket and pretending you’d fallen asleep at 7:30 like someone with a head injury. Instead, you swiped accept.

Her face filled the screen. She took one look at you, at the garment bag behind you, at the way you were sitting on the rug like you’d been dropped there, and groaned.

“Oh my God, you look like someone just told you you’re drafted”, she said. “Is this about tomorrow? Are you panicking? Blink twice if you’re panicking”.

“I’m… fine”, you lied.

“You’re absolutely not”. Her gaze slid past you. “What´s in the bag?”.

You glanced over your shoulder. You lifted the phone, turned it so she could see the coffee table with the Louboutins and the velvet case.

“Holy shit.”

You gave her a small, helpless shrug.

“Is that—”, she leaned closer, squinting at the shoes, “those are red soles. Those are the ones I have to scroll past on Instagram because they make my bank account cry”.

You set the phone back down so she could see your face again. “There’s also this”, you said, holding up the velvet case and cracking it open.

Her eyes bugged. “Oh cool, love that for you. You’re about to get murdered and rolled into a Hudson River gift bag”.

“They’re real, right?”, you asked quietly. “They look… real”.

“They look illegal”, she said. “Okay, back up—did wardrobe send this, or did… he send this?”.

Your stomach twisted. “The shipping slip said SB – personal”, you admitted.

She slapped a hand over her facemask. “Oh my God. Oh my God. He bought you diamonds?”.

You winced. “When you say it like that I want to throw up”.

“Yeah, that’s fair”. She took a sip of wine through the little mouth gap in her mask. “Okay. Okay. Pros and cons. Pro: you are now the proud temporary owner of enough resale value to pay off your student loans. Con: it’s from a man who does cocaine for breakfast”.

You huffed a weak laugh. “I don’t think you’re helping”.

“Show me the dress”, she said laser-focused.

You hesitated, then stood, propping the phone up against the lamp base so she got a slightly skewed view of the room. You walked over, slipped the hanger off the hook, and turned.

Trish actually made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a swear. “Okay”, she said, voice gone almost reverent. “Okay, that’s not a dress, that’s a weapon”.

“It’s missing… a lot of fabric”.

“It’s missing nothing it needs”, she countered. “Look at that waist. And the slit? And the color? You’re gonna look like a poisonous plant”.

“That’s not comforting”, you said.

“It’s the only kind of comforting I offer”, she replied. “Try it on”.

You froze. “Right now?”.

“Yes, right now. You think you’re gonna be less terrified if you wait until five minutes before the car gets here tomorrow?”.

She had a point. You hated that she had a point. You glanced at the closed bedroom door. “If it doesn’t fit, I’m going to spontaneously combust”.

“If it doesn’t fit, I’m marching down to Vought and shoving it up his—”. “Please do not finish that sentence”, you cut in.

She grinned. “Go. I’ll stay on. Angle me at the mirror. I will coach”.

You scooped up the dress and your phone, retreating to the bedroom with Marmalade trotting along, clearly pleased that the evening had turned into enrichment time.

You set the phone on your dresser, propped against a stack of old paperbacks so the front-facing camera caught most of the room. Trish gave you two thumbs-up from her tiny rectangle.

“Alright”, you muttered to yourself, to her and to the dress. “Here goes nothing”.

You shimmed out of your banana pajamas, folded them out of sheer muscle memory, and hung the dress on the closet door knob. Up close, it was even more obscene in its quality. The zipper glided under your hand without catching once. The lining felt cool and expensive and not at all like the fast-fashion dresses you’d tried on for office parties and put back on the rack because they made you feel like an overstuffed sausage.

You stepped into it carefully, one hand on the wall for balance. The fabric slid up your legs like water. You pulled the bodice into place, heart hammering, and reached back for the zipper, fingers fumbling.

“Need help?”, Trish’s voice floated over. “Do I need to order you one of those dressing maids off Etsy?”.

“I’m fine”, you grunted, lying. Your arms were shaking. The zipper inched up, inch by inch, the dress closing around you in a slow, inevitable hug.

It fit. You turned toward the mirror and forgot how to breathe.

The green made your skin look warmer, your eyes brighter. The neckline framed your collarbones, hint of cleavage that made your cheeks heat just looking at it. The waist actually looked like a waist, nipped in clean. The skirt skimmed your hips instead of clinging or hanging limp, and the slit flashed a teasing slice of thigh when you shifted your weight. Your legs looked… long. Not objectively. But longer than you’d ever seen them.

You squeezed your fists at your sides, feeling the unfamiliar absence of sleeves. Your arms were bare. Your shoulders were bare. There was nowhere to hide.

Trish was silent. Alarmingly silent.

