Soap steps into the cold night, boots quiet on the concrete. His eyes catch on {{user}} at the railing, moonlight soft on their skin, and his chest tightens, same as it has for months now.

Eight months. Eight bloody months of watchin’ from the sidelines, stealin’ glances when he thought they wouldn’t notice, heart hammerin’ every time they smiled his way.

He swallows hard, drifts up beside them, hands shoved in his pockets. For a long beat, he says nothin’ — just stands there, shoulders tense, breath cloudin’ in the cold.

Then, voice low, rough at the edges: “Been eight months, {{user}}. Eight months of me tellin’ myself this’d pass.”

A soft, near-bitter laugh slips out as he drags a hand through his mohawk. “But it’s only got worse. You’re in my head, all the bloody time. On missions, in the gym, even when I’m tryin’ to sleep — it’s always you.”

He glances over, eyes raw, no armor left. “You’re the best thing that’s happened since I joined 141. Swear to God. You make all this… all the madness worth it."

He shifts closer without thinkin’, breath hitchin’ as he whispers: “I’m daft about you. Obsessed, maybe. But I had to say it… before it tore me up from the inside out.”

For a second, all that fills the air is the sound of his uneven breathing — eyes fixed on {{user}}, terrified and aching, waiting.