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aleksatia · 3 months ago

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🎨Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Rafayel.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🏍 Sylus | ✨Xavier | 🍎 Caleb

CW/TW: Divorce / Post-divorce emotional trauma, Toxic romantic cycles, Verbal conflict / emotional manipulation, High emotional volatility, Crying / vulnerability, Jealousy, Theatrical intensity, Implied sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged), References to artistic obsession, Codependency themes.

Pairing: Rafayel x ex-wife!you Genre: Operatic angst, sensory overload, intimacy tangled in art and argument. Enemies to lovers to something mythic and broken. Summary: Rafayel was always too much — too vivid, too loud, too in love with the idea of being in love. Now, in a room made of silk and memory, you’re forced to confront the passion that nearly devoured you both. What begins with masks ends in scorched truths, spilled wine, and a kiss that remembers every wound it ever caused. Word Count: 3.6K

The room was a mirage made of silk.

Blue and amber fabrics swayed gently overhead, catching the glow of hanging lanterns that burned like slow, ancient stars. Patterns scattered across the floor like constellations, stitched from shadow and gold. The air pulsed with warmth, scented with saffron, cardamom, rosewater, and smoke — something too heady to be real.

A low table stood in the center, set for two. Carved brass, aged like a secret. Cushions instead of chairs. A bowl of candied figs. Crystal glasses half-filled with something rich and ambered, already beading condensation in the heat.

The music played softly, something stringed and spiraling, full of bends and minor keys. It didn’t fill the space — it wrapped it. Like a whisper over skin.

You sat with your hands folded in your lap, heart steady, but only just. Something about the room felt dangerous. Not overtly. But the kind of danger that came wrapped in silk and compliments. The kind you didn’t notice until it was inside you, changing your breath.

Then the curtain stirred.

A figure stepped through the veil — tall, lithe, draped in pale fabrics that shimmered like wet paint. A mask covered the upper half of his face: smooth silver, delicate scrollwork, slightly fox-shaped. His hair was dark — maybe lavender? — but the lighting played tricks, casting halos where none should exist.

He moved with a liquid elegance that set your nerves on edge. Not performance. Presence.

And something in your chest twitched.

He sat across from you without hesitation, folding into the cushions like the air had made room for him. One ringed hand toyed with the stem of his glass. He hadn’t looked at you fully yet, but even the curve of his jaw behind the mask felt… familiar in a way you didn’t want to name.

You watched him watching the room.

The shape of his throat. The line of his wrists. The quiet, performative grace of someone used to being looked at — and loving it.

Your stomach turned, slowly.

Then he looked at you. Just briefly.

And smiled.

The candlelight caught in his eyes — unnaturally pale, a hue caught somewhere between rose and seafoam. Impossible. Stunning.

Your pulse skipped. Once. Hard.

No.

No, no, no—

Too dark. Too hazy. Too many fragrances in the air. That’s all this was. A trick of the senses. A trick of memory.

And then—

He spoke.

“Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over glass, warm and slow and theatrical. “You’re the one they warned me about.”

Your throat tightened.

No name. No gesture. But your skin recoiled like it had just touched flame.

You made yourself breathe. Spoke without thinking. “Depends. What was the warning?”

He tilted his head slightly, like he’d heard something inside your voice that he didn’t expect.

“That I’d end the evening ruined.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

That voice. You hadn’t heard it in almost a year. But your bones remembered.

Still — you didn’t move. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of recognition.

He poured the drink anyway. Fluid, slow, luxurious. Passed the glass across the table with the same fingers that once traced poems into your shoulder blades at dawn.

No. Don’t go there.

“Drink,” he said, watching you now. “It makes the disappointment more beautiful.”

The room shifted with the sound of his voice, like the silk overhead had caught its breath. One of the lanterns flickered. The scent of rose and something darker curled tighter around your ankles.

You didn’t touch your glass.

“Disappointment implies expectation,” you said. “You always did mistake fantasy for reality.”

He smiled — sharp and amused, like you’d stepped into a trap he’d laid years ago. “Still fluent in cruelty, I see. Good. I was afraid domesticity might’ve tamed you.”

You reached for the glass then, just to keep your hand busy. “And I see you’re still confusing cleverness with depth.”

The flicker in his eyes was almost too fast to catch.

You took a sip. The drink was sharp, floral, and laced with something decadent.

He was watching you. Not politely. Not appreciatively. Like a man trying to decide whether to paint you or burn the memory of you from his mind entirely.

“I should’ve known it was you,” you said finally, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. “All this silk and smoke? Feels like the opening act of one of your breakdowns.”

He smirked. “Then you should’ve checked under the cushions for a script.” A beat. “Though if anyone here’s performing,” he added, “it’s not me this time.”

That got a laugh out of you. Low, involuntary. Dangerous.

“God,” you said. “You’re exhausting.”

He lifted his glass again, gaze steady over the rim.

“And yet someone out there thought we’d make a charming pair.”

A pause.

“Statistically improbable,” he added. “But then again, so were we.”

The silk walls shifted faintly in the breeze of the central fan, as if the whole room leaned in.

You tilted your head. “They said this was a blind date. I didn’t realize they meant blind in the Biblical sense.”

“Ah.” He leaned back. “There’s the sermon I missed. Tell me, do you rehearse those in the mirror, or do they just fall out of you naturally?”

“You want natural?” you asked, voice cool. “Then take off the mask.”

He didn’t move. So you did it first.

The mask slid away with a soft hiss of fabric. You held his gaze, daring him to flinch, to breathe, to blink.

He didn’t.

Instead, after a beat, he reached up and peeled his own mask off — slow, like undressing a wound.

And there he was.

Exactly as you’d known he’d be. Beautiful in that way that always made you want to hurt something. Or kiss him just to feel how much it would cost.

His expression flickered when he saw your face.

“I thought you’d look different,” he said.

“I thought you’d grow up.”

That wiped the smirk right off his mouth.

For half a second, he looked like the boy who’d once painted your collarbone in gold leaf just because he could.

Then it was gone.

“You know,” he said, gaze dropping to your mouth, “for someone who always wanted peace, you start fights like it’s foreplay.”

You leaned forward slightly. “And for someone who always wanted to be adored, you sure made yourself easy to leave.”

Rafayel’s smile didn’t falter. But it sharpened — fractionally. Like the curve of a blade when it catches the light.

“Maybe,” he said softly, “I didn’t want you to stay.”

The words landed like silk draped over broken glass.

You blinked once. Then twice. Then let out a low breath of laughter — measured, dangerous, devastating.

“Oh, darling,” you said, tilting your head, “you always were such a convincing actor. Shame the role of coward never quite won you any standing ovations.”

He chuckled. “Coward?” he echoed, voice rich with amusement. “From you, that’s practically a love letter.”

You leaned back slightly, the candlelight catching the glint in your eyes.

“No, love letters require vulnerability. You wouldn’t recognize one if it was monogrammed and hand-delivered on rose petals.”

He lifted his glass in a mock-toast, eyes never leaving yours. “To you. The only woman who ever left a man mid-soliloquy and still expected an encore.”

You clinked your own glass to his with a smile that could’ve slit a throat. “To you. The man who wrote odes to my shadow but never once looked me in the eye long enough to know my shape.”

He laughed. You hated how beautiful the sound still was.

There was a pause, charged and theatrical, like the air had leaned forward on cue.

“And yet,” he said, swirling the drink in his glass, “you sat across from me. Masked. Unapologetically luminous. Like a challenge waiting to happen.”

“I was aiming for quiet mystery,” you replied, raising your glass. “But I suppose provocation always did look better on me.”

He leaned forward, close enough now for the scent of rose to cling between you.

“Then let’s drink,” he said, “to what we ruined so beautifully.”

You raised your glass. He raised his. Both smiles intact.

“To mistakes,” you said.

“To masterpieces,” he replied, then added, with a flick of his lashes, “—that deserved better muses.”

And that was it. Your hand moved before you thought.

You didn’t throw the wine.

You grabbed the wrong glass — the other one — and without hesitation, flung the contents at him.

It was tea. Very hot tea.

There was a stunned half-second as the amber liquid splashed across the front of his perfect, pale shirt — followed by a sharp inhale through his teeth.

He hissed softly, setting the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink. Then — without hesitation — he pulled the shirt over his head.

The fabric stuck to him slightly, steam curling off his chest like the room itself was reacting. His skin caught the lantern-light like marble dusted in firelight — golden, sharp-lined, impossible.

You stared.

Unfortunately.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling. “Always dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You deserved it,” you snapped. “And more.”

“More?” He stepped closer. “You always did like escalation. Tell me — should I throw a fig at your face? Or set something expensive on fire?”

You crossed your arms, not trusting your breath. “You’d enjoy that too much.”

“Because it’s the only language you speak!” he shot back. “Break it. Burn it. Drown it. But for God’s sake, don’t sit still and talk like a human being.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He gestured wildly. “I begged you to stay! I begged you with everything but the word!”

“That was the problem,” you said, eyes burning now. “You gave me poetry when I needed something real. Something steady. Not ten thousand metaphors and a gallery of regrets.”

His jaw clenched.

“And now,” you said, voice cracking just enough to give it teeth, “you say I wasn’t enough of a muse. Well—”

You stood suddenly, movement sharp, breath shaking as your body tried to hold the rest in.