“Say something”, you whispered.

Her hand came up, dragging the sheet mask a little askew. “Okay”, she said slowly. “Don’t freak out, but… you look hot”.

Your instinct was to laugh, deflect, protest. “No, I don’t. I look—”. “You look hot”, she repeated firmly. “Like, ‘who’s the mystery date and how did he pull that off’ hot”.

You stared at the mirror, at the little dip of your waist, the curve of your hips. At the way you weren’t… disappearing. “I feel naked”, you said.

“You’re covered from collarbone to knee”, she said. “You’re just not buried alive in knitwear. There’s a difference”.

You swallowed. Your throat felt tight. “What if they stare?”, you asked, voice small.

“They should!”, she said.

“I don’t know if I can do this”, you whispered.

Trish softened. “Hey”, she said. “Listen. You go, you stand next to America’s Most Traumatized Action Figure, you smile at some rich people, you eat a free canapé, and you go home. That’s it. You’re not there to impress them. You’re there because he didn’t want a plastic marketing bot. He wanted you. Cardigans, panic and all”.

Your chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the dress. “He doesn’t… want me”, you said, heat crawling up your neck. “He wants a prop that doesn’t annoy him”.

“Sure”, she said unconvinced. “And I buy wine for the antioxidants”.

You looked at yourself again. At the way your shoulders curled in by habit, how your chin dipped, how your hands kept wanting to find something to clutch. You forced your shoulders back, just an inch. Lifted your chin. The reflection changed. Not completely. You were still small. Still soft. Still obviously someone who worked too much and slept too little and had a cat instead of a social life. But you didn’t look like you were apologizing for existing. You looked like someone who could, maybe, believe that a man like him might spend too much money on a dress and send it to your shitty apartment with two words and the expectation that you’d wear it because he’d said so.

“Okay”, you said again, barely audible.

“You’re gonna knock him on his handsome ass”, Trish said smug.

“Please don’t say that”, you said weakly. “He’ll take it as a challenge”.

She cackled. “True. Alright, twirl. Let me see the back”.

You did, feeling ridiculous, the slit flashing as you turned. The back dipped lower than you expected. You caught sight of the line of your spine, the slope of your shoulder blades. Vulnerable.

“Damn”, Trish muttered. “He is going to lose what’s left of his tiny mind”.

You flushed so hard you could feel your pulse in your ears. “He sees women like this all the time”.

“Yeah”, she said. “´But not in his clothes”.

You swallowed. “They’re not his clothes”.

She gave you a look. “You keep telling yourself that”.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: You try it on or am I wasting my philanthropy here, doll?

You almost dropped the phone. Trish leaned in until her forehead nearly bonked the inside of your screen. “Is that him?”.

“Yes”, you hissed. “Shut up”.

YOU: Yes. It fits.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah?

You bit your lip. YOU: Yeah.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Good. I bought it.

Your chest did that weird, traitor squeeze again.

YOU: You shouldn’t have spend money on me

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: I wanted to.

You stared at that for a long, long second. Then, impulsively, before you could think better of it, you lifted the phone, switched to the front camera, and snapped the quickest photo you could. Just from the collarbone down, head cut off, no face. It showed the neckline, the green against your skin, the way the bodice fit. Your heart tried to escape through your ribs as you attached it.

YOU: So you know your “philanthropy” wasn’t wasted

Trish made a strangled, delighted sound. “You did not just—”. You did. It was gone. Delivered. You paced the length of your bedroom and back, nearly tripping over the cat as you waited for the dots. They popped up almost instantly. Stayed. Stayed.

UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Jesus. UNKNOWN VOUGHT ID: Yeah. That’ll do.

Your knees nearly gave out. You sank onto the edge of the bed, green fabric pooling around your thighs, phone clutched in your hand and your pulse roaring in your ears.

Trish was staring at you, mask askew, eyes wide. “Well?”, she demanded.

“He said…”. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathless. “He said ‘that’ll do’”.

She stared another second. Then burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh my God”, she wheezed. “He’s such an asshole. And you are so gone”.

“I am not”, you protested, but it sounded thin even to you.

She softened again, looking at you over the edge of her wine glass. “Just… be careful, okay? He’s a walking trauma factory with a pretty face and the highest bodycount in history. And I´m not talking about dead bodies”.

“I know”, you said quietly.

“And you’re… you”, she went on. “You apologize to chairs when you bump into them. You were not designed for… this”.

“I know”, you repeated.

But as you sat there in a dress bought by a man who’d once scared you so much you shook holding your tablet, feeling the weight of diamonds waiting on the coffee table and the echo of I wanted to in your chest, you also knew something else: You weren’t backing out. Not of the gala. Not of the car ride. Not of walking in next to him and pretending you weren’t terrified. You’d been small and safe and invisible for a long time.

