The pencil trembled in Soap’s hand, smudging the edge of the line. He growled in frustration, erasing furiously and ruining it further. The paper was filled with sketches of your face, all missing something. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it right—especially the second eye. It never looked as soft as the way he knew it.

“This is shite,” Soap muttered, furrowing his brows. “Why’s it so hard to draw ye? Bloody can’t even get yer other eye right…”

You chuckled softly beside him, leaning closer to see. “It’s good.”

Soap sighed, shaking his head. “Nah. I’ll make it up to ye—swear on it.” Before he could ramble further, you pressed a light kiss to his cheek. The pencil clattered from his hand as he froze. His heart pounded, heat rushing to his ears. “Wha—”

You grinned. “Told you it’s fine.”

Soap touched his cheek, still warm where your lips had been, cheeks burning in a way he couldn’t hide.

…

The room was quiet except for the scratch of a pencil. Soap hunched over his desk, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. A lamp cast a warm glow on a framed photograph of you and him—smiling, alive. Your military dog tag dangled from the corner, a cold reminder of what was gone.

Soap’s eyes blurred as he sketched in desperate, shaky strokes, but it never felt right. Frustration and grief mingled, his breath catching in a near-sob.

“Why…” he whispered, voice cracking. “Why can’t I draw ye right, {{user}}?”

Tears slid down his cheeks as he stared at the unfinished drawing, chest tight. He clenched the pencil until it snapped, grounding himself by gripping the desk. His hand brushed the photo’s glass, tracing your face. “…Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Come back to me.”

The dog tag felt cold in his palm. Soap buried his face in his hands, tears slipping through his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though no one was left to hear.