“—maybe you should’ve picked a prettier tragedy.”

You turned away, shoulders tight and trembling.

He froze.

Your back was to him now, and thank God, because your throat was tight, and your hands were shaking and that single line — that stupid, perfect insult about your worth — cut deeper than it should have.

You felt it first. His presence.

Then the heat of him, close, pressing in without touching.

And then — his arms wrapped around you from behind. One quick, quiet motion. Not forceful. Desperate.

He pulled you against him, bare skin warm and still faintly damp from the tea.

His nose buried in your hair. His breath unsteady.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated.“God, I didn’t— You know I say things when I’m scared. And you looked like you were about to walk away all over again.”

You didn’t answer.

So he tightened his hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m sorry I made you think you weren’t everything. I’m sorry I hurt you to feel less hurt myself. I’m sorry I used my mouth to ruin what it was made to worship.”

You closed your eyes.

His voice cracked on the last word.

“I never wanted anyone better,” he whispered. “I only ever wanted more time with you.”

You turned in his arms with a suddenness that surprised even you.

You meant to push him away. You meant to say don’t, to reclaim your anger before it crumbled. But your hands — traitors — only reached his chest and stayed there, limp. Useless. Pressed against his bare skin like they belonged.

He covered them with his own.

Not roughly. Not to keep you there. But to hold the contact steady — as if you might dissolve if he let go.

The heat of him burned through your palms. Steady. Alive. Too much.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fold into him and scream into his collarbone.

Instead, you whispered, “How did we get here?”

His breath hitched.

“I loved you,” you said. “You loved me. And somehow we became this—” your voice broke, “—this shipwreck of a marriage. What happened to us, Raf?”

He didn’t answer right away.

So you filled the silence with everything your mouth had been holding for too long.

“It used to be magic,” you said, eyes wet now, but you wouldn’t let them fall. “God, we were light. We were gold. You made me feel like I was flying. And then one day, it was like we couldn’t breathe unless we were screaming.”

He said your name. Just once.

Low. Like an apology wrapped in prayer.

You kept going.

“Why did it turn into a stage? When did our home become a theater and our life some broken play where we both forgot our lines? I didn’t want to be a performance, Raf. I wanted to be real.”

He slid one hand up your back, slow, careful. As if you might break from anything more sudden.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”

“I didn’t recognize us anymore,” you said, the words trembling. “All we did was throw paint. Emotions. Blame. Color, color, color, until we drowned in it. Until we forgot what normal even meant.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, his breath catching against your cheek. And when he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Lower. Without the velvet and dramatics. Just him.

“I was scared,” he said.

You blinked.

“I was scared,” he repeated. “That if things slowed down — if we got too quiet, too normal — you’d leave. That you’d realize I wasn’t enough without the chaos. Without the fire.”

You stared at him. Your hands still pressed to his chest. You could feel the way his heartbeat stumbled.

“So I gave you fire,” he said. “I gave you storms. I made our life… louder, because silence felt like death.”

“And I left anyway,” you said.

“Because I set the house on fire and expected you to dance in it.”

You closed your eyes. His words were knives. But so was your silence.

“There was jealousy,” you murmured. “And guilt. And all your little accusations when I was too tired to match your flame.”

He swallowed hard.

“You were angry when I fell asleep during your gallery story,” you added. “But I’d just come home from a mission. I’d spent five hours knee-deep in wanderers and blood and—” you exhaled, “—I needed sleep, Raf. Not a performance.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I needed rest,” you said. “And all I got was another curtain call.”

He looked ruined. Not fragile. Not shattered. Just exhausted from pretending not to be.

“I was so afraid of losing you,” he said. “So I smothered you with everything I thought would make you stay.”

You looked at him — really looked — and something inside you cracked down the center.

And still, part of you whispered: It might not be enough.

Rafayel tensed — just a little. The shift of a shoulder, the pause in his fingers at your back.

“Did you come here,” he asked, voice low and almost too careful, “because you’re ready to move on?”

You smiled, slow and sly. Not to tease, but to veil the flicker of something softer.

“Maybe my life’s been too normal lately. Too gray.” You leaned the smallest bit closer, letting your cheek rest against his bare chest. “I needed a little danger again. And you?”

His heart responded beneath your skin.

He chuckled, brushing his knuckles lightly down your spine. “I could say I was looking for an exotic muse to paint. Something with cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood and an aura of doomed seduction.”

You huffed a laugh against his skin. “That would’ve been a very you thing to say.”

“But the truth,” he murmured, “is boring. Thomas set me up. Said he registered, got sick, and that some poor woman would be stuck alone unless I stepped in. He was very dramatic about it.”

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Tara pulled the same trick on me.”

“Ah.” His lips quirked. “Coordinated sabotage. Typical.”

A moment passed, heavy in the hush. You hadn’t meant to relax like this, but here you were — cheek to his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that had once been your home. And still was, apparently. Because everything inside you had gone soft, slow, steady.

It felt like something had clicked back into place. Like a missing tile in a mosaic suddenly slotted home and made the whole thing whole again.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Uncertain. Honest.

“Raf… why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers moved gently through your hair, brushing behind your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped into something rawer.

“Because I respect your decisions. Even when I didn’t agree with them.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “Even if it meant watching you bloom from the sidelines. Watching you learn how to smile again without me in the frame.” He swallowed. “Are you happy?”

You hesitated. But the answer was already rising, uninvited.

“No,” you said. “The world turned grayscale. It’s like I’m walking through some awful dystopia with clean counters and dry eyes. Everything works. Nothing shines.”

He exhaled, long and low. His arms tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair, grounding you in scent and heat and skin.

“Cutie,” he murmured, voice close, mouth brushing your temple, “just say the word. I’ll paint the colors back in.”

“I’m afraid,” you admitted. “Still. Afraid to go blind from too much kaleidoscope.”

“I won’t lie,” he whispered. “I can’t promise restraint. I might always be a little too loud. A little too much. But I can give you something else now. Balance. Space. Stability. Peace, if you’ll have it.”

You searched his eyes.

He added, “Only if you’re ready. If you want to let me back in.”

“I never really closed the door,” you said. “Just stood behind it. Waiting.”

And that broke whatever spell held you still.

He kissed you.

Not hurried, not frantic — just whole. His mouth claimed yours like it had a right to, but still asked permission with every slow pull of lips, every breath passed between you.

You pressed into him, fingers curling at the base of his neck. His hand splayed across your lower back, warm and deliberate, guiding without demand.

He leaned into the cushions with you, dragging you down into silk and shadow, his mouth never leaving yours.

The taste of saffron and heat and memory filled you.

He kissed you the way people wrote arias — rising, falling, trembling with feeling too big for language. His tongue brushed yours gently at first, then deeper, hungrier, as if your mouth were the only place he could breathe.

You moaned softly against him, and he swallowed the sound, pulling you closer. Your legs tangled. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your dress, fingers grazing your thigh with aching reverence.

You moved like tide against him — hungry and fluid.

The lanterns swayed above. The cushions sighed beneath you. One of the glasses tipped over with a soft thud, spilling rose-colored wine that neither of you noticed.

His lips trailed down your jaw, to your throat, where he lingered, breathing you in like incense.

“You still taste like paradise,” he whispered.

And when he looked up again, your hair tangled in his fingers, your body flushed and pliant against his — you knew.

There was nothing gray left between you.

Only color. Only fire. Only Rafayel.

Your body answered his touch like it had been waiting a lifetime. Hot, eager, instinctive. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks down your spine. Every kiss — soft or sharp — undid you a little more.

The silk beneath you could’ve caught fire from the heat you were building between each other.

His hands roamed without hesitation, without apology — palming, stroking, gripping — sometimes tender, sometimes greedy. Your back arched into him, chasing the sensations, chasing the memory of what it felt like to simply be wanted like this. Loved like this. By him.

His mouth found your throat. Then lower. His tongue trailed over skin like it was sacred. When his lips closed around your nipple, firm and aching, you whimpered — low and breathless — and pulled him closer, nails raking his back.

He groaned into your skin, and you swore your entire body melted into flame.

You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want him to stop.

But then—

A soft, mechanical chime broke through the haze. Gentle. Too real.

The signal. The end of the hour.

You froze. So did he. Still hovering over you, still half-undressed, still hard and pulsing between your thighs.

You looked up at him, breathless.

He was watching you like the world might end if you looked away first.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice roughened by want.

You shook your head, smiling softly despite the ache in your chest. “No. Do you?”

His mouth quirked — cocky, fond, feral.

“Do you even have to ask?” he murmured, then rocked his hips forward just enough for you to feel the full weight of him, hard and ready. “Does that feel like regret to you?”

Your breath caught.

“I could steal you for the rest of the night,” he whispered, voice low and wicked, like a shared sin.

You grinned up at him, hand sliding into his hair. “You could steal me for the rest of my life.”

He growled — quiet and deep in his chest.

“We’ll see what you say tomorrow morning,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw, “when you can’t walk straight or remember how to say no.”

You bit his bottom lip, teasing.

“Do you even know what moderation is?”

His eyes darkened with something hungry, reverent, unstoppable.

“Only in everything except how much I love you.”

And this time — when he kissed you — it wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t memory. It was home.

