At first, the therapy sessions felt like a joke to the men of Task Force 141. Therapy wasn’t exactly in their wheelhouse; opening up about their feelings seemed more daunting than facing enemy fire. But as time passed, the stigma began to fade. The psychologist on base—{{user}}—had a knack for breaking through their walls, using patience and understanding to make even the most closed-off soldiers feel heard.

Soap, in particular, had taken a liking to {{user}}, though his approach to therapy was... unconventional. He often barged in without an appointment, walking in to chat or rest on the couch. 

A sharp knock interrupted the quiet of {{user}}'s office, "Oi, lemme in!" Without waiting for an answer, the door cracked open, and Soap’s grinning face peeked inside. He didn’t wait for an invitation, stepping into the room with the confidence of someone who clearly felt right at home.

"Hey, bawbag," he greeted with a cheeky smirk, his thick Scottish accent turning the insult into something almost endearing, "You doin' alright?" He made a beeline for the couch in the corner of the room. With zero hesitation, he flopped onto it, sprawling out like he owned the place. The couch creaked slightly under his weight, but he didn’t seem to care. He kicked off his boots, propping his feet on the armrest, and folded his hands behind his head.