The room still smelled like gunpowder and rain—like danger not long past, sweat still clinging to the edges of everything. Soap had ditched the gear, but not the instinct; he was standing near the window, pacing like he hadn’t left the fight behind, fingers twitching at his sides like they didn’t know what to do without a weapon.

You? You were in something softer. Bare legs. Loose shirt. Drink in hand. Every inch of you humming with that post-mission buzz, the kind that made your skin too tight and your blood too hot. The kind that turned your confidence from a spark to a full-blown inferno.

You didn’t look at him at first—you let him look. Let him feel your presence across the room. Let him catch the gleam of your wet hair, the slow curve of your body as you leaned back against the wall and took another sip, eyes half-lidded.

“You gonna pace all night, soldier?” you drawled, voice rich, smoky. “Or are you gonna admit you’ve been hard since I walked in?”

His head snapped toward you. You met his gaze, unflinching. Deadly sure of yourself.

“I’ve seen how you look at me after a fight,” you went on, taking a slow step forward. “Like you don’t know whether you want to fuck me or fall to your knees.”

Soap didn’t move. Not yet. But something in him cracked. His breath caught, jaw tightening, eyes dragging over you like he was trying to memorize the way heat clung to your skin.

“You ever wonder,” you whispered, stepping in closer, drink still in hand, “what I’d sound like if I let myself go? No filters. No shame. Just want.”

You tilted your head, lips brushing the rim of the glass. “I don’t talk pretty, Johnny. I talk dirty. Real dirty. And right now?” Your smile turned dangerous. “I’m buzzed enough to mean it.”