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waynes-multiverse · 26 days ago

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Time After Time – Chapter 10

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, attempted assault & smut, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says BYE, SB being a nice and kind human, a bit of humor, fluff, a lot of exes, heavy dose of angst

Word Count: 11.0k

Posted on Patreon May 3, 2025

A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys! Baby boy was not cooperating with me at all this week lol. Ready to say goodbye? Deep breaths, babes 😘 ✨ Chapter title comes from Casablanca (1942)

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Chapter 10: Here's Looking at You, Kid

The kitchen of the mansion had always run on the domestic diplomacy of Dottie’s sharp tongue, the tireless shuffle of Florence’s feet, and the way Frances could carry an entire roast duck, a tray of petits fours, and a silver bucket of ice without breaking a sweat or a smile.

Today was no different.

At half past noon, it was cooler in the kitchen. Not by much, not in July, but the oven heat was at least a familiar warmth compared to the rest of the house.

The room itself, however, was a whirlwind of flour and steam and shouted orders, while you were tucked into the corner by the island, looking marginally useful with a tray of unfrosted cupcakes in front of you and a star-tipped piping bag in your hands.

Earlier, you’d almost sliced a finger cutting strawberries – not that it would’ve done anything. You probably would’ve only broken the knife.

“Lord save us,” muttered Florence, snatching the bag from your trembling grip with all the grace of someone removing a stick of dynamite from a child. “You’re gonna frost the whole counter with that tremor in your hand.”

She wasn’t wrong.

At least, you looked nice. Your navy A-line dress was crisp, belted neatly at the waist with white that hinted at patriotism. You had even let Dottie do your hair that morning, which explained the intricate braid with a silky red bow in your locks.

Outside the windows, the grounds looked like a dreamscape – white tents rising like clouds against the green lawns, waitstaff in black and white bustling with trays like chess pieces, patriotic bunting draped across columns and fences, and a jazz trio already tuning up near the terrace.

One hour from now, the estate would be crawling with old money – Philadelphian coal royalty and their wives in fox furs and peep toes, oil barons from the Main Line, and of course, the Du Ponts.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in that chair if you keep fidgeting, honey,” Dottie teased, kneading dough with a firm grace that would make a ballerina blush.

“I’m not fidgeting. I’m merely… anticipating,” you replied and twisted your fingers in your lap some more.

“You’re anticipatin’ the way a turkey anticipates Thanksgiving,” Frances muttered with a snort, brushing egg wash over a tray of tiny apple pies.

“She’s calming her nerves, leave her be,” Florence threw in, icing cupcakes with practiced flicks. “I’d be twitchy too if half of Philadelphia came into my house with an eye on my man.”

Comforting.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Frances said instantly. “That dumb boy looks at her like he’s confusing her for oxygen.”

“Like a man lost in the dark sea, swimming toward a lighthouse,” Dottie added, smirking and proud of herself.

You groaned and tilted your head with narrowed eyes. “Why do I like you three again?”

“Because we know where the whiskey’s hidden, and we’ve seen you after two glasses,” Dottie sassed without missing a beat.

When Margaret then entered the kitchen, you didn’t jump, but you did straighten your spine like a schoolgirl waiting for inspection, even though she helped you pick out your dress and coached you as best as she could.

Ben’s mother wore a seafoam silk dress that did something devastating to her figure, her dirty blonde hair in a soft twist. Her peach lipstick even matched the carnations in the centerpieces.

“Oh, haven’t you been busy bees! Good Lord, it smells like Versailles in here,” Margaret said, grinning a little, waving at the heat. “Is there any air left, or did my husband’s ego suck it all up when he came downstairs this morning?”

Frances covered a laugh with a cough. Dottie didn’t even bother hiding hers.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Florence said warmly, wiping her hands and giving Margaret a look that was almost sisterly. “You want coffee? Or a seat before you pass out in that dress?”

“Both, please,” Margaret sighed. “You’re a vision, Florence. I don’t know how you keep this place from collapsing into ash.” Her attention then swung to you, eyeing you with a raised brow. “Hiding, are we?”

“Obviously.”

Margaret gave you a gentle smile as she gracefully sat down across from you. “Well, you look lovely, dear. Terrified, but lovely.”

You gave her a wry smile. “I thought if I hid in here long enough, maybe the party would be over before I came out.”

“A clever plan,” she said, nodding. “Sadly, it’s no good. The vultures will circle either way.”

As you looked at her, you took note of the strain behind her green eyes as if she had suddenly aged thirty years over the last few days.

“How’s it been? Since he’s back.”

Margaret exhaled sharply. “Stifling. Determined to pretend his heart attack was merely indigestion. He leaves a film on everything like cigar smoke. Nothing like having a man who believes yelling is foreplay back in the house.”

You choked on your spit a little and coughed, not quite sure what to say. The last time the two of you had spoken about Ben’s father, she’d said she didn’t miss him at all.

It reminded you only too vividly of last night’s dream – a fight between Soldier Boy and Crimson Countess and apparently the last straw that made her give him up to the Russians.

And believe it or not, it had been about the fucking chimpanzee sanctuary. More specifically, how she wanted to hold this weirdly heartfelt musical for fucking apes.

And well, Soldier Boy thought it was the stupidest goddamn shit he’d ever heard. Yeah, of course he did because it was. But he didn’t have to be so mean about it:

“Christ, you’re gonna croon lullabies to a bunch of shit-flinging fleabags? Maybe you can teach ‘em to clap when you miss a note. Might be the only audience that don't fuckin’ boo you off stage.”

And God, how he would mock her singing!

“Listening to you sing’s like gettin’ kicked in the nuts by a donkey. Repeatedly. And the fuckin’ donkey still sounds better.”

“If screechin’ brakes and a goat had a baby, it’d still sound fuckin’ better than you.”

“When you hit those high notes, it’s like someone set a dumpster full of possums on fire.”

But the final nail in the icebox was this:

“Go build your little monkey circus, cooch. Maybe I’ll stop by and put ‘em out of their fuckin’ misery.”

Yup, no love lost there either.

Margaret then continued, your thoughts drifting back to her as her tone softened. “He invited the Du Ponts today. I’m sure you already know.”

“I do,” you said and almost chewed off your lower lip. “Any chance they might’ve succumbed to a house fire overnight?”

Margaret swallowed a laugh. “Unfortunately for all of us, no. The storm didn’t wash out those rats. And God knows no party of Richard’s is complete without some psychological warfare against his son. I’ve been preparing for this damn party like I’m heading into battle, not a celebration.”

You smirked a little, lifting a brow. “And what armor are you wearing under that dress? Chainmail?”

She laughed fully this time. “Only metaphorical. Though I did sharpen my wit and rehearse my contemptuous eyebrow.”

“That’s why I like you.”

“But you don’t have to worry about out a thing, dear,” she added and placed a comforting hand on your arm. “Your Benjamin wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Even if the pole had money wrapped around it?”

“He’d only use it to joust his father,” she retorted and sipped on her coffee with elegance.

The kitchen door then swung open with a creak and a flood of sun, and in walked the reason you hadn’t poisoned Richard Brooks’ scotch decanter yet.

Ben.

He was in a pristine white linen shirt rolled to the elbows, collar open, and navy slacks, the kind of casually perfect that makes your mouth dry. His hair was tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times already. He looked freshly laundered and stupidly handsome.

And very pleased with himself.

He scanned the kitchen like he was looking for you and instantly lit up when he spotted you by the counter. “George, I found her!” he called out through the door, but his sparkling apple green eyes stayed on you, grinning. “Wasn’t sure if you’d barricaded yourself in the icebox or climbed out the dumbwaiter.”

“I considered the dumbwaiter,” you muttered.

He strode straight toward you like you were magnetic, ignoring the polite chaos around him. He slipped an arm around your waist and kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then behind your ear.

Behind you, Dottie made a sound like she was gagging. Florence just kept frosting. Frances, always quiet, huffed softly under her breath – her version of a laugh.

And then, Ben got impatient and kissed you fully, fervently, and shamelessly in front of all four women. You squeaked against his lips, giggling.

“Benjamin Brooks!” Margaret gasped but stifled another laugh with a shake of her head.

“Mother.” Ben tipped an imaginary hat and smirked broadly. “Happy Independence Day.”

“Go get dressed, you scandalous boy,” she told him, shaking her head some more, but the smile on her face was undeniable.

“Already am,” he replied and then whispered in your ear, “Though I’d let you undress me again if you ask nicely.”

You lightly swatted his chest, cheeks flushing. “What are you even doing in here?”

“Why? Am I interrupting the coven meeting?” Ben grinned, his fingers trailing up and down your spine. “Figured I’d find you here when you weren’t in the shed. You do like to snack. Are you hiding?”

“Of course I’m hiding,” you replied.

“I should get back to work,” Margaret said, rising gracefully. “Try not to ravish each other where I can see it.”

“You’re no fun,” Ben called after her, still smirking like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar.

“I’m married to your father. Of course I’m no fun.”

Margaret then excused herself with another shake of her head and something about wrangling seating charts, dragging the staff with her so fast it was clearly a coordinated escape.

Ben then studied you for a moment, hands settling on your waist, thumb stroking the small of your back. You leaned into him, resting your head against his chest, letting yourself breathe.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly.

“No,” you said, eyes closed, inhaling his cologne like it carried memories you hadn’t even lived yet. “But I will be.”