Tomorrow night, for whatever twisted, dangerous reason, a volatile, exhausted, impossible man had decided you were going to be seen. And despite everything—despite knowing better—part of you wanted that. Wanted him to see you.

“All I have to do”, you whispered, more to yourself than to Trish, “is get through the night”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 3

-

You’d learned a long time ago that if you walked fast, carried a tablet and looked mildly stressed, nobody questioned why you were anywhere. So you moved down the 82nd floor hallway with your usual careful speed, hugging your stylus to your chest and kept your eyes on the glowing Vought-blue carpet lights instead of the framed posters of The Seven staring down at you like disappointed parents. The PR bullpen buzzed behind glass with ringing phones and clackingkeyboards.

You were almost to your desk when Trish leaned over her monitor and hissed your name. You paused, clutch tightening around the stylus. “Yeah?”, you answered, soft enough that she had to lean closer to hear.

“Caldwell wants you”, she said, jerking her chin toward the corner office. The blinds were half-closed, but you could see his outline, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. “He’s been on a call with Legal for, like, twenty minutes. Have fun”.

Your stomach dipped. Caldwell only called people in for two reasons: you’d screwed up… or he was about to make your life worse.

You nodded, throat a little dry and changed direction. The door was half-open. You stopped, smoothed your blouse with your free hand and knocked lightly with your knuckles.

“Yeah”, came his voice, clipped and irritated.

You slipped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. Caldwell stood by the window, navy suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Up close, you could see the sheen of sweat at his hairline. On his screen, a muted news feed rolled. Fire and smoke and the big white letters: SOLDIER BOY: AMERICA’S FIRST HERO RETURNS. You stared at the chyron for half a heartbeat too long.

“Sit”, Caldwell said, dropping into his chair. He rubbed his temples for exactly three seconds, then locked his gaze on you. “You’re… ah—”. He glanced down at the corner of his monitor where your HR profile was pulled up.

You gave him your name. “PR assistant, floor 82. I help with—”. “The social copy, yeah, yeah. You do the cute captions and the emails and whatever”. He waved a hand. “You’ve been here… what, a year?”.

“Fourteen months”, you said quietly. You weren’t sure why you added the extra two, but they felt important. Like you were trying to prove you could endure.

“Right”. He slapped his palms against his thighs. “You’re getting a reassignment”.

“Did I—”.

“You’re not in trouble”, he cut in. “Actually, Legal likes you. You follow directions. You don’t tweet”. He squinted at the screen. “You don’t tweet, right?”.

You shook your head quickly. “No, sir”.

“Good. Don’t start”. He hit a key and your profile minimized; another window replaced it: a deck about the Soldier Boy ‘Legacy Campaign’, all glossy renders and slogans. AMERICA’S FIRST, AMERICA’S BEST. Your pulse kicked up a notch.

“We’ve got a situation upstairs”, Caldwell said. “You know about the comeback, obviously”.

You nodded. You’d spent the last two weeks editing press releases that stretched the word hero to the breaking point.

“He’s… high-maintenance”, Caldwell went on. There was a tiny, bitter smile at the corner of his mouth that told you high-maintenance was the polite version. “Every assistant we’ve tried to put on him has resigned within a week. One filed for workers’ comp. One’s in therapy. One’s… Well, no one has seen her in quite a while”.

“Is he… hurting them?”. The question slipped out before you could swallow it.

Caldwell made a face. “Not physically. HR would’ve had a field day. But he’s… He’s a lot. And right now, a lot of our usual senior handlers are tied up with the new Seven’s promo. So”. He steepled his fingers, looking like he really wanted to be somewhere else. “We need somebody… low-profile. Someone who listens more than they talk. Someone who won’t… antagonize him”. You swallowed. “You’re quiet”, he said simply, like it was a line item on a spreadsheet. “You’re good with details. You aren’t… intimidating”. His eyes flicked over your small frame, the cardigan you wore even though the building was warm, the shy eyes. “You’re not going to try and tell him how to be a star. He hates that”.

Your heart thudded dully against your ribs. “What exactly would I be doing?”.

“Scheduling. Filtering comms. Making sure he shows up where we need him and doesn’t murder any photographers”. Caldwell shrugged. “You’ll be his PR point of contact. You report to me, but he thinks you report to him. That’s important”.

You blinked. “You want him to think he’s my boss”.

“We’re letting him feel like his own man this time”, Caldwell said, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “He’s technically ‘leading his own legacy brand’. It makes him more… compliant. Less likely to throw cars. You just… be nice. Keep him pointed at the right cameras”.

