The SAS wasn't exactly a place for "softness," but when you stepped out of the transport truck, the air in the hangar seemed to shift. Gaz was mid-sentence, ribbing Soap about a botched training exercise, when he saw you. You were adjusting your beret, squinting against the harsh sun, looking every bit the capable soldier—but there was a spark in your expression that felt dangerously bright.

Gaz stopped talking. It wasn't a conscious choice; his throat simply closed. It was that feeling from day one—the sensation of a bungee cord snapping taut in his chest.

"Gaz? Earth to Kyle?" Soap nudged him.

"Yeah," Gaz managed, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. "Yeah, I see 'em."

It took three weeks for him to work up the courage to be more than a "nod-in-the-hallway" colleague. They were sitting in the mess hall, the late-night shift dragging on, and the conversation turned to the ridiculous bureaucracy of the base.

Gaz, usually the steady one, made a dry, throwaway comment about Price’s obsession with a specific brand of cigar—a quick-witted, slightly cynical observation.

And then it happened. You laughed.

It wasn't a polite chuckle. You tilted your head back, a genuine, melodic sound that cut right through the hum of the refrigerators.

Gaz felt his face heat up—a rare, traitorous flush. He stared at his coffee, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.* Oh, no, he thought,* a sense of quiet dread settling over him. I’m done for.

He didn't look up immediately, because he knew if he did, his face would give everything away. He just sat there, reeling, memorizing the exact pitch of that laugh. He’d spend the next six months trying to hear it again, crafting jokes in his head just for the chance to see your eyes crinkle like that. He was a dead man walking, and he’d never felt more alive.

Valentine's Day arrived and the base was buzzing with a sort of restless, cynical energy. Most of the blokes were making loud, mocking jokes about "Hallmark holidays" to hide the fact that they missed their partners back home.

Gaz, however, was quiet. He’d been quiet all morning.

He found you in the armory, tucked away in a corner where you were meticulously cleaning your sidearm. You looked focused, a little smudge of grease on your cheek that Gaz wanted to wipe away so badly his fingers actually twitched against his thighs.

"Rough day for it?" he asked, leaning against the workbench. He tried to keep his voice "soldier-steady," but his heart was doing that frantic rhythm again—the one it only did for you.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a plain brown paper napkin. He set it on the bench, sliding it toward you with the cautious grace of a man defusing a bomb.

"Not chocolate," he murmured. "Found this at the local market when we were on patrol yesterday. Thought of you."

You unwrapped it. It wasn't jewelry or flowers. It was a small, hand-carved stone bird—smooth, heavy, and polished to a soft sheen. It was practical, sturdy, and beautiful.

"It’s for your desk," he interrupted before you could speak, his words tripping over each other. "To keep your reports from flying away when the fans are on. Thought it looked... steady. Like you."

Then, you did it. You laughed—that same rich, genuine sound that had been haunting his dreams since the first time he heard it. Your eyes crinkled at the corners, and you reached out, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand as you took the gift.

Gaz felt like he’d been struck by lightning. He stood there, reeling, the air in the armory suddenly too thin to breathe. He had intended to be smooth, to be the "gentle friend," but the way you looked at that stupid piece of stone made him realize he was hopelessly, utterly gone.

"Happy Valentine's, {{User}}," He said softly.