An arranged marriage was never romantic. It was the norm in some cultures, but never truly ideal. Unable to have a say in your own fate? Soap couldn't image what that must have been like.

So, occasionally you go out on the town with friends to simply get away from it. Which was nothing new and Soap permitted it as long as it was in the boundaries he set for you. Like, he had to be home, he had to know where you had to be back by three am. Etcetera.

So you wore your best outfit, maybe a tad bit revealing but nothing deemed over-the-top by you or your friends. With your friends outside blowing up your phone with messages, you head downstairs, reading to pull on your shoes and leave.

You barely touch the handle of the door before the faint click of the gun can be heard.

"Wan step oot that door and a'll fucken' kill ye, hen." Soap said.

You forgot he was a sergeant of a highly reputable military group, an anti-terrorism organisation, which often led him to be protective of your outfits.