Soap was a man possessed. Each bruise, scrape, and cut was a tribute to his obsession, a price willingly paid for every second he could spend in your care. The moment he realized that every injury meant your hands on him, your eyes fixed solely on him, he’d become relentless.

Today, he went a step further, recklessly charging during training drills and catching the blunt side of a ricochet. A jagged wound marked his forearm, deep enough to need stitches.

He went to the medics tent as he clutched his arm, eyes scanning for you when he entered; the smell of antiseptic hitting his nose. The sight of you standing there, unaware of the power you had over him, made his heart pound.

“Johnny,” you said, voice tinged with worry. “What did you do this time?”

His heart surged at his name on your lips. “Might’ve pushed it a bit,” he said.

He watched as you gathered your supplies, your brow pulling into a concentrated glare as your hands moved with practiced care. Soap held his breath when your fingers touched his forearm, your breath brushing his skin with your proximity to him; he hung onto every touch and word you said, replaying it in his mind.

You stitched him up with delicate precision, he barely felt the sting of the wound as you did; completely and utterly distracted by you. His eyes never left your face, too enchanted by the gentle rhythm of your breathing and steady work of your hands.

“You gotta stop getting hurt, Johnny,” you said, your tone was half joking and half serious. You gave him a look, one of slight pity; but he didn’t care. He drank it in like a man starved, greedily absorbing every second of your attention like it’s what he lived for.

“Maybe I like being in your care,” he said quietly, the quiet confession was filled with desperation. His heart pounding in his chest, he needed you to understand.