pre-vought!soldier boy x reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖⭐️˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff
He tells himself it's a coincidence at first.
Same bar. Same hour. Same sticky floor that smells like spilled liquor and old perfume. Same booth tucked half in shadow, vinyl cracked, springs sighing when he sits. The band is always warming up, brass and drums, the sound pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.
Ben comes with the guys, because that’s what you do. You show up, you drink, you laugh too loud, you pretend you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. His glass is always whiskey. Neat. The burn is familiar, grounding. It reminds him he’s real.
But the truth is, he’s waiting.
The lights dim and something in him stills.
A vision assembled by hands far cleverer than his: hair sculpted into soft victory rolls, lips painted red enough to look sinful, skin dusted in glitter that catches the stage lights and throws them back at the room. Sequins cling to you like they were made for no one else. Your smile is perfect. Practiced.
You move like you belong to the music, like the rhythm lives somewhere under your skin. Every step is deliberate. Every turn is precise. You look untouchable. Mythic. Like something he was never meant to reach for.
Ben doesn’t let himself stare too long. Doesn’t lean forward. Doesn’t let the ache settle in his chest the way it wants to. Wanting is a habit he learned early and beat out of himself just as quickly.
Girls like you don’t look at men like him.
He claps when everyone else does. Drains his glass. Laughs when the guys make comments he pretends not to hear.
He doesn’t imagine you noticing him. That would be absurd. A fantasy for someone braver. Someone foolish.
And then — like it always does now — you appear.
Not you, not really. Not the girl from the stage.
You slide into the booth across from him as if it’s been decided long before either of you arrived. Your hair is pinned back. Your makeup softened, almost gone. The glitter is replaced with bare skin and warmth and something human.
Beautiful in a way that makes his chest tighten for reasons he can’t name.
“Mind if I sit?” you ask the first night, voice gentle, eyes bright.
He blinks, surprised into honesty. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, sure.”
You smile like you mean it.
He doesn’t recognise you.
You become part of the routine as seamlessly as the music and the drinks. You never join the guys, always just him. Sometimes you order a cocktail, sometimes you let him buy you one. You sip it slowly, like you’re in no rush to leave.
You ask him questions. Real ones.
Where he’s from. What he does. What he wants.
He tells you about his father’s business, the weight of it sitting heavy and unyielding on his shoulders. About factories and expectations and never being enough of the right thing. He tells you he feels like he’s standing still while the rest of the world marches past him.
Not politely. Not distracted. You lean in, chin resting on your hand, eyes steady and warm. You laugh when he’s funny. You frown when he says something that hurts. You don’t interrupt or rush him or try to fix anything.
You make him feel like what he’s saying matters.
He looks forward to you in a way that scares him.
Some nights he forgets to watch the stage. Some nights he forgets the show entirely. He starts to think of you first, instead. The girl who smells faintly of powder and citrus, who meets his eyes without flinching, who treats him like he’s already something worth knowing.
And still, he doesn’t know.
Until one night, everything breaks open.
You sit across from him, crossing your legs, dress riding up just a little —
Same heels. Same narrow strap. Same cream-coloured leather, worn soft with use. And there, right at the toe, a dark scuff he’s noticed a million times before: unmissable under the stage lights, a stubborn mark that never quite disappears no matter how bright the spotlight or how careful the step.
The bar noise dulls, fades to something far away. His gaze lingers on your shoes, heart thudding as the pieces finally fall into place.
His stomach drops, heavy and hollow.
He thinks of the way you move under the lights. The way you smile for strangers. The way you’ve sat with him night after night, choosing this dim booth and a cosmopolitan over brighter company.
When he looks up, your face has changed. Just slightly. A flicker of something — fear, maybe. Or shame.
You’ve realised what he’s seen.
He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t smile knowingly. Doesn’t ask why.
He just takes a breath, lifts his glass, and continues the story he was telling.
You didn’t want him to know.
And he understands that instinctively. He understands wanting to be seen without being seen, wanting to exist without the weight of someone else’s expectations pressing down on you.
From that night on, everything feels sharper.
When you walk onto the stage, he sees you differently. Not farther away, but closer. More real. He notices the way your smile changes when the crowd gets loud, the way your shoulders lift before the music starts, the way you slip your shoes off backstage afterward and come to him barefoot if you can.
When you sit across from him, he sees the glitter you couldn’t quite wash away now. The faint bruise on your ankle. The exhaustion behind your kindness.
You are both playing roles.
And somehow, in the space between sets and drinks and soft conversation, you’ve found something honest.
One night, after the bar begins to empty, you ask him quietly, “Does it bother you?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
It doesn’t. It really doesn’t. If anything, it feels like a gift — that you trusted him enough to sit here, unguarded.
You smile then, small and unguarded in return.
In another life, he might’ve said something braver. Might’ve reached across the table. Might’ve told you that you are the best part of his nights, that you’ve become something steady and necessary in his world.
But the world is sharp-edged and cruel and doesn’t make room for softness like this. Not in 1941.
So he settles for what he has.
A booth. A drink. A showgirl who slips out of the spotlight just to talk to him.
And the quiet, dangerous knowledge that somehow, against all logic and expectation,
