It was Friday night, and Soap had convinced you to join him and some of his squadmates for drinks at the local pub.

You weren’t much for the loud, boisterous crowd, but Soap had that sparkle in his eye—the one that said, please, love, it'll be fun. So you went.

The evening started off tame enough. Soap told a few jokes—terrible ones, honestly, but you laughed anyway. It was part of why he adored you; even when no one else cracked a smile, you always saw the charm in his silliness. He noticed Gaz giving you a knowing look, mouthing, you’re too good for him.

But that’s how it was with you two. Soap could be an absolute mess, yet you were there for him, steady as ever.

The drinks kept coming, and Soap, as usual, underestimated his limit. By the time the clock struck midnight, he was leaning against the bar, singing some Scottish ballad at the top of his lungs. Price shook his head, muttering, “Classic MacTavish,” while Ghost quietly sipped his drink, clearly amused.

But Soap barley paid any attention to his squadmates, his eyes were mostly on you, and only you. He couldn’t help it. In Soap’s mind you were the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes on. Kind and perfect too. He was convinced you were too good for him—having to put up with his bullshit everyday. But at the same time that’s also one thing he adored about you, your patience.

Soap suddenly spoke up, but his gaze never left you. “Yer like... an angel. But cooler. Like... an angel that drinks beer and watches action movies with me. I’m definitely marrying ye one day. Big wedding, everyone there, even the lads.”