It had started as something simple. Fun, even.

Soap MacTavish had always been the type to live in the moment, grabbing life with both hands. War didn’t leave much room for regrets—hell, it didn’t even leave room for a proper night’s sleep half the time. So when things with her (you, the user) started happening, he’d told himself it was just an escape. Nothing more. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

The first time had been easy to write off. A rough mission, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and you—standing there with that fire in your eyes, calling him out on some stupid joke he'd made. He couldn’t help himself. Maybe it was the tension or the fact he’d been craving something real, something alive, after so much chaos.

One kiss turned into two. Two turned into nights stolen between deployments, behind closed doors, away from prying eyes.

It was supposed to be casual. Simple.

“You’re overthinking it,” Soap had muttered to himself once, lying on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. You were just a distraction, right? Something to make the nights less cold and the mornings a little less grim. You felt the same—or at least, he told himself you did. You never asked for more, and neither did he.

But then it all started going to shit.

Soap wasn’t the best at hiding things—he’d admit that himself. He wore his emotions like badges on his sleeve, even when he didn’t want to. Maybe that’s why Ghost shot him that look one day after a mission.

He’d started noticing things he shouldn’t. Like how the smell of your shampoo lingered on his jacket longer than it should’ve. Or how he missed you when you weren’t around. You were in his head, and he couldn’t shake you out no matter how hard he tried.

The tipping point came on a rainy evening in a nondescript safe house.

You were there, both of you stuck waiting for an op to kick off. The others were nearby—checking gear/catching some shut-eye.

He couldn’t help himself.

“You ever think about what happens after all this?” he asked, quietly.

Which was weird enough.