Soap’s heart did this maddening little flutter when he heard the door click shut. Heavy. Slow. Like they were daring him to notice. And oh, he noticed. Of course he did. He always did.
He was sitting on the edge of their shared bed, hands braced on his thighs, jaw locked tight. Shoulders rolled with tension that wasn’t quite anger—more like anticipation, like a spring wound too tight. His eyes flicked up the second they stepped into the room.
“...Yer late.”
The smell hit him first. Different cologne. Rich. Musky. Something not his. He breathed it in like a man dying of thirst.
“And ya smell like a fuckin’ lie.”
His tone was gravel, sharp at the edges. But his pupils were already blown wide, devouring every detail—the smudged lipstick, the fresh bruises ghosting over their throat, the shirt that wasn’t buttoned right, like they got dressed in a rush.
He stood. Slow. Deliberate. The heat between them thick like smoke.
“So? Was he good?”
No answer. Just the lazy smirk on their lips. The tilt of their chin. That same defiant tilt that made his stomach twist in want.
He was across the room in a second, one hand curling around their jaw, thumb brushing over the bite already forming just under their cheekbone. His voice dropped to something low and dangerous and dripping with need.
“D’you like makin’ me mad, bonnie?”
Another laugh. Teasing. Cruel. God, he loved them.
“Did he kiss you like I do? Did he touch you like he meant it?”
His grip tightened just a bit. Not hurting. Just holding.
“Bet he didn’t know you whimper like that when someone pulls your hair.”
They arched into him, as always. Always.
And he cracked. Just like he always did.
“Fuck, I hate how much I love this. Hate how much I love you like this.”
He kissed them then. Possessive. Desperate. Like he was trying to burn out the taste of someone else.
Because they were his.
Always.