Nice. You could do nice. You’d lived your life around sharp edges and raised voices by learning exactly how soft you had to be not to set things off. Still, your fingers trembled a little as you folded them in your lap. “Do I… have a choice?”.

Caldwell grimaced. “Between this and going back to writing A-Train’s Instagram captions about heart health? Not really”.

You thought of your empty apartment. The microwave dinners and the stupid plant that kept dying no matter where you moved it, and the way your cat, Marmalade, slept pressed against your ribs like you were the last warm thing on earth. You also thought of the rent increase notice sitting neatly on your kitchen counter. “No”, you said, forcing a tiny smile. “I guess I don’t”.

“Great”. Relief washed over his features so fast it almost stung. He slid a glossy badge across the desk. It had your photo on it, but the access level was higher. “This gets you to his floor, his suite, the private training areas. Don’t use any of that without explicit instructions. And if he tells you to do anything that sounds… illegal, don’t write it down. Come to me”.

You picked up the badge.

“Oh, and one more thing”. Caldwell leaned back, chair creaking. “Don’t take it personally if he’s an fucking asshole. That’s… him”.

You left his office with the new badge clipped to your cardigan and your old one tucked carefully into your bag. The bullpen noise seemed louder now, as if the entire floor knew and was pretending not to stare.

Trish looked up when you passed. “Well?”, she stage-whispered.

You paused, eyes on the floor. “I’m going upstairs”, you murmured.

Her eyebrows shot up. “To the museum?”.

That’s what everyone called it. Those restricted floors above the main corporate hive, where Vought kept relics and special projects and anyone too dangerous to let wander.

“Soldier Boy”, you added even quieter.

Trish let out a low whistle. “Shit. They must really hate you”.

You managed a small laugh, because that was what you were supposed to do. “Guess so”.

-

Inside the elevator, you watched the numbers climb: 83, 84, 85. Your ears popped faintly. You’d read his file, of course. They’d given you an abridged version hastily sanitized for internal PR use. War hero. Patriot. Long absence due to classified operations. Re-entry to public life pending controlled rollout.

They left out the parts that leaked online. The grainy footage, the conspiracy threads, the rage-filled posts from people whose parents and grandparents remembered a very different man than the one in the old posters. You’d seen those too.

The elevator chimed softly and the doors slid open into a carpeted hallway that was very unlike the chaotic bullpen downstairs. It was quiet up here. Too quiet.

Your new badge unlocked the glass security door with a single beep. A guard glanced up from his stool behind a desk, eyes flicking from your face to the screen in front of him. He checked your name against something you couldn’t see, then nodded once.

“Suite 87-C”, he said. “End of the hall, last door on the right. You buzz in. If he doesn’t answer, you go away. You don’t knock. You don’t try again”.

“Yes, sir”, you murmured, even though the “sir” felt odd. You weren’t used to talking to people who carried guns.

The hallway smelled faintly of industrial cleaner and some lingering cologne that was too heavy, too old-fashioned. Framed photos lined one wall: black-and-white shots of Soldier Boy in the ‘40s, grinning with his shield slung over his back; a color one from the ‘80s, all forced smiles.

You stopped at the last door. There was a sleek panel beside it, a little camera eye watching. Your heart hammered loud enough that you were sure the microphone picked it up. You nudged the buzzer with your knuckle. There was a pause. Then, from behind the door, a crash. Glass? Metal? It was hard to tell. A muffled voice swore, edged with something that sounded like a growl. You almost stepped back. Almost.

A second later the lock thunked and the door swung open. He filled the doorway.

You’d seen his face a hundred times in edited footage and restored posters, but the real thing was different. Bigger. More… present. Broad shoulders in a dark green shirt with the sleeves pushed up, forearms thick with muscle and marked by faint scars that didn’t show on camera. Stubble shading his jaw. Hair a little too long, a little too messy, like he’d run his hands through it until it stayed wherever it fell. His eyes were what caught you, though. Not the vivid color the marketing decks liked to exaggerate, but a tired, bright green that flicked over you in one quick sweep and then narrowed.

You realized you were staring and snapped your gaze down to somewhere around his collarbone.

He smelled like sweat and smoke, layered over an expensive aftershave that didn’t quite cover the rest. “Who the fuck are you?”, he asked.

Your throat tried to lock up. You forced it open. “I’m—”. You gave your name, stumbling just a little over the first syllable. “From PR. They… assigned me to you. As your…”. You hesitated, then remembered Caldwell’s wording. “Point of contact”.

