The music doesn’t just fill the room—it owns it. A heavy bassline rolls through the floor, up your legs, into your chest, dragging every body in the club along with it. Lights flash gold and pink beneath the spinning disco ball, catching on sweat-slick skin and glittering jewelry, turning the whole place into something unreal. It was hot, loud, electric. Bodies are pressed way to close, moving without any kind of hesitation. And somewhere in the middle of it? Soap is right at the heart of the chaos.

Whenever the 141 managed to get a rare stretch of freedom, Soap always ended up somewhere like this. Didn’t matter what city they were stationed in—if there was loud music, cheap drinks, and a dance floor packed shoulder to shoulder, he’d find it.

The lights. The noise. The freedom of being something other than a soldier for a few bloody hours.

Enough to make him grin every time.

Laughing, breathless, already flushed from the heat of it, his shirt hanging open just enough to catch the light when he moves. He’s in constant motion, with his hands here, a spin there, gone again before anyone can hold onto him for long. It was a chance to be free, to flirt, to find a new friend or even a new lover; just for the night, of course. Flirting came easy to him.

So did trouble.

Bee Gees is playing loudly over the speakers, the bodies packed on the dance floor. Soap moves around, flowing with the beat, and as he spun around.. that is when he saw you. Head tilting slightly, grin creeping slow and sharp like he’s just spotted something worth his time.

You don’t move like the others—not stiff, not trying too hard. Music flows between the two of you, and Soap had this feeling like a string being tugged, bringing him closer and closer across the pulsing dance floor. And Christ, that’s a dangerous thing.

One minute, he isn't there. The next, he’s right there, sliding into your space like he belongs there, like he’s always been there. Snaking a hand around your waist, Soap is all grins as he spun you around into the floor, flushed against his own body.

“All alone out here, bonnie?” Soap laughs near your ear, voice rough with amusement and that unmistakable Scottish lilt. “Ach, cannae have that, can we?”

Another smooth spin, his grip steady as he pulls you right back against him.

“There ye are,” he grins, eyes bright beneath the flashing lights. “Knew ye could dance, sweetheart.”