“I’m not leaving your side today,” Ben said, kissing the top of your head. “Unless you push me into the pond.”

“No promises.”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The lawn behind the Brooks mansion glittered in patriotic spectacle – ribbons in red, white, and blue tied into neat bows on the ends of each table, floral arrangements exploding in bursts of carnations and white lilies, and American flags tucked into the centerpiece of every polished buffet cart and cocktail bar.

It was as if the entire backyard had been scrubbed and star-spangled for the sole purpose of impressing the crème de la crème of wartime Philadelphia.

The party was already in full swing: Servers weaved between groups of people with trays of champagne flutes and crystal bowls of chilled shrimp, there were monogrammed napkins on each table, and the band already played something jazzy beneath a striped canopy. The air smelled like rose water, cigars, and seven different kinds of expensive cologne under the burning July sun.

The guest list was curated – a mix of elite families with names older than the Constitution, sleazy politicians, and military brass.

And you? You were glued to Ben’s side, playing anthropologist among the gentry, clinging to his commentary like it was your first language.

His palm was splayed low on your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the silk of your dress, while he pointed out various names and whispered in your ear like a scandalous tour guide.

Because another thing he apparently shared with his mother – the love for high society gossip.

“See the guy with the side part and the fake war injury?” Ben leaned down toward your ear, his hand still snug and low on your back. “That’s Franklin Hughes. He’s been telling everyone he got shot in the shoulder in North Africa, but it was actually skeet shooting in the fucking Berkshires.”

You tilted your head, spotting a puffed-up gentleman shaking hands with Richard near the bar.

“And see that man in the seersucker with the cane? That’s Douglas Fitzroy. His daughter Audrey tried to climb into my lap at Easter when I was seventeen. I think she mistook it for a pony.”

You snorted into your champagne flute before noticing the curious stares of a few guests, mainly from a group of younger women by the buffet. You instinctively tightened your grip on Ben’s arm, even though your outfit gave the illusion that you belonged here as well – fake it till you make it.

You’d been on the Brooks lawn for all of thirty minutes and already counted at least six girls who looked like they wanted to push you into the nearest hedge.

“Over there, that’s the Carmichaels,” Ben continued joyously. “They own the distillery. He’s boring, and she’s more interested in the company of other women from what I’ve heard.”

“Ben!”

He chuckled at your little gasp and pecked your temple. Then his green eyes drifted across the lawn again. “Oh, uh, the girl by the fountain in the green dress? Don’t make eye contact with her. That’s Lucille Sinclair. I took her to prom once. She cried when I didn’t want to go steady.”

You frowned slightly, cocking an eyebrow. “Was this before or after you slept with her?”

He paused, scratching his throat. “During.”

“You’re awful.” You shook your head but couldn’t help the bubble of laughter. “How did you survive this long without getting clocked with a high heel?”

“I have quick reflexes.” He shrugged casually, then grinned that boyish smile again.

“Alright, so what’s the body count here, Brooks?” you asked, glancing around the lawn and still feeling those judgmental stares on you.

Ben played innocent. “How do you mean?”

“How many girls here have seen you naked?”

Ben nearly choked on his drink, then leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Statistically speaking, it’s best if you avoid speaking to anyone between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. Just to be safe.”

You snorted involuntarily. “That many?”

“Listen, I went through a very misguided Hemingway phase. Lots of brandy,” he retorted and then grinned again, completely unapologetic. “There was a time when I was very popular, alright? Rich, handsome, emotionally unavailable… I was basically catnip for that whole row of pearls over there.”

You followed his nod toward a row of young women near the garden steps, watching you with the kind of passive aggression that could only be bred in East Coast boarding schools.

“Besides,” he added, brushing his knuckles down your bare arm, “you’re the only one who ever told me no. And meant it.”

Jesus fucking Christ, this man…

You raised a brow, looking up at him. “Was that your idea of foreplay?”

Ben gave a sheepish twitch of his shoulders. “Look, my twenties were a bit of a blur.”

“You’re only twenty-three!”

“Which just means I’m still in my prime.” Ben smirked and wiggled his brows.

“Yeah, I have a feeling you’re gonna be in your prime for a while…”

“Thank you,” he said and looked so smugly gorgeous about it that you practically forgave him on sight.

“Not a compliment, Benjamin.”

You tried not to laugh, but it surfaced anyway, especially when he pulled you closer, forearm braced possessively against the small of your back like he wanted every silk-and-sequin heiress here to see exactly who you belonged to – or who he belonged to now.

And then, Ben grabbed you and pressed you up against a stone column wrapped in ivy, one hand firm on your hip, the other tangled in your hair as he kissed you senseless like he hadn’t just done the same thing five minutes ago. Or ten. Or twenty. You’d stopped counting.

“Feel what you do to me?” he whispered, grinding just enough for you to know. He kissed you again, rougher this time, fingers playing with the hem of your skirt. Then he smirked lazily. “Already picturing that dress on the floor, baby.”

“You are shameless. Stop it!” You made a noise between a gasp and giggle, slapping his chest again. “Every girl here already looks like she wants to light me on fire.”

“Correction,” Ben said, amused, “They want to light me on fire. You’re just collateral damage.”

Ah yes.

“Comforting,” you said out loud this time.

“You’re the only one here who matters, sweetheart,” he reassured you, cupping your cheeks, forehead touching yours. And then, his eyes flickered sideways for a split of a second. “Uh-oh. The Du Ponts have arrived.”

Cue the Imperial March…

You didn’t have to look. You felt it. The air changed, the sound warped, and everyone straightened just a little as the Du Ponts glided in like a parade of pearls and Protestant guilt. Grace, a fucking vision in silk white, was flanked by her parents.

And Ben? Well, he only kissed you again – one of those longer, deeper ones that curled your toes, lifted your head to the clouds, and made it clear he had no intention of being on his best behavior during this party.

“Well, isn’t that charming,” Grace’s shrill voice screeched behind you.

Ben didn’t turn around, finished his kiss with all the patience in the world. Then he sighed audibly against your neck, mouthed fuck’s sake, and slowly leaned back, finally twisting around – but only halfway. He didn’t let go of you. His hand remained steadily at your waist.

Then their eyes met, and you could feel Hell freeze over.

“Benjamin,” she said primly. “I see you’ve kept up your little… hobby.”

“Watch it,” he growled, shifting a little in front of you, not exactly shielding you but close. His fingers laced with yours automatically.

“I’m not a hobby, Grace,” you replied coolly, your thumb brushing over Ben’s knuckles to keep him calm.

Grace then looked at you – not like someone she’d only encountered once, but like someone she’d spent months privately raging about. Because she had. Ben’s so-called “phase” was supposed to have ended by now. And instead, here you were. Still next to him. Still touching him. Still making him look happy in a way Grace had never seen before.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” she asked you like she didn’t fucking know, eyes flicking down to where Ben’s fingers were splayed possessively over your hip. “The tea room. I’m surprised you remembered my name.”

“Oh, I did,” you said with the sweetest smile. “It’s the same as the virtue you lack.”

Ben choked on a laugh, and Grace’s spine stiffened like someone had yanked it from above.

“I must’ve seen you two around town a dozen times this spring. Soda fountain, book store, even some little movie theater,” she said with venom in sheep’s clothing. “How… quaint.”

You arched a brow. “Are you making a fucking scrapbook?”

“I assumed it was just a bit of fun.” She ignored your quip, her smile curling like it hurt. “Aren’t you tired of pretending? After all, Benjamin isn’t known for his consistency.”

You took a casual sip of champagne. “Oh, I don’t know. He’s been pretty consistent with me… especially in bed.”

Grace blinked, smile dropped, looking like she choked on a pearl. Ben, on the other hand, coughed out a laugh that sounded downright gleeful.

Her eyes snapped to him with a coldness that exceeded Antarctica’s. “Your father invited me today. He still thinks you’ll come to your senses.”

“Really?” You smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t bet on it. See, his father can marry you two all he wants, your husband’s still gonna spend his wedding night with me.”

Grace’s face flushed a deep red. “I suppose some people cling to delusion when reality doesn’t suit them.”

You simply smiled again. “Exactly what I was thinking. Thank you.”

Grace didn’t respond straight away. Instead, she looked Ben over one last time, gaze dragging across the flush in his cheeks and the unmistakable impression of his hand on your waist.

Then she smiled – tight, sour, brittle. “Well. Enjoy the fireworks… while they last,” she bit and turned, stomping away with the stiff elegance of someone holding in a tantrum.

Ben let out a low whistle when she’d made it halfway across the garden again. “Christ.”

You glanced up at him – sheepish, innocent. “I was polite.”

Ben met your eyes, visibly impressed, a smile playing on his lips. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

You snorted a chuckle and took a sip from your drink. “Oh, honey, I’m pretty sure you’ll manage it eventually.”

Ben only smiled. That devastating, lazy smile that said he was exactly where he wanted to be. And then he kissed you – slow and possessive, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

If the Brooks Fourth of July party had a theme, it wasn’t freedom, liberty, or the American dream. It was Richard. Richard Brooks – recovering heart attack survivor, self-declared titan of industry, and, as of today, Philadelphia’s most insufferable comeback story.