Something in his expression twitched. Not quite a flinch, not quite a smirk. “They send another fucking babysitter, huh”, he said. His voice was lower than you expected, with a rasp that scraped lightly against your nerves. “The fuck happened to the last one? She finally grow a fucking spine and quit or she just get tired of choking on my balls?".

You swallowed. “I… I don’t know, sir”.

He snorted. “Don’t call me ‘sir’. Makes me feel like I’m back in fuckin’ boot camp”. He stepped back from the door without inviting you in but also without closing it, which you decided to take as permission. “It’s Soldier Boy. Or… whatever the hell they’ve got on the posters these days”.

“Just Soldier Boy, sir”, you heard yourself say before you could stop, the PR script reflexive. “America’s First, America’s Best”.

His mouth curled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. That”.

You stepped inside. The suite looked less like the polished living spaces they showed on the behind-the-scenes specials and more like a hotel room someone had been living in too long. Curtains half-open, letting in a slant of afternoon light that caught dust motes in the air. A coffee table crowded with empty bottles, takeout containers, and a remote with its back missing. One of the flat-screens on the wall was cracked down the middle.

The air was warm, bordering on stuffy. Music played faintly from somewhere. A rock song from decades ago, tinny through a speaker.

You shifted your tablet to your other hand, suddenly very aware of how out of place you looked with your neat skirt.

He shut the door with a thud and walked past you, dropping into an armchair that creaked under his weight. “So”, he said, leaning back and letting his eyes drift over you again, slower this time. Measuring. “What are you? Twenty? You look like you´re barely out of fucking diapers”.

You shook your head. “Twenty-three”.

“Same fucking thing”. He snorted, scratched his jaw while gaze lingering on your hands where they gripped the tablet. “Jesus Christ. You look like you’re about to faint”.

“I’m not”, you said, voice coming out barely above a whisper.

One corner of his mouth ticked up. “Sure you’re not”.

Your cheeks warmed. You looked down at your screen, opening the schedule app more for something to do than because you thought he cared.

“I have your upcoming media appearances”, you managed. “And some talking points from PR. We were hoping to go over—”. He made a sharp noise that was technically a laugh but felt more like a shove. “Yeah, that’s not happening”.

You blinked, fingers freezing on the tablet. “I’m sorry?”.

“You’re not sorry yet, doll”.

The word hit you like someone had flicked your ear. Soft, almost lazy, but aimed perfectly. You’d heard men say it in movies. No one had ever said it to you. Heat flared under your skin, embarrassingly fast. Your palms went damp. You were suddenly, acutely aware of the way you were standing with your shoulders slightly hunched, toes pointed inward, trying to make yourself smaller without even thinking about it.

He saw it. You could tell. Those tired green eyes sharpened just a fraction, watching the way your fingers tightened around the tablet, the way your gaze skittered away from his. “You blush easy”, he observed, like he was commenting on the weather.

You opened your mouth, no idea what you were going to say, and then closed it again. Your tongue felt too big. You cleared your throat. “We, um… we could at least prioritize what you do want to do. If you tell me what you’re comfortable with, I can—”. “Comfortable”, he repeated, like it was a foreign word he didn’t trust. “That some new PR buzzword? ‘Make sure big bad Soldier boy feels emotionally validated’?”.

You flinched before you could stop yourself. Barely, just a tiny twitch in your shoulders, but his eyes cut to it.

“Relax,” he said. The way he said it made it sound like an order, not advice. “I’m not gonna bite you”.

You weren’t entirely sure you believed that.

He leaned forward abruptly, elbows on his knees, forearms bulging against the shirt. “You know what all the other ones did?”, he asked. “The little assistants. Handlers. Whatever the fuck they call you”.

You shook your head, your voice getting stuck halfway up your throat. “No”.

“They came in here with their little clipboards and their tight power suits, all wet and excited.'Oh Solider Boy, sir! I´m so excited to work with you'”, he mimicked in a high tone that sounded like half the women in Vought’s PR leadership. “Told me what to say. What words I couldn’t use. Like those prissy little bitches had any idea what words I’ve actually seen”.

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there. For a moment his gaze drifted past you, like he was looking at something over your shoulder that wasn’t actually in the room.

“They start talking quotas and engagement metrics and female demographics”, he went on. “Telling me to ‘tone it down’ so the rich moms don’t clutch their pearls. Like those same thirsty bitches weren’t writing me fan letters about how they wanted to polish my shield with their tongues”. He snorted.

Something about the way he said it, so damn casual, made your stomach flip. Your face went hot again, heat creeping up your neck. You didn’t respond fast enough. His eyes slid back to you and locked on. “You blush fucking everywhere”.

You shifted your weight, fingers tightening on the tablet. “I… I’m just here to help with your schedule, Soldier Boy”.

