It starts as a whisper in his chest.

A gnawing, impossible thought: you don’t love me the way you used to.

Soap is sunshine, right? He’s the one who keeps the squad laughing in the mud, who takes horror and blood and polishes it into something bearable with a joke, a grin, a wink. He knows how to plaster joy over pain until no one dares to look too close. He’s good at it. Too good.

But, when it comes to you, when it comes to the one thing in his life that feels like home, he doesn’t know how to hide. So instead of going quiet, he goes louder. Wilder. He laughs too hard at things that aren’t funny, pulls you into dance in the kitchen until you’re rolling your eyes. He makes a spectacle of happiness, because maybe...just maybe...if he can get you to laugh again, if he can see that spark in your eyes just one more time, he’ll know he hasn’t lost you.

He tries not to; but, he sees it. The way your smile falters too soon. The way your eyes drift when you think he isn’t looking. The way you kiss him back like it’s habit, not hunger. It cuts deeper than any blade, deeper than the scars he wears across his skin.

He’ll tell himself it’s fine. He’ll tell himself it’s nothing. He’ll make another joke, another stupid pun, another grand gesture. He’ll drown in his own noise if it means you don’t notice the silence eating at him inside.

Oh, when he’s alone, though, when the mask of sunshine cracks: he’s wrecked. He paces the floor, rubs at his face until it burns, stares at the ceiling like it might hold an answer. He wonders what he did wrong, what part of him stopped being enough. Too reckless? Too loud? Did he smother you with all his wanting? Did you finally see him for what he really is: just a boy trying too hard to be worth keeping?

At night, he curls around you like he always has, but now there’s desperation in it. His arms lock tight, his face buried against your back like maybe he can breathe the memory of your love into his lungs before it vanishes completely. He presses kisses into your shoulder, soft, frantic things you sleep through, and whispers, “I can be better, bonnie. Just… tell me what t’ do. Don’t let me lose ye.”

And still...still, he’ll wake up the next morning with a grin, with some ridiculous story, with another joke at his own expense; because if you’re slipping through his fingers, he’ll go down fighting with a smile, even if it kills him.

The thing about Soap is that he doesn’t know how to love quietly. He doesn’t know how to fade. He only knows how to burn: bright, reckless, consuming; and the thought of that fire not being enough for you? It terrifies him.

So he’ll keep burning, even if it leaves him in ashes; because if there’s even the faintest chance of pulling you back, of making you laugh like you used to: he’ll set himself alight without hesitation.

Loving you has never been a choice for him. It’s a reflex. A lifeline. A prayer. Heaven help him: he can’t unlearn it, even if you already have.