The lawn was full now – brimming with silk dresses and summer-weight suits, the clink of crystal glasses, and the low hum of political posturing disguised as pleasantries. The sun slanted through the trees in golden beams, but you were tucked under Ben’s arm in the shade as he charmed the hell out of some War Department colonel. Every so often, he dipped his head to murmur something wicked into your ear, and you laughed, leaned into him more. It was easy until–

A silver spoon clinked against a champagne flute.

The subtle hush that fell over the crowd wasn’t total, but enough that you heard Ben sigh under his breath.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Here come’s the resurrection speech.”

Richard Brooks stood at the head of the steps leading down to the garden, champagne flute raised, suit crisp and face composed in that particular brand of patriarchal smugness only men like him had patented.

“Friends, family, colleagues, esteemed guests,” Richard began, “what a joy to see you all gathered once again for our most cherished tradition.”

A smattering of polite applause followed.

“After my… brief medical interruption this spring, I’m pleased to report that steel doesn’t bend easy. I’ve recovered fully – stronger than ever – and I’m filled with clarity about what matters most. I have been reminded of how vital legacy is. How important it is to see the next generation step up, to carry our name with honor, with purpose. To host, to lead, to build.”

Next to you, Ben groaned under his breath.

“Mortality forces a man to ask: Who will carry the torch? Who will shoulder the mantle of responsibility, of excellence, of vision?” Richard continued, eyes flicking all too deliberately to his son. “I admit passing that mantle is no small task. One must consider not just bloodlines, but merit. Discipline. Readiness. This country rewards resolve. Focus. Clarity of purpose.”

You could practically hear Ben grinding his molars on top of your head.

“And while some among us are still… growing into the shape of that legacy,” Richard said, eyes narrowing now on you in Ben’s arms, “I remain optimistic. And next year, perhaps, we’ll be here not just to celebrate our country’s founding but a new union as well.”

The speech ended with polite applause. Richard basked in it, then descended the stairs with the force of a man who believed the world owed him something.

“I hate him,” Ben muttered.

“He’s practically announcing your engagement with an ellipsis,” you said, brow furrowing. It was almost a word-for-word reenactment of what Dottie had told you once. “Do we think there’s a wedding arch hidden behind the hedges?”

“Not funny,” Ben murmured.

You raised your champagne flute with a wry grin. “To your betrothal, honey. May it be fictional and short-lived.”

Ben eventually let out a snort of amusement and kissed your temple, pulling you closer. But the peace, love, and laughter didn’t last long. He barely had time to recover when Richard marched toward you two like a general surveying his troops, a man with a lapel pin in tow, and of course, Grace floated beside them like a victory prize on a parade float.

“That’s Senator Davis,” you whispered to Ben. “He’s a Republican, but he comes from a working class family and is a supporter of labor laws.”

Ben’s head whipped to you, brow knitting. “How do you know that?”

You shrugged. “I read.”

And then, the group stood before you, Richard and Grace flashing their fakest polite smiles, while Senator Davis looked annoyed at best and exhausted at worst.

Richard then placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder like a branding iron. “Senator, allow me to introduce my son, Benjamin. And this,” he gestured to Grace, “is Grace Du Pont. His fiancée.”

Ben sputtered. “Actually, I’m–”

“Soon to be,” Richard steamrolled. “It’s only a matter of formality. You know how young people are. Always delaying what’s inevitable. But these two? Perfectly matched. Old family. Solid values.”

“Huh.” The senator looked unimpressed by the theatrics, and you knew why.

Know your fucking audience, Dick.

Then Richard turned his chin slightly toward you, almost as if noticing a passing servant. “This is one of the staff assisting the event. Would you be a dear and bring the senator a refill?”

You opened your mouth before noticing Ben was seconds away from losing it.

“She’s not–” Ben started but stopped when you gently placed a palm on his arm.

“It’s okay. Let Daddy have his narrative,” you whispered to him with a wink and then turned to the senator and Richard with the brightest smile. “Of course! I’ll be right back with your drink, sir.”

Grace looked smug and triumphant as hell as she watched you beeline to the bar – but not for fucking long.

Pause.

You stretched your neck, cracked your knuckles. Time suspended and turned the party scene into a Norman Rockwell painting as you swayed easily like a breeze through a garden full of statues.

Waiters paused mid-step. A glass in mid-pour. A hand in mid-toast.

With a diabolical smirk, you let your fingertips graze the fabric of Grace’s white dress before tugging her hem just slightly under the tip of the cupcake stand’s leg.

Oh, this will be fun, Puck said. This party needed a breath of chaos.

You moved on to the delicately balanced champagne tower and nudged the base with a touch. Just enough to make it precarious.

And then, well, your eyes spied Betty Vanderbilt, reaching for a glass near Grace.

Not resisting the mischievous urge, you took a creative liberty and rearranged her path ever-so slightly. You then grabbed a drink for the senator, took a deep breath, and forced the most innocent smile. Angels didn’t wear halos as brightly as you.

And Play.

The scene resumed, and in a few gloriously chaotic seconds, your plan unfolded.

Betty tripped forward and crashed into Grace like a missile. Champagne flutes shattered like glass rain, the toppling tower cascading over Grace’s head in a vintage baptism of golden bubbles. She twisted, staggered, and slammed backward into the cupcake table, ass-first into a heap of patriotic-themed frosting.

“You absolute cow!” Grace shrieked, scrambling to her feet with blue frosting in her eyelashes and a dripping white dress doused in champagne.

“You ran into me, you viper!” Betty huffed, dusting off her dress.

“You’ve been jealous since Benjamin picked me!”

Betty’s eyes flashed. “Picked you? Sweetheart, Ben sampled the tasting menu! I wasn’t the only one. There was a goddamn waitlist!”

Grace lunged. Betty grabbed a champagne bottle like a club. Frosting flew. A small child screamed. Someone’s shoe caught on fire (unclear how). One of the band members dove under a table. You hadn’t even meant for it to get this out of hand, but now that it had?

Delicious.

Next to the senator and Ben, Richard stood frozen in absolute horror, watching the chaos unfold like a man watching his stocks crash in real time.

That was when you decided to return with the sweetest smile.

“Senator, here’s your drink–,” you started and then stopped, feigning a gasp as you clasped your chest with the outrage of a fine lady. “Oh my! What’s going on here?”

Speechless, Ben blinked like he regretted a few decisions again. “Uh…”

Senator Davis took one slow, disapproving glance at Grace, dripping with champagne and rage, before turning to Richard. “Charming girl,” he said dryly. “But not quite the picture of grace, is she?”

Richard’s face turned to stone.

And then, Ben finally stepped forward, pulling you gently and proudly to his side. “Senator, I’m sorry about the chaos. Please allow me to introduce my actual girlfriend.”

Richard’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then clenched shut.

Senator Davis took your hand. You straightened your shoulders and gave him a warm, practiced smile.

“Pleasure, sir,” you said cheerfully. “I read The Iron Puddler when I was sixteen. Made me feel like grit still counted for something, even if you didn’t come from money.”

Davis blinked in surprise but then gave you the warmest smile upon the mention of his cherished autobiography. “Well now, that’s a fine thing to hear. I wrote that book hoping some kid out there’d believe they didn’t need a silver spoon to make it,” he said, sending Richard a look. “That’s worth more to me than a good poll number. I wrote it for folks like you. People can either be defined by their circumstances or use those very circumstances to shape their future. It’s the essence of the American spirit, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely agree, Senator. It hit me like a thunderbolt, sir,” you continued your flattery. “Reminded me that being poor doesn’t mean you’re powerless.”

The senator chuckled happily. “That's all I was hoping for – one person to believe in the long shot. You’ve got fire. I like that. Just don’t go running against me,” he joked with a wink.

“Oh, don’t worry, sir. I’m not planning on running against you,” you said, giggling, and then placed your hand on Ben’s chest, cheekily nodding toward him, “But he might. He’s not one to rely on anyone else’s legacy either. He’s determined to carve out his own path.”

Ben smiled wryly, shooting a glance at his father. “She makes sure I don’t take a single thing for granted, sir.”

“Then you’ve got a good woman and better sense than most in your tax bracket, son,” Davis replied, laughing.

Ben laced his hand with yours and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “She’s the reason I’ve come this far. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Some think wealth is something you pass down like an heirloom. But there’s something to be said for building something yourself. If ever you two need support, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’ve always believed that anyone with the drive to build something of their own deserves a hand up, not a handout.” Senator Davis then turned to Ben’s father with a smile that was a little too polished. “You’ve raised a fine son with a strong head on his shoulders, Mr. Brooks. It’s rare to see someone so committed to building from the ground up, especially when he’s got the option to take an easier route. It’s commendable. And with someone like her beside him, well, I’d say he’s well-positioned for success.”

Richard looked like he’d bitten through his cigar and someone had drained the bourbon from his blue bloodstream.

And you? You looked up at Ben, grinning smug as hell. “I think I just officially became your father’s nemesis. Should we get out of here before he bursts a vessel?”

“Before you get caught in the crossfire, yes.” Ben chuckled and tugged you away before his father could combust.

The afternoon had been a blur of sunshine, laughter, and clinking glasses. As the day wore on, the party shifted to something quieter and drunker, strings of lanterns beginning to glow against the falling dusk.

You never left Ben’s side, charming every congressman and colonel alike with a trained laugh. You’d made yourself indispensable.

