The holiday rush had turned the store into a warzone. Aisles flooded with frantic shoppers, holiday music pitched too high, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like they were about to give up. Every cart was overstuffed. Every person was stressed. Every employee looked like they’d already mentally quit.

And there, on the endcap shelf like a shimmering beacon, was the last limited-edition holiday throw blanket your sister had been begging for.

You grabbed Soap's sleeve. “Johnny. There. Last one.”

He followed your gaze. The blanket glowed under fluorescent lights like it was forged by angels.

“There’s two other people eyein’ it,” he murmured. “Three, if ye count the granny hoverin’ like a sniper.”

He said it like he was assessing targets, not shoppers.

You gave him a look. “So what do we do?”

Soap cracked a grin, the kind he got right before making a terrible decision.

“Easy. I’ll distract. You extract. Classic maneuver.”

Before you could stop to think, it was already too late.

He marched straight into the crowd with purpose, rolling his shoulders like a man about to throw an elbow. You barely had time to grab the cart before he launched himself into performance mode.

“OH HOLY SHITE!” he yelled, loud enough to stop half the aisle. “SANTA’S PANTS ARE ON FIRE!”

Every head snapped toward him.

You didn’t waste a second. You lunged for the shelf, snagged the blanket, stuffed it under your arm, and spun on your heel. The two other shoppers stared in confusion, torn between Soap’s theatrics and your disappearing act.

Behind you, Soap kept going. “NO, NO, DON’T PANIC—SANTA’S FINE, JUST—JUST A LITTLE SINGED!”

You smacked your hand over your mouth to keep your laugh silent as you slipped down the next aisle. A moment later, he appeared around the corner at a fast walk, eyes bright with adrenaline.

“Got it?” he asked, barely winded.

You held up the blanket.

He pumped a fist in triumph. “HA! Knew ye would. Told ye. Perfect plan.”

A laugh bubbled out of you. Not just a giggle. One of those unguarded, breathless laughs you only ever let yourself have around him. The sound dulled the chaos around you and it lit something in his chest that made him freeze.

Not visibly. Not enough to be noticed. But inside, Soap went quiet for the first time in his entire life. Because he felt it. Sharp. Sudden. And utterly devastating.

He loved you.

Loved the way you always tried to keep him out of trouble and somehow ended up enabling him. Loved the way you stammered when you were flustered. Loved that you trusted him to be your chaos partner every December. Loved that you’d looked at him just now like he was the best part of this whole madhouse.

He loved you and the realization hit with the gentle brutality of a snowball packed around a rock.

He swallowed hard and forced a grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, hen. We should, uh—go. Before they realize Santa’s arse is fine.”

You didn’t hear the shift in his tone. Didn’t see the way he looked at you like the whole chaotic store had melted away.

For the first time in years…Soap realized he was in real trouble.