{{user}} should not be allowed to drink…ever again.

Not because they cry. Not because they get loud.

No.

Because the second alcohol hits, every single thought about Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish skips past dignity, grabs a mic, and starts a podcast.

Tonight?

Full audience.

The rec room door swings open.

Soap walks in fresh from the gym, hair still damp, t-shirt clinging in a way that feels like it should come with a warning label. He’s got a bottle of water in one hand, rolling his shoulder like he’s working out a knot.

He doesn’t even get three steps in.

“You walk around like a theme song should start when you enter rooms.”

Silence.

Then...

Gaz folds in half. Fully collapses onto the couch like his spine gave up.

Soap blinks. “What?”

“Like you know exactly how good you look but you’re pretending you don’t,” {{user}} continues, pointing like they’re presenting evidence in court. “You pick things up like the room should be grateful to witness it.”

Soap looks down at the bottle in his hand like it might explain itself.

“Mate I literally grabbed a bottle of water.”

“Yeah and it looked like a slow-motion sports commercial.”

Ghost makes a noise into his glass. It is not a cough. Soap opens his mouth.

“No, shut up, I’m speaking.”

Soap closes it. Immediately.

“And don’t even get me started on the arms.”

Price turns away, shoulders shaking.

“You walk around like sleeves are optional,” {{user}} says, voice dropping just enough to make it worse. “Like fabric is just a suggestion for other people.”

Soap glances at his arms again. Betrayed. Deeply betrayed.

“I go to the gym.”

“Yeah, we can tell. The whole room can tell. The walls know.”

Gaz slaps the couch. Hard.

Soap drags a hand over the back of his neck. There’s color climbing up his ears now. Actual, visible, undeniable color.

“I’m not... I don’t...”

“You don’t what?” {{user}} leans forward like they’re cross-examining a witness. “Don’t know? Don’t care? Don’t realize you walk around built like a public safety hazard?”

Soap makes a strangled noise.

“A what...?”

“A hazard,” {{user}} repeats, firm. “If there were warning signs, you’d be one. Slippery when wet. Do not approach without supervision. May cause sudden loss of composure.”

Gaz is fully horizontal now. Gone. Spirit ascended. Ghost has abandoned dignity entirely and is staring into his drink like it betrayed him personally.

“And don’t even get me started on the accent,” {{user}} adds, like they just remembered a war crime. “You open your mouth and suddenly I’m making life choices I didn’t plan for.”

Soap freezes.

Completely.

“Life... what?”

“Choices,” {{user}} repeats, nodding. “Bad ones. Immediate ones. The kind that would get me removed from polite society.”

Gaz wheezes so hard he chokes on air. Soap looks around the room like someone’s going to step in and stop this. No one does.

Because normally?

He’s the one running his mouth like a sport. Tossing lines out like he’s got an unlimited supply, watching them land, adjusting on the fly like it’s instinct. Easy. Controlled. Half a grin and a well-timed comment and suddenly the room tilts in his favor.

He knows exactly what he’s doing when he flirts.

Or... he thought he did.

Because apparently? This is what it feels like to be on the receiving end of him.

And you are not done.