You only slipped away for a moment, excusing yourself inside to the powder room. You smoothed out your skirt, washed away the sticky remnants of stolen cupcakes, and applied a new coat of lipstick since most of it had landed on Ben at this point.

On your way back to the garden, the empty mansion echoed faintly with distant music and laughter from outside. And then there he was:

Richard Brooks was already waiting, posted by the doorway to his study like a vulture smelling fresh meat.

“Miss,” he said, not even bothering to finish your name. “Inside. Now.”

“I was just heading back to the party,” you said, forcing a polite smile.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said and opened the door with one hand and stepped back, waiting like a man who never heard the word no.

You walked past him, breath shallow, pulse fluttering like a caged bird. And then it was just you, Richard Brooks, and the scent of whiskey and old power clinging to the room like rot.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, absentmindedly pouring himself a glass of bourbon. “Making friends. Charming donors. Wiggling your way in like a parasite.”

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. Careful. Controlled. “What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Brooks?”

“I want to make this very simple,” he said, stepping closer with the slow gravity of a man used to the world bowing to him. “You want money? I’ll give you money. You walk away from my son. Tonight. I don’t care where you go, but you disappear. And in return, I’ll write you a check large enough to make sure you never have to get your hands dirty again.”

The heat crawled up your chest. You scoffed a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not for sale.”

“You are. You just don’t know your price yet,” he said and took a long sip from his drink, staring at you like you were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?”

“Excuse me?”

“What’s the game plan? Stick around long enough to get a ring? Or were you hoping for a baby first? Anchor him down, ruin his life properly.”

Your throat went dry. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m realistic,” he snapped. “You think I don’t know your type? You think he’s the first boy with a bleeding heart and a hard-on?”

“Go to hell,” you bit through gritted teeth.

“Oh, don’t play coy now. It’s unflattering. You’ve wrapped yourself around my son like ivy around stone, hoping no one notices what you’re choking.” Richard tilted his head with a smirk, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Don’t think I haven’t seen girls like you before. Pretty. Starved. Sharp enough to keep your legs crossed until the stakes are high enough to spread them. How long did you hold out before you gave my son what he wanted?”

“I love Ben,” you said fiercely.

But Richard only scoffed a humorless laugh, amused. Condescending. His trademark. “Please, let’s not pretend for a second this is love. You needed someone to pick you up off the street, and he was stupid enough to do it. He’s always had a weakness for broken things. He likes the way you moan. That’s it. You’re not the first little stray to wander into our lives, after all.”

Your blood ran cold, skin crawling. “Fuck you.”

“You’re a pretty little thing for a gutter rat. I’ll give you that. Voice like honey, mouth like sin, decent pair of legs…” He stalked forward, sneering.

You took a step back. “Stay away from me.”

“Why?” He smiled, all teeth like a shark. “You’re fine letting my son put his hands all over you. Why not me? I could make it worth your while. Why waste your charms on a boy who’s still wet behind the ears when you could have the man who built everything he’s trying to give you?”

“Don’t,” you warned sharply, hands balling into fists.

He only laughed darkly and took another step toward you, eyes raking you up and down like a lion circling. “Oh, come on. You’re not shy when it’s him.”

And then, his fucking hand came down – bold, calloused fingers grazing your hip like they had every right.

Goddammit!

Like father, like son, like fucking grandson.

But it was his grave mistake to underestimate you.

Your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist like iron, body moving faster than your brain. You didn’t squeeze at first. Just let him feel the pressure. Enough to make him flinch.

“I suggest you take your hand off me,” you said, sharp as a razor. “Now.”

Then you squeezed. Not enough to break bone, but enough to make his knees buckle. Enough to make him gasp, to panic, to understand that something was very wrong. He tried to pull back, but you didn’t let him.

On the inside, you were terrified. Because for a blink of an eye, you didn’t know how this would end.

“What the hell–” His eyes widened, choking out a strangled sound. “You–… what are you–… You’re–… you’re a goddamn–”

Jesus fuck, please don’t say it.

“–witch!”

Shit. Not again. Why did this keep happening to you?

But this time, you used it to your advantage, leaning in closer with a fearsome snarl. “That’s right, you little Puritan shit. Be fucking scared because if you ever touch me again, Florence will be picking pieces of you out of this leather chair till 1953.”

His blue eyes narrowed as the pain set in. “You crazy little–… Let go of me!”

“Dad?”

Ben’s voice shattered the moment. He froze in the doorway, scanning the room in sharp confusion – his father’s disheveled state, your tense shoulders – and that’s when he saw it. The panic on your face. Your body trembling like a leaf in a storm. Your eyes wet, wild, and locked on the floor like if you looked up, it would all come crashing down. His gaze flicked from you to his father’s twisted face down to the wrist you were still gripping tightly.

That was when you finally snapped out of it and dropped it like it burned you.

Richard yanked his arm away, cradling his wrist like it had been caught in a bear trap. His face was red. His eyes burned.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Ben asked, brow furrowed.

“I–… Ben, I didn’t–… He–” The words tangled. You’d never stammered in front of Ben before. But this moment wasn’t built for composure. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, ready to crack them on impact.

Richard stumbled back, face contorted with both rage and humiliation, painting on a mask. “She assaulted me. The girl’s hysterical. Look at her! She’s not right in the head.”

Your stomach turned. Your heart dropped. “That’s not what happened, you fucking–”

“She came onto me,” Richard continued, fully drilling his gaze into Ben now like a basilisk. “Started touching me. Got handsy when I told her it wasn’t happening. You really think she’s with you for you, son?”

But Ben didn’t look at him. Not once. His glassy emerald eyes stayed on you. It seemed like he wasn’t even listening to his father. He came closer to you, touched your cheek with a gentleness that almost broke you.

Because he believed you. Because he knew you. Every inch of you.

“Did he touch you?”

You swallowed hard, biting back the stinging tears in your eyes, but you gave him the weakest nod. Silent.

And that was all it took. Something in him snapped.

“You bastard fucking touched her?!”

“Ben, don’t,” you tried to intervene carefully, keep the situation from escalating. You wanted to pull Ben back. Wanted to beg him not to do this. Not to ruin everything for you.

“Watch your goddamn tone, son!” Richard warned, seething with anger. “She’s clearly lying!”

Ben was on his father in a heartbeat, shoving him roughly against the closest bookshelf, hard enough to rattle a few leather-bound works off the shelves.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!”

“Spare me the dramatics,” Richard said, snorting. “The girl’s been in your bed for weeks. What’s the difference?”

“She’s not yours,” Ben growled.

Richard laughed loudly. “Don’t tell me you actually think this is love, son. You barely know her. You think she’ll stick around once the lights go out? She’s using you. You’ll see it eventually. They always leave. She’ll leave too. She’ll take everything, drag your name through the mud, and walk away. You can dress it up any way you want, boy, but at the end of the day, she’s just your whore.”

Ben’s fist slammed into the sideboard with a thunderous crack. The lamp wobbled. You flinched and tentatively placed your hand on his arm. You could feel how fast his heart was beating, could feel your own panic ratcheting higher.

“Ben, don’t,” you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks. “Please, just… don’t.”

But Ben didn’t let go of his father or look at you. Not yet. His hand gently pushed against your shoulder to shift you aside. Out of harm’s way.

“Say one more word about her and I’ll make sure it’s your last in this goddamn house,” he threatened, voice more thundering than the summer storm brewing outside the study’s windows.

Richard only scoffed, shaking his head and smoothing out his dress shirt as Ben’s grip finally loosened, hands falling to his sides. “Christ on a cross, don’t romanticize this. What, you’re calling it love because she spread her legs?”

“Fuck you,” Ben spat.

Fuck you.

Something clicked. You stood frozen behind him, heart pounding, lungs too tight to fill, brain buzzing like a bee hive. Somewhere behind your ribs, where your mind met the deeper currents of knowing, a ripple moved through your sense of reality, subtle but cold. That gnawing, familiar feeling was back, a persistent hypothesis creeping with it this time.

What if–… No, it can't be.

Maybe you were never steering anything. Maybe all you’d done was arrive exactly on cue.

“I’m marrying her,” Ben announced, straight to his father’s face and ripping you out of your chalkboard theories.

The silence was only interrupted by thunder roaring outside, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if it wasn’t just the sound of your heart exploding. Like Oppenheimer was throwing a goddamn trial run in your chest.

“No, you’re fucking not,” Richard bit like it was an order his son was supposed to obey.

“I am,” Ben stood steadfast, his deep voice unwavering. “Tonight, if I have to.”

“Benjamin–”

Ben cut in firmly, bristling. “I will not let you lay another finger on her. I will not let you speak to her. I will not even let you goddamn look at her.”

“She is nothing but a broken little–”

“She is mine,” Ben snapped. “I’m done. I’m leaving with her right now. And I’m never coming back. Keep your money and your legacy. Choke on it for all I care.”

“You’re deluded. You’re not thinking clearly. You’ll regret this, son. Trust me,” Richard continued spewing.

But Ben had already turned his back on his father. He took your hand. His grip was tight. Sure.

“Let’s go,” he said to you, voice softer now.

Your legs felt numb. Your body still shook, muscles twitching.

“Ben, are you sure? What if–”

He stilled for a heartbeat, then turned to you fully, and all you could see was the devotion glistening in his eyes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You couldn’t stop the tears this time. Not from fear. Not from anger. Not from worry. But because it felt like you were fucking drowning.

