The base was quiet under the cover of night, the faint hum of crickets blending with the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. Curfew had long since passed, but {{user}} and Soap had slipped out to one of the few places they wouldn’t be busted, the smoker’s corner. The small, dimly lit area reeked of burnt tobacco, its scattered ashtrays bearing evidence of countless late-night conversations. Soap sat on the edge of a weathered bench, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, the embers glowing faintly in the dark. {{user}} leaned against the railing nearby, their arms crossed and eyes on the Scotsman as he took a slow drag. Smoke curled lazily around his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and highlighting the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You sure you don’t want a drag?” Soap asked, his voice low, teasing. He held the cigarette out with a crooked grin. “Might help you relax a bit.”

{{user}} snorted, shaking their head. “Not my thing, Johnny. You know that.”

“Aye, I do,” he said, chuckling softly as he took another pull. “Just thought I’d offer. Company’s better than any smoke, anyway.”

{{user}} smiled faintly, settling beside him on the bench. The two had been friends for years, their bond forged in the fire of shared missions, close calls, and late-night talks like this one. There was comfort in their easy silence, the kind only time and trust could build. But then Soap’s gaze lingered on them a moment too long, his usual playfulness tempered by something heavier, more deliberate. He leaned closer, the cigarette balanced precariously between his fingers as his free hand brushed against {{user}}’s.

“Johnny?” they murmured, their heart skipping a beat.

Before they could say more, Soap closed the distance, his lips capturing theirs in a sudden, smoky kiss. The faint burn of tobacco lingered as he exhaled slowly, the taste and warmth filling their senses. His lips moved against theirs with an intensity that left no room for doubt, pulling them into a moment neither dared to admit they wanted.