You’ve seen a lot of things in the field.
Men who talk big, men who crumble, men who think muscle makes them bulletproof... but then there’s Soap; and he doesn’t fit into any of those boxes. He’s something else entirely.
The man moves like he was born for this: quick, precise, every motion a study in confidence. He’s all bright eyes and sharper instincts, barking orders one second and cracking a grin the next. The kind of grin that flashes through smoke and chaos and makes you forget, for half a heartbeat, that you’re supposed to be watching your sector: not him.
God, those arms...that accent...his presence...
Tattooed, sweat-slicked, veins cutting like lightning beneath his skin as he reloads with the kind of effortless rhythm that only comes from years of training and too many close calls. He’s shouting something over comms, accent thick and rolling: half command, half flirtation; and you hate that it hits harder than the concussive blasts echoing in the distance.
“Eyes up, bonnie,” he tosses over his shoulder, smirk audible even through the static. “Wouldnae want ye distracted by somethin’ dangerous.”
Too late. You already are.
He’s brilliant in the field: reads terrain like a language, finds cover before you even think to duck, laughs when a plan goes sideways and somehow makes it work anyway. Every time you think you’ve caught up, he’s two steps ahead, jaw set, focus razor-sharp. The charm’s still there, sure; but under it, there’s steel. The kind of competence that makes your pulse stutter because it’s not just attraction anymore:
it’s admiration.
When it’s over: mission cleared, extraction called, adrenaline ebbing; you find him again. Soap-and-gunpowder clean, hair damp, a towel slung around his neck. The chaos stripped away, leaving the man beneath the bravado. The one who checks your gear before his own. The one who always makes sure you’re out before the blast doors close. T-shirt clinging to the shape of his chest, one arm sprawled across the backrest, other hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey. The kind of easy sprawl that says he’s earned it.
The kind that makes gravity pull a little harder around him.
He looks up when you enter, grin already curling at the corner of his mouth. “C’mere, bonnie,” he drawls, voice lazy, honey-thick. “Take a load off. You’ve done enough thinkin’ for one night.”
You should say something clever. Tease him. Keep your footing; but the way he’s sitting: knees wide, eyes half-lidded, that faint come test me glint...short-circuits every word you might’ve had.
He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch, patient, confident, devastating. That’s the thing about Soap. He doesn’t chase: he invites.
Every flirtation, every smirk, every soft “aye, that’s my girl” whispered on the field: it’s a challenge and a promise in one; and right now, with his drink low and his grin higher, you can’t tell whether he’s asking you to sit with him...