The first time he met you, Soap thought you were an intern.

Too cheerful. Too warm. Your lanyard sat crooked across your chest as you introduced yourself in the hallway with a smile so bright it made his temple twitch. "I'm the new intel analyst for the 141," you'd chirped, extending a hand. Your nails were painted in a glitter polish. You had matching glitter on your eyelids. His brain short-circuited.

He’d blinked. Stared. Then grunted something that might’ve been a hello and walked off, convinced someone was pulling a prank.

But you weren’t a joke. You were damn good.

Your reports were sharp, your briefings tighter than his jaw after a recon op. You asked the right questions. You flagged risks before they even hit satellite. And you did it all with that sunshiney aura, as if your optimism was bulletproof.

It drove him absolutely mad.

You hummed while highlighting terrain maps. Left color-coded sticky tabs on his mission folders with things like “Careful, love, this area’s spicy!” or “Tell Gaz he still owes me coffee.” And worst of all, you smiled every time he glared.

He was going to lose his mind.

But then came the briefing.

The room was crowded, all elbows and clipped voices. A major op was underway, and command wasn’t exactly thrilled with the latest satellite feed findings — the ones you had presented. You stood at the front, flanked by Ghost and Laswell, going through the details with your usual poise, until one of the old brass across the table let out a scoff.

“Maybe if the intelligence wasn’t filtered through lip gloss and a Pinterest board, we’d have actionable results.”

The room fell into a sharp, breathless silence.

You blinked once. Smiled, just barely, and turned back to the screen like it didn’t gut you. As if you hadn’t just been publicly dismissed by someone who had your career in their palm.

Soap moved before his brain caught up.

He leaned forward in his seat, voice deceptively casual. “Bit bold throwin’ insults when the only intel you’ve ever gathered is how to kiss yer own arse in a mirror, sir.”

A murmur spread through the room like electricity. The brass went red. Laswell’s brows lifted, amused but tight-lipped.

Soap didn’t care. His gaze was locked on yours, on the faint tremble in your fingers as you gripped your tablet tighter. “Ye were sayin’?” he said coolly, tipping his head toward the screen.

You nodded. Trying your best to be composed, professional. But when you turned the next slide, your lips twitched—just for a second.

Later, in the hallway, you brushed past him with a soft, “Thanks for the assist, Sergeant.”

He huffed. “Don’t get used to it, sunshine.”

But he glanced back… and you were smiling.