Ben walked out of the study without another word, your hand safely in his.

But the adrenaline clung to your skin. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know what came next. All you knew was that the man at your side had just set his life on fire.

For you.

Your heart hammered more furiously than the thunder cracking outside as Ben dragged you down the familiar maze of dark hallways, the tapestry blurring in your vision, Richard’s voice still ringing in your ears, but your hand still in Ben’s. His grip was so tight it would’ve probably hurt anyone else, but you still didn’t let go.

Lightning slashed white across the windows as Ben yanked open the double doors to the drawing room. You stumbled through after him, still trembling, still trying to catch your breath, still tasting bile.

And then you heard her voice.

“Benjamin?”

Ben stopped cold. You nearly collided into his back.

Margaret Brooks stood by the piano in her seafoam party dress, and she wasn’t alone – Dottie, quiet as a shadow, hovered just behind her, holding a tray of empty glasses and an anxious expression. Margaret’s eyes locked on her son, then on you – disheveled, breathless, teary-eyed, your hand still clutching Ben’s like a buoy out at sea.

And she knew.

She didn’t say how. Didn’t ask. She just stepped forward slowly. “What did he do?”

Ben’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. His shoulders shook with the effort not to go back and punch a hole in the study wall. He squeezed your hand, fury still radiating off him in waves. You could feel the heat of it in your skin, in your chest, in the way your heartbeat hadn’t slowed since you’d dropped his father’s wrist.

Margaret nodded once. “I see.” Then she turned to Dottie. “Get my travel case and that stack of twenties I keep behind the dressing screen. Hurry.”

Dottie vanished without a word.

“I should’ve burned this whole place to the ground years ago,” Margaret muttered, eyes flicking toward the stormy window before they landed back on you and Ben. “But if I can’t walk out, at least you two can.”

Margaret’s expression softened as she looked at you. She touched your cheek – light, maternal. It made your throat tighten. “You know, dear, after that first dinner, I knew you were the one person in this house who couldn’t be bought or bullied. Which means you’re exactly who he needs,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You make him happy. I haven’t seen him smile like that since he was ten years old. Don’t let him forget how to. You take care of my boy. He’s a pain in the neck, but he’s got a good heart.”

You nodded, fighting tears, too choked up to speak.

The thunder rumbled low and mean outside the windows, a distant growl growing steadily closer. You could hear voices echoing down the halls, servants ushering guests indoors as the storm rolled in. The party was no longer spilling across the lawn – people were beginning to trickle into the ballroom, clinking glasses and polite laughter rising in the wake of the approaching downpour.

Then, without a word, Margaret slipped off the massive diamond ring on her left hand and pressed it into Ben’s palm. The thing was a glacier – ornate, heavy, and stunning. He stared down at it like it might explode.

“What–, uh… You-, uhm, you want me to propose with this?”

She snorted humorlessly, shaking her head. “Good God, no, Benjamin! That thing is cursed. Only ever got two decades of eternal misery out of it. For God’s sake, don’t put that on her finger,” she retorted and cupped her son’s cheeks, looking into his eyes intently. “But it’s worth a fortune. Pawn it. Use it to buy her a ring. And maybe something with a roof and plumbing, yes?”

Ben nodded slowly in her palms, brow so intensely furrowed you wouldn’t be surprised if those creases stayed permanently.

“I’ve waited twenty-three years to say this: You are nothing like that man, and I am so proud of you for it, Benjamin,” she whispered and kissed his forehead.

Ben froze and shut his eyes, swallowing hard, and you could see what it did to him – the quiet devastation of a son who’d waited his whole life to hear those words and never believed he would.

“There’s no time to argue. Go to the stables at the edge of the property. No one goes there this time of night. Not in this weather. Use the old servant path past the orchard. You remember it, Ben,” Margaret said.

“I do,” Ben replied, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I’ll tell your father you stormed off after a tantrum. He’ll believe that. He always underestimated your spine.”

Ben gave a bitter huff.

“I’ll never forgive him for what he did to you,” Margaret added, directed at you both. “But I can still help fix the ending.”

Dottie reappeared then, out of breath, carrying a small overnight suitcase and an armful of coats. Outside, the thunder roared louder, closer, the wind howling like something unholy.

Ben pulled you close, holding the suitcase in one hand and your waist in the other. You both followed Dottie, quick and silent, down the servants’ corridor toward the back door that led out to the garden path.

Dottie cracked the door open, looking left and right. “Coast is clear.”

Rain pounded against the roof now, soaking the porch as soon as you stepped outside. Cold, blinding sheets of it. You gasped as it hit you, but Ben just held the coat over your head and guided you through the downpour, across the gravel, past the hydrangeas whipping in the wind.

And then you ran.

The rain chased you two down the hill like hounds nipping at your heels, slamming the world into a blur, thunder cracking like the earth itself was breaking apart. You sprinted across the lawn, mud splashing under your shoes, lightning streaking white through the clouds and splitting the sky. Your pulse hammered loud in your ears, but the questions and doubts were even louder.

By the time you reached the stables at the far end of the property, your clothes clung to you like a second skin, chilling your muscles to ice. Rain pelted down, cold and hard, stinging your cheeks and numbing your fingers. Thunder roared across the sky like a cannon, drowning out your breathless sobs and the frantic beat of your heart.

Ben pushed the heavy barn door open with his shoulder, glancing back at the dark outline of the mansion once before ushering you inside. You stumbled in after him, dripping, shaking, soaked straight through to your bones. The door slammed shut on creaking hinges behind you, muting the storm to a low, feral growl. The scent of hay, horses, and damp wood filled your lungs.

Panic curled tight in your ribs, sharper than the cold. You didn’t know where to go, what to do. The walls felt too narrow, the future too wide.

“Why didn’t you just tell him to go fuck himself?”

“Ha, I imagine that would’ve probably gone over well…”

You grabbed a beam to steady yourself, rainwater dripping down your back, your throat closing around a sound you couldn’t name. You were breathing too fucking fast.

For a moment, everything was pitch black. Ben fumbled along the wall, fingers brushing until he yanked a brass hanging lantern from a hook on the wall and flicked it on. The low golden light washed over his face, catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the soaked, wild mess of his hair.

He then stopped short in the middle of the barn, hands braced on his hips, chest rising and falling beneath his drenched dress shirt. He looked around quickly – assessing, scanning the space like he could plan ahead, like he could solve everything if he just stared hard enough.

“This’ll do for the night,” he muttered, half to himself. “We’ll figure out where to go in the morning. I can sell the ring, get us on our feet. Just need-… need a plan.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, dripping, freezing, too full of emotion to speak. The high beams above you groaned with the wind, lightning flashing blue and white through the gaps in the slats.

Ben then finally turned to you, his chest still heaving, hair plastered to his forehead, jaw clenched with fury and adrenaline. His eyes found yours instantly, and something in them softened. He stepped forward, closing the space between you, rainwater dripping from his lashes. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing rain off your cheeks like you were made of glass.

“You okay?”

You nodded in his palms but shivered, too.

“Did he–” He bit his lips harshly, another surge of anger rumbling through him. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. No, nothing like that,” you replied, quickly shaking your head. “Just scared me. I stopped him before anything could happen.”

Ben pulled you flush against him then, arms coming around you and holding you tight. He rested his chin on top of your head.

“How did you even do that? I mean, you’re–”

Small. Weak. Fragile. A woman.

Whatever it was, he stopped before he said it.

“I’m not soft.”

“Prove it.”

“I wouldn’t hesitate to go back in time and fucking kill you!”

“Oh, you can certainly try, sweetheart.”

Your heart battered your ribcage. You swallowed heavily. “Oh, uh, adrenaline… I guess. Didn’t really think about it.”

“Right, yeah… Good,” Ben said, but you weren’t quite sure he believed you fully this time. “I should’ve gotten there sooner. Never shoulda left your side at all. I promised you I wouldn’t, but I–”

“Hey, hey, no…” You looked up at him, seeing the thunder-lit fury in his emerald gaze. You cupped his jaw, rough and sharp beneath your gentle palms. “It’s not your fault, okay? You got there. You believed me. It’s all that matters.”

“I shoulda known. Shoulda put him through a fucking wall,” he gritted, muscles shaking under your touch. “I’ll never forgive him for what he tried to do. We’re done with him. With all of it. Just you and me, alright? We’ll make it work.”

Your grip faltered. The words scraped at the raw, unsure part of you. That feeling was back. Stronger. Not even a feeling at all anymore – just truth. A fact you didn’t want to believe in like God.

“Look, while you were away, I talked to Hardwick again. He said he might have something for me. Pays well,” Ben said, and your heart slowed for the first time that day – not for a good reason, though.

“The army general?”

“Yeah, he said we wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. Said we’d be taken care of.”

Your mind flashed with the next lightning strike. Your lips pressed into a tight lines, the creases on your brow even tighter. “What-, uh, what exactly did he say?”

“What does it matter?” Ben looked at you in confusion, probably for the same reason he always had – protecting you.

He had it handled. There was no need for you to worry.

“Just tell me,” you still insisted.

Ben exhaled a small sigh through his nose but relented like he always did, too. “He said they found some scientists in Germany or something. Said it might take a couple more months, though. Maybe years. But they’d take care of us now. Recruit me… or whatever. Said something about paperclips…”

“Ben–” You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep breath.

