“Hen, ye missed a spot.”

“I KNOW.”

Soap grinned immediately as she glared at him from the floor. The entire coffee table was covered in paint bottles, brushes, tissues, and absolute chaos which honestly described most things involving Johnny MacTavish.

He laid upside down across the couch, watching her work on the little My Melody figure with way too much amusement.

“You’re too invested in this.”

“You named your rifle.”

“That’s different.”

“It literally isn’t.”

Soap laughed loudly at that. God, he loved hearing her argue with him. Especially like this. No battlefield. No screaming over gunfire. No blood on his hands. Just her sitting in one of his hoodies while trying not to accidentally paint outside the lines. It made his chest ache in a strange way. Because Johnny realized something terrifying while watching her carefully paint the tiny ears pink: He wanted more of this.