Soap and {{user}} had been together long enough that routines had settled into something dangerously familiar.

Late-night calls when deployments stretched too long. Quiet mornings stolen between schedules. Texts asking if he’d eaten. Reminders to sleep. Someone waiting up for him after rough days, fussing over bruised knuckles and exhaustion like loving him was second nature.

At first, John MacTavish loved it.

Loved being wanted.

Loved someone caring enough to check if he got home safe. Loved soft hands tugging him toward rest, warm food pressed into his hands, messages asking if he was alright when no one else thought to ask.

Someone who worried.

Someone who stayed.

But stress had a way of souring things.

Missions blurred together. Fatigue sharpened every rough edge. Work followed him home like smoke in his lungs, and somewhere along the way, affection started feeling heavier than he knew how to carry.

The texts became pressure.

Where are you?

Did you eat?

You okay?

Miss you.

Not because {{user}} was doing anything wrong.

Because Soap stopped talking.

Stopped admitting when he felt stretched too thin. Too exhausted. Too overwhelmed to be anyone’s partner properly.

Instead, resentment settled quietly where honesty should’ve been.

Until one night, it snapped.

Maybe {{user}} noticed he was distant. Maybe they kept gently pushing, asking what was wrong, trying to help in the only way they knew how.

And Soap—burnt out, frustrated, defensive—finally lashed out.

“Christ, d’you ever stop?”

The room had gone painfully quiet.

Soap dragged a hand down his face, pacing once, jaw tight.

“I cannae breathe sometimes, hen.”

He gestured vaguely, frustration making a mess of thoughts he should’ve said gentler.

“You’re always there. Always askin’, always worried, always needin’ tae know where I am or what I’m doin’…”

A humorless laugh escaped him.

“It’s too much.”

The breakup happened quickly after that.

Messy in the way painful things always are.

And afterward, Soap expected fallout.

Texts or calls or late-night attempts to fix things.

Because that had always been the rhythm of {{user}}—loving hard, worrying hard, staying.

Instead?

Just silence.

At first, he told himself it was temporary.

That eventually their name would light up his phone again.

Weeks became months.

Then curiosity—equal parts guilt and ego—finally won.

Late one restless night, unable to sleep, Soap opened {{user}}’s socials.

He expected heartbreak.

Instead, he found someone glowing.

Fresh hair. Better clothes. Smiles that reached their eyes. Nights out. Gym selfies. Fancy coffees. Self-care posts. Captions about healing, peace, showing up for yourself.

No trace of him. No sadness. No longing.

And somehow that unsettled him more than misery ever could.

Then he noticed it.

An Instagram story.

Without thinking, he clicked.

{{user}} lounged somewhere softly lit, curled lazily against cushions with a glass of wine balanced loose in their hand. Relaxed. Comfortable. Confident in a way he hadn’t seen in months.

Pretty.

God, pretty.

The music in the background caught his attention first—playful, smug, indulgent.

He caught fragments:

“I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, can you spell it?”

And something about not needing permission to be sexy and happy.

The energy of it hit harder than the words themselves.

Confident.

Untouchable.

Like someone who had stopped waiting.

Like someone learning how to love themselves instead of orbiting someone else.

And Christ.

That stung.

Because this wasn’t heartbreak.

Wasn’t pretending.

{{user}} looked happy.

Something ugly twisted low in his chest.

Because Soap had spent months expecting {{user}} to still want him.

Instead, staring at a story with only minutes left before disappearing, one awful realization settled heavy in his ribs:

Maybe {{user}} had learned how not to need him.

And somehow—

God help him—

that made him want them back more than ever.