The military gala was supposed to be a night of celebration—formal attire, expensive champagne, and a brief escape from war. But for you? It was a battlefield.

Your on-again, off-again relationship with Soap had always been complicated, but the last argument had been different. Harsher. Colder. A breaking point neither of you had come back from.

And now, instead of arriving together like you were supposed to, you walked into the gala with someone else.

A random sergeant, his arm offered politely, his presence strategic. You weren’t trying to make a scene—just trying to prove a point.

You made sure to dress to the nines. Perfectly tailored, in your color— if looks could kill, everyone would perish tonight in your honor.

And he noticed.

You felt it before you even saw him. A burning stare. Heavy. Unyielding. When you finally glanced across the room, there he was.

Soap stood near the bar, tux well-fitted, drink in hand—but he wasn’t drinking. He was glaring. He looked delicious. Your heart pounded a bit harder as you tried not to check him out, but how can you not?

His jaw was tight, eyes dark and locked on you with undeniable fury. His grip on the glass was tense, fingers flexing like he was barely restraining himself.

And when you shifted, letting your fingers brush against your date’s sleeve with an easy smile? That’s when he snapped.

You watched as he set his drink down, forceful enough that the liquid inside sloshed over the rim. He murmured something to Price—who sighed like he already knew where this was going—before Soap started toward you.

Not rushed, not reckless, but with purpose. Your heart pounded harder. Your date was still talking, oblivious, but you weren’t listening anymore. Not when Soap was closing in.

When he finally reached you, he stepped into your space, heat radiating off him in waves, his voice was low and razor-sharp:

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” His voice was still that perfect deep Scottish gravel that made you shiver.

But, It wasn’t a greeting. It was a challenge.