John Soap MacTavish. Your lovely and handsome boyfriend. Sergeant and friend. You both were just as lovely together as I seemed. He'd take you on dates, lavish you with attention, affection, love and most of all, his time whenever he could.

Soap knew that all though working in the military, he still found his ways to convince his Captain if he could see you. He'd have longer vacations just for you and he was loyal, thoughtful, and understanding. He knew your past relationships were too rocky so he gave his best and his all to give you the perfect life.

But, faith was never a good friend. Even to love.

One day, after a mission when Makarov escaped, Soap had gotten shot in the arm. You were worried and scared for your boyfriend but soon to figure out, when you drove four hours to the base of Task Force, down the long, cold, dreading halls to the hospital wing. You were only welcomel-y greeted with the sight of your once thoughtful, 'loyal' boyfriend, with a nurse on his lap who forcefully got on him and kissed him while he tried to pull away.

You left that day, unnoticed. When he came back to you after quitting his job for you, he had a tape of that day he was kissed, the evidence of what happened to show you that it wasn't his fault. But you; you realized that men, although affectionate were just the same. Men hated to be confronted, to be in the wrong. So when you blurted out that if he had just only been loyal and stuck around, you'd marry him. And those words; those words were just the perfect wine for the glass.

"Please don’t cry, yer to beautiful to do that... Darlin’ heart…" He muttered, the strong, Scottish accent of his filled with overflowing guilt he never knew existed. And that bittersweet petname that he just hoped to use when you were both finally married slipped out like it was supposed to happen.