“You keep saying that like it means something,” he said. “Like that badge makes you bulletproof.”

His gaze dropped, slow and unapologetic, traveling down your throat, over the line of your cardigan, along the shape of your skirt. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of look that said he’d never once in his life thought he had to be.

You’d seen men look at women like that in bars, on the subway, even at Vought parties when they thought nobody was watching. You’d never had it directed at you. Not like this. Not so openly. Your skin crawled and buzzed at the same time.

He huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “You always dress like a librarian?”, he asked.

You blinked. “What?”.

“The sweater. The skirt. The little… whatever the fuck that is”, He gestured vaguely at your blouse, fingers drawing a careless line through the air. “You from the church outreach program or something?”.

“N-no”, you said. “I just… like cardigans".

He smirked. “Yeah, I bet you fucking do”.

The words were nothing, really. Just sound. But the way he said them… your whole body understood there was something dirty underneath them, even if your brain didn’t know where to put it. You opened your mouth, clinging to the one thing you knew, your job. “I really just need to make sure—”.

One second he was slouched in the chair, the next he was on his feet, the fabric of his shirt stretching across his shoulders as he pushed past the coffee table without looking down. An empty bottle tipped and rolled, thunking against the leg of the table. “Hold that thought, doll”, he said over his shoulder. “America’s best needs his vitamins”. You went still.

He crossed to the desk by the far wall, the one piece of furniture that looked like it came standard with the suite, all dark wood and built-in power ports. The top was a mess with stacked papers, a half-open drawer and a tray that probably once held pens and now held something else.

He flicked the edge of a small, mirrored square with two fingers, turning it so the light hit it. There was a little line of white powder on it. Tight and neat.

Your stomach flipped. You’d seen it in a bathroom at a Vought party once, when you’d opened the wrong door and closed it so fast your hand shook for ten minutes after. You’d never seen anybody do it so casually in front of you, like he was reaching for a mint.

He picked up a 100$ bill from the desk with the kind of familiarity that said this wasn’t his first time, or his hundredth. He didn’t look at you as he bent over the mirror, one hand braced on the wood.

You should’ve turned away. You knew that. HR training videos, company policies, every warning label you’d ever internalized told you that watching your assigned supe snort an illegal substance was not something you ever wanted to have to describe in a deposition. But you didn’t move. Your feet felt rooted to the carpet.

There was a quick, sharp sound as he inhaled, nostrils flaring. The line disappeared. He snorted again, straightening up with a low groan and let his head tip back for a second like he was letting it hit.

Your skin prickled, watching the muscles jump in his throat.

“Fuck”, he muttered, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. “They cut this shit worse every year”.

He turned then, catching you looking. You dragged your gaze away too late. A slow, mean little grin pulled at his mouth. “What’s the matter, doll?”, he asked. “Never seen a man have his afternoon snack?”.

You swallowed, your tongue felt dry and useless. “That’s… uh… that’s not exactly… FDA approved”.

He barked out a laugh. “You really are straight outta the fucking manual, huh”.

He didn’t go back to the chair. He stayed by the desk, hip leaning against it, arms crossing over his chest as he watched you. The room felt even smaller with him standing.

“You ever tried it?”, he asked.

“N-no”, you said immediately.

“No?”. He tilted his head, eyes raking down you again, slower this time. “Figures. Bet you haven’t tried much of… anything”.

You opened your mouth, no clue what you thought you were going to argue with. “I—”.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me”, he cut in. “You scream ‘good girl’ from a mile away. I could smell the fucking virgin on you in the hallway”.

Heat slammed into your face so fast you actually swayed. “That’s not— you can’t—”.

“Oh, I can”, he said, almost amused. “Little skirt. Little… 'cardigan'. Jumping every time I raise my voice”. He tapped his nose with one finger. “You think I don’t know how to spot a tight pussy? I’ve had half this country’s prom queens lining up to suck my balls”. He said it like a brag and a complaint at the same time.

Your grip on the tablet tightened until your knuckles ached. “My… personal life isn’t relevant to your media strategy”, you managed.

He stared at you for a beat, then slowly started to laugh. It wasn’t nice laughter. It rolled out of him like something rough-edged and dark, but there was a glint of something else under it, too. Interest. Surprise. Like he’d expected you to dissolve or bolt, and here you were, still standing, still talking.

“You’re cute when you try to sound… professional”, he said.

Your throat closed up around whatever you wanted to say back. You dropped your eyes to the tablet, focusing on the calendar again. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to”, you said quietly. “About… that”. You nodded toward the mirror, the powder. Him. “Or anything, really. My job is to make sure you know where you have to be and when, and what the cameras are expecting. That’s it”.

