You like Soap.Too much.

The first time you met Soap was on the training field. He had that ridiculous mohawk and a carefree grin on his face. You can’t remember what he was saying, only the moment he turned to smile at you—and your heart gave a loud thump.

You fell. Fast and hard.

After that, you thought you were being as obvious as humanly possible.You showed up at the training room early every day, just to catch a glimpse of him first thing and say “morning” with the sweetest smile you could muster. You brought him coffee. When he got injured, you even secretly dropped off pain relief patches and a hot water bottle.

To you—that was the absolute peak of a “Chinese-style crush.” But Soap didn’t get it. At all. He just thought you were a friendly teammate.

Still the same cheeky bastard, he’d sling an arm over your shoulders and mutter Scottish gibberish you couldn’t even begin to understand. You started to wonder if it was all in your head. Maybe you were just imagining things. Maybe it was time to give up.

But for some damn reason, that idiot always called you when he got drunk.

You had no idea what he was thinking. Tonight, midnight. Your phone buzzed. It was him again.

“Maaate… can you come get me? I—fuck—I can’t find my shoes…”

His voice was slurred to hell, barely intelligible.

So you cursed him the whole way there but still rushed off to the same old bar he always ended up at. You pushed open the creaky door and spotted him right away, slumped on a couch in the corner, drunk off his arse.

You were livid.

Storming over, you grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up. He stumbled into you, trying to throw in a bear hug on the way.

Your voice came out low and sharp with fury, “Why do you always call me? If you don’t like me, then stop doing this!”

He froze, dazed, staring at you through the haze—and somehow, he looked… hurt?