Soap does not believe in subtlety when it comes to problems.

And unfortunately for him, you have become one.

So he handles it the way he handles most things that make his chest feel too tight and his mouth too stupid: by escalating immediately.

He doesn’t send a runner.

Doesn’t slip it into the rotation. Doesn’t let some poor private get caught in the blast radius. No. He kicks your door open like he’s clearing a room, flicks the big light on with aggressive confidence, and makes a point of knocking over everything on your dresser with one careless sweep of his arm.

“Whoops,” he says, absolutely not sorry.

He tosses the candygram onto your bed like it’s evidence he’s done thinking about. It lands soft. Deliberate. Then, because God has a sense of humor and Soap is God’s favorite problem child, he farts.

Loud. Weaponized. Proud.

“Happy Tuesday,” he adds, already halfway out the door. Leaves it open. Leaves the light on. Leaves you with the crime scene.

Soap tells himself that’s the end of it.

This is a lie he has told himself many times before.

Yet, the candy isn’t random. It never is.

It’s your favorite.

The one you mentioned once months ago, half-asleep and rambling about comfort food like it didn’t matter. He remembers stupid things like that. Catalogs them. Locks them away. Pretends it’s just good situational awareness instead of whatever the hell this is.

The card is folded wrong, creased too hard like it was opened and closed at least three times before he committed.

Inside, in his messy, confident scrawl:

are you a sniper because damn you are inconvenient and I do not want to see you.

No signature. Coward.

But beneath it, there’s a sketch. Quick lines. Familiar skill. A smear of dirt from the field like this wasn't a last minute thing done last night as a joke. A stupidly good likeness of you caught mid-expression, softened just enough to feel illegal; and then, because he can’t help himself, Soap has drawn an absurd, exaggerated curled mustache on it.

Cartoonish. Ridiculous.

Protective in the most backward way possible, like if he ruins it first, no one else gets to.

Soap will deny this later if accused.

He will claim it was a joke. A bit. Banter.

This is how he survives it.

By being loud. By being irritating. By pretending affection is a prank and tenderness is a hostile act. By acting like if he keeps jabbing at the thing in his chest, it’ll stop beating so damn hard every time he looks at you.

Soap is not in love. He swears it.

He is merely, tragically, chronically inconvenienced by you...

...and God help him if you don’t pretend to believe his lie.