“What?”

Don’t get frustrated with him, you reminded yourself. He doesn’t know.

“Did he maybe say Operation Paperclip?”

Ben nodded slowly, forest green eyes flickering. “Yeah, I guess. How d’you know?”

“I-… Your father’s golf buddies talked about it today.”

Yeah, you had listened to that conversation very intently. From what you’d gathered, they’d found out about Frederick Vought’s existence, discovered his plans for Nazi super soldiers, and heard about first trials in camps. Only casualties, no successes. But you knew there’d be one, eventually. Then two. No contact made yet. But that would happen as well.

You were sure about history, weren’t you?

“Hey, look at me,” Ben’s deep voice pulled you back. His thumbs brushed your throat, hands locked around your neck, forehead pressed against yours. “We’ll be okay, I promise you.”

But you couldn’t believe him. Not anymore.

“Ben, wait–”

His lips crashed against yours, tasting of rain and relief. His kiss was desperate. Hard. Addicting. You stumbled back from the force of it, your spine hitting the barn door, wood wet and splintering beneath your soaked clothes.

And you kissed him back just as fervently.

His hands buried in your hair, your ribs, your thighs – anywhere he could touch, like he had to grip every inch of you because he didn’t trust the world not to rip you away.

And you clung to him, shaking, breathless, heart breaking.

“You’re it for me,” he rasped between rougher kisses. “You understand? There’s no one–… There’s nothing else.”

And you never stopped him.

Your legs wrapped around him, massive hands clawing at your ass like you clawed into his broad shoulders. His knuckles brushed up your thighs, dragging your soaked dress higher and higher and higher. Your mind went higher with it.

You whimpered as his fingers shoved your panties aside, his touch rough, reverent, rampant. Yours was desperate, desecrating, despondent as you fumbled at his slacks, unbuckling just enough.

The thunder outside barely hammered louder than your own heart.

“Oh, c’mon! One song. How about something from the fucking 80s? Like Cyndi Lauper! I’m sure you’d like that, huh?”

He pushed into you in one fierce, unrelenting thrust. The oxygen left your lungs in a choked cry, and he filled your lungs with his next kiss. Devoured you like he was trying to crawl into your very skin to stay.

Your fingers dug into his back, twisted the soaked fabric of his shirt in your dying grip. He groaned your name like it undid him, heavy head falling to your shoulder as he held you there, his body shuddering with the force of it.

“I’ve never lo–” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t breathe.

And you couldn’t either.

The thunder growled above you like a warning, the storm outside only amplifying the chaos inside you. He moved again, and you whimpered, overwhelmed by the pressure, the stretch, the maddening, soul-breaking closeness.

“You’re it. You’re everything,” he groaned, thrusting harder, rhythm gone to ruin.

And you were shaking.

From the cold, from the heat, from the whiplash of fear and want and love and devastation. You didn’t know which part was louder – the terror of what came next, or the ache to fall apart in his arms and stay there forever.

Ben kissed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your eye where a tear escaped.

His thrusts grew messier, less controlled. One hand gripped the door beside your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist, grounding you. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

And still, you tried to carve something real out of the ruin.

Your body moved with his, dizzy with need, lost in him. Every thrust was a promise. Every breathless, broken word was a vow.

“How about something a little slower… Time After Time! That’s fucking perfect for you!”

“Ben–”

“I’ve got you. I’ve always got you, sweetheart. That’s it,” he growled, his rhythm stuttering as your body clenched around him.

You could barely keep up with the half-incoherent words spilling from him. Desperate, beautiful nonsense. Confessions torn from the back of his throat.

And all you could do was feel him – thick and hard, and so deep, it hurt, it ached, it mattered.

Ben never saw the spiral in your eyes. Didn’t feel the tremble in your hands as panic and desire collided like fire and gasoline. He drove into you with every ounce of desperation he felt – relentless and bruising, as if only he went deep enough, hard enough, he could stay inside you forever.

And your hips rocked against his, chasing the edge together and outrunning everything else.

“Led Zeppelin, huh?”

“Yeah, I got it for my twenty-fifth birthday. I went to Zeppelin’s first tour in 1969. Only wear it on special occasions.”

“Oh, yeah, right… Happy fucking birthday, I guess.”

You loved him. You bit down on his shoulder as you came, cried out his name and everything else. It tore through you – sharp, electric, wild. Your head fell back against the door, body tight and shuddering in his hold, letting the rain on the tin roof drown out the war in your heart, you wished you could Pause right here.

But you didn’t stop time. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t stop yourself.

You kissed his temple. His jaw. His mouth. You held him tighter than you ever had.

And you were losing him.

Your name fell from his lips, wrecked and worshipful at once. He buried himself as deep as he could go – one broken thrust, one strangled moan, one bruising grip on your ice-cold skin, spilling into you, thick and hot.

The world was still for a moment till your mind screamed through the haze.

“That’s a closed loop. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, I think it fucking does…”

“Marry me,” Ben murmured through the patter of rain, barely coherent, barely audible. It was a whisper, rough and low. Not a grand declaration. Not some dramatic plea. Just two words spoken into the hush of the barn, forehead resting against yours, his breath still ragged.

And your eyes snapped open.

You felt it more than heard it, like your whole world had just shifted a few inches sideways. His eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and there was something in his gaze that leveled you more than anything else had tonight.

“I mean it. Marry me,” he repeated, louder this time. Firmer. Surer. He swallowed thickly. “I love you. I know I should’ve said it before. It’s not because I didn’t feel it. I did. I do. I just-… I never knew how. You make me feel things I don’t know what to do with. You always have.”

And tears welled in your eyes, but not for the reason he thought. He didn’t know how much loving you would ruin.

But he kept going, hope laced in every word. “This isn’t a mistake. I’ve been sleepwalking through my whole goddamn life and then you–… you showed up like a fucking miracle, sweetheart. And suddenly I know what I want. I want you.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. You just stared up at him, trying to find footing on ground that didn’t exist.

And your legs loosened around him before you even realized you were doing it, letting him slip out of you, soaked dress clinging to your skin.

A half-step. A breath of space.

His eyes flashed with hurt and confusion. “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you saying anything? Why are you pulling back?”

“I-… I just need a minute,” you managed to push out, head dizzy, barn spinning. “Why would you do this…” you muttered to yourself, not meaning for Ben to hear, but he did.

You weren’t talking about him, though. Soldier Boy.

“Do what? Don’t you want to? I thought-… I thought you loved me, too.” His brow furrowed, trying to understand something he never could.

“No, I-… I mean, I do. I love you, okay? God, I love you so much,” you assured him, your feet pacing frantically on hay and damp earth.

“Then what is it?” He was trying so hard to keep calm, but panic flashed behind his green eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He knew. He fucking knew.

“I just-… I need space. Please. I need… I need time, okay? To think,” you tried to explain, but your head was too convoluted to function, memories flooding your mind and drowning all coherent thoughts but one:

Why would he sent you here?

Ben’s jaw clenched. “Why do I feel like you’re running?”

“I’m not!” you cried, voice cracking, tears falling. “I’m not trying to run away from you.”

“Then what is it?” He stepped forward. “Is it something I did? Something I said? Just tell me–”

“I can’t!” you snapped, chest heaving. “I can’t tell you anything!”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You were only making it fucking worse.

And you hated yourself for it.

“I need a second,” you whispered. “Just… give me a second. Please.”

And you bolted.

You didn’t wait for his answer. You stumbled toward the barn door and out into the rain, the storm swallowing you whole. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. You would’ve stopped if you did. The cold slapped you in the face. Mud squelched beneath your feet.

You ran behind the barn, to the side where the shadows swallowed everything. The wind ripped at your hair. You crouched behind the nearest tree, hands fisted in the wet bark, heart galloping, lungs seizing.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “Okay, it’s fine. Just breathe. You can think. You can–”

But the storm was louder than your thoughts. Ben’s voice echoed faintly in the distance – your name, over and over again. Desperate.

And then that horrible, all-consuming pull unfurled from your spine, from the deepest part of you where time lived like a ticking bomb. Electricity surged up your arms. The world folded in.

Shit. Not now. Not ever.

But you were already gone.

▶️ Chapter 11: When You’re Slapped, You’ll Take It and Like It

Should we do a mental health check-in again? How are you holding up, loves? Was this the end to 1942 you've expected?

Hang in tight for Soldier Boy's POV next week. We're going back to the future 😉

Coming Up:

The scream came first. Feral, guttural, ancient. Something primal ripped from your throat like it had been building in your bones for eight fucking decades.

You snapped like a wire he’d strung too tight, lunged forward, and decked him clean across the jaw.

The punch snapped across his face, sharp and personal and full of all the fire he remembered. It cracked so loud, the room winced. You were a magnificent angel of vengeance.

God, he fucking missed you.

And Ben took the hit. Didn’t even try to block you. Knew he deserved it. Knew he had it fucking coming.

He staggered back half a step with a grunt, head snapping just slightly from the brutal force of it. Slowly, he turned back to face you, look at you, and then the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a smirk.

Smug. Cocky. Satisfied.

“There she is.” He grinned, then rubbed his jaw like it amused him, inspecting the ache with something between pride and admiration. “Actually fuckin’ felt that one. Good for you, sweetheart. Knew you had it in you.”

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