It happened in the quiet way most big things do—simmering long before the boil.

Soap had been distant for months. Maybe longer. His mind always elsewhere. His touches fleeting. Conversations clipped, your laughter met with distracted nods or tired grunts. You used to beg for scraps of his attention. Then you stopped begging. Someone else had started listening.

You didn’t sleep with the other man. You never even kissed him. But he saw you. Heard you. Asked how your day was and actually waited for the answer. That simple tenderness became a balm you hadn’t realized you were starving for.

Soap found out by accident. Not from a text. Not from a call. But because he walked into a room—a break room on base—and caught the tail end of something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Your laugh. That soft, breathy kind—the one you used to give him.

It stopped him cold.

He stayed back, out of sight, watching as you leaned against the counter, smiling in a way you hadn’t smiled around him in what felt like years. The man beside you leaned in too close, talking low, his body angled toward yours like he already knew he had your attention. Your hand brushed his wrist