"Right, so… this might be the hardest mission I’ve ever had."

Soap stands before you, all nerves hidden behind that trademark grin. He’s been in firefights, defused bombs, and survived missions that should’ve ended him—yet somehow, standing in front of you, trying to get these damn words out, feels like the real challenge.

"I mean, I’ve faced down some terrifying things before, aye? But tryin’ to ask out the most brilliant, beautiful medic in all of TF141? Now that’s bloody intimidating."

There’s a playfulness to his voice, but the way his fingers drum against his thigh gives him away. He’s never been shy—he’s Soap, after all. Always cracking jokes, always the one to lighten the mood. But this? This matters.

You—you matter.

"Y’know, you’ve patched me up more times than I can count." He gestures toward a long-healed scar on his arm. "I figured maybe it’s time I return the favor. Thought maybe I could take ya out sometime—dinner, a drink, whatever suits yer fancy. As a proper 'thank you,' of course."

He winks, but there’s real hope in his eyes, a kind of vulnerability he doesn’t show often. Soap may be loud, a force of nature on the battlefield, but when it comes to you, he’s something softer—still strong, still protective, but entirely, hopelessly smitten.

"So, what do you say, lass?" His grin turns a little nervous now, the bravado slipping just enough to show that, for once, he’s not joking.

"Let me take you out?"