“No pep talks? No ‘we believe in your redemption arc, Soldier Boy’?”, he mocked, voice pitching up in a fake-bright cheer.

You shook your head. “That’s… not my style”.

“Huh”. He uncrossed his arms, pushing off the desk. “Maybe they finally sent someone useful”.

He walked toward you again in a slow saunter that made every instinct in your body scream at you to move. You made yourself stay still, rooting your feet to the carpet like they were nailed down. He stopped close. Too close. The smell of the powder mingled with sweat and smoke and aftershave, filling your head. Your chin tipped up without your permission so you could keep looking at his face and not at his chest.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do for me, doll”, he said, voice dropping a notch. “You’re gonna take all their cute little emails and their pointers and their ‘we think it would be best if’ and you’re gonna filter the fucking shit. You hear me?”.

You nodded. It was either that or let your head spin.

“You don’t bring me shit with words like ‘empower’, ‘journey’, or ‘healing’”, he went on. “You don’t put me in a fucking room with any daytime talk-show hosts who look like they bake fucking cookies for a living. And if some idiot in a suit wants me to apologize on camera for shit I’m not sorry for?”. He leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek. “You tell ’em I said they can kiss my star-spangled ballsack”.

Your breath stuttered in your lungs. “That’s… a very clear brief”.

“Good”. He smiled, all teeth. “Didn’t peg you for the type who likes mixed signals”.

-

You didn’t remember much of the walk back to your desk. You remembered Caldwell’s mouth moving, remembered words like progress and boundaries and we need him on side, not in rehab, but they slid right off you, your head still back in that warm, messy suite with the cracked TV and the man who’d said I could smell the virgin on you like talking about the weather. You nodded in the right places. You sent the follow-up emails. You flagged the talking points that would make him walk out and rewrote them until they sounded less like apologies and more like something he might actually let you read out loud.

You rode the subway home with your tablet clutched to your chest while the jerky movement of the train jostling you against strangers. By the time you reached your building, the sky was already dark. Your feet ached. Your head did, too.

Your apartment greeted you with the same familiar quiet. You shut the door with your hip, dropped your bag by the shoe rack and toed off your flats, wiggling your toes against the cool wood floor. The only real light was the orange glow from the streetlamp filtering through your beige curtains.

Marmalade appeared from under the coffee table like a conjured thing, stretching her back in an elegant curve before trotting toward you with a chirp. “Hey, baby”, you murmured, dropping into a crouch to scratch under her chin. Her purr rumbled against your fingertips, loud for such a small body. “Sorry I’m late. Vought decided I’m a leash now”.

She blinked at you with wide green eyes and head-butted your hand like she agreed everyone at Vought was the worst.

You fed her, scooping the wet food out of the can with a little fork and wrinkling your nose at the smell. She dove in immediately with her tail twitching. You poured yourself cereal for dinner because the idea of cooking anything more ambitious than boiling water felt like climbing a building.

Later, after the dishes were rinsed and stacked and your tablet was charging on the nightstand, you stood in your tiny bathroom and changed into your favorite pajamas. They were ridiculous. Pastel blue with bright yellow bananas printed all over, the top just a little too big and the shorts just a little too short. “So people know you’re a fruit”, your sister had cackled as you’d unwrapped them on christmas. You’d kept them because they were comfortable, because they felt safe, because nobody ever saw you in them but Marmalade and the walls.

You caught your reflection in the mirror over the sink and stilled. You’d washed your makeup off. Your face looked even younger without it. Bare. Your hair had slipped out of its neat work style, falling around your shoulders in soft, uneven waves. The banana print made you look like you should be doing homework, not negotiating with a man who did drugs in front of you and called you doll like it was an insult.

You tipped your head, studying yourself like you were someone else.

Did you really scream good girl from a mile away? Was it that obvious? Did men like him just… see that, the way you saw tracking links and click-through rates?

Heat crept up your neck at the memory of his voice: I could smell the virgin on you in the hallway. You groaned, dropping your face into your hands for a second, fingers pressing into your eyelids until little sparks popped in the dark.

“This is fine”, you muttered to your reflection when you looked up again. “It’s fine. He’s a misogynist asshole with a drug habit and a god complex. He says gross stuff to get a rise out of people. That’s all”. Your reflection stared back, unimpressed.

You tugged at the hem of the pajama shorts, suddenly aware of how much bare skin they showed. Which was stupid. Nobody was here. Nobody but you and the cat. Still, your brain insisted on playing back the way his gaze had dropped, slow and invasive, taking in everything from the line of your cardigan down. Like he’d meant to make you feel naked even when you weren’t.

You turned sideways, looking at the curve of your hip, the slope of your shoulders. You weren’t anything special. Just… Soft. The kind of body that disappeared in group photos unless you were in the front row.

Maybe that was the point, you thought, thumb rubbing absently at the faint indent where your waistband had rested all day. Maybe that was why he’d dialed it back, just a fraction. Because you weren’t a polished PR executive in heels. You weren’t another supe. You weren’t a threat. You were just… the girl in the cardigan with the tablet and the banana pajamas.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You jumped, heart leaping stupidly into your throat. For a second you just stared at the lit-up screen through the bathroom doorway, stupidly convinced it was him somehow knowing you were thinking about him. You shook yourself, padded out to the bedroom, and picked it up.

Trish: U alive or did the museum eat you?

A weak laugh escaped you. You sat on the edge of the bed.

Trish: He that bad?

You hesitated, thumbs hovering. How did you even summarize Soldier Boy in a text? 'He did coke in front of me and called me a virgin’ seemed like maybe not the thing to put in writing.

You: He’s… a lot. But I still have a job, so that’s something?

Trish: lol that’s the Vought bar for success! Don’t let him make you cry. HR says if he makes you cry three times you get a free cupcake at the holiday party.

You snorted softly despite yourself.

You: Wow, benefits package.

Trish: Anyway. Proud of you for not quitting. Call me if you need to scream into a pillow.

You sent a little heart emoji, then put the phone face-down. Marmalade finished eating and jumped up onto the bed in a practiced hop, circling once before curling up against your thigh, her purr starting instantly. You stroked her fur with light fingers, staring at the ceiling. You should’ve been thinking about logistics. Tomorrow’s wardrobe email. Which outlets might be desperate enough for an exclusive to agree to his conditions. How to phrase “no, he will not be apologizing” without causing an internal meltdown.

Instead, your brain looped through the same ten seconds of the afternoon on repeat.

You’d seen him on screens your whole life. He’d always seemed… not real, exactly, but larger than life. A cardboard cutout in motion. Today had been the first time you saw the seams. The way his hands shook, just a little, before he snorted that line. The tiredness in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

You should’ve been horrified. You were, a little. You were also something else, and that was the part that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

Your breath came shorter the more your mind replayed it: him standing too close, powder on his desk, that lazy, filthy I could smell the virgin on you, like he’d known something about you you’d never said out loud to anyone.

The knowledge of your own reaction, how your body had answered before your brain, sat heavy and sour in your chest. Like you’d swallowed something you weren’t supposed to and it was just… sitting there, not going away.

You shifted on the mattress. Marmalade made an annoyed little noise at being jostled and resettled herself more firmly against your stomach.

“Great", you muttered into the dark. “Now I’m a cliché”.

You squeezed your eyes shut, like that would help. It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. Without the ceiling to stare at, there was nothing to distract you from the way your pulse insisted on picking up whenever your traitor brain supplied more detail than you’d asked for. Like the thickness of his forearms when he leaned on his knees. The way his voice roughened when he was angry. The heat that had come off him when he stood close. You hated it.

You hated that your body responded at all, that some ancient, stupid part of you reacted to danger and power and that crooked, mean little smirk like you were wired wrong. That the same man who could probably level your whole building if he sneezed too hard could make you feel shaky and… aware of yourself in a way you’d spent most of your life successfully ignoring.

“Absolutely not”, you whispered to the ceiling, opening your eyes again. “We are not doing this. He’s a supe”. You rolled onto your back, then onto your other side, then onto your stomach, as if changing position might shake your brain out. It didn’t. Every time you settled, your thoughts slid right back to that suite.

You tried to picture him the way the internet did: the old posters, the ridiculous suit, the glossy, Vought-approved version of him they were trying to resurrect. Somehow that was worse. The real one, the dirty, irritable, half-broken man who stood too close and did lines off a mirror… he made a kind of awful sense. The posters didn’t.

Your cheeks burned hot against the pillow. Shame prickled under your skin. What kind of person went home and lay awake thinking about someone like that? You were supposed to be better. Smarter. You’d spent twenty-three years making sure nobody could reach in and flip any of your switches. Now some angry relic had walked into your life and apparently found the panel immediately.

Marmalade shifted again. You slid your fingers into her fur. “He’s just a job”, you told her softly. “Like a brand account. A… very loud, very dangerous brand account in a suit”. Your cat, unsurprisingly, did not disagree.

You clung to the thought like a life raft. A job. That was all. You’d survived mean CEOs and tearful actresses and one senator who’d tried to put his hand on your knee under the table during a donor dinner. You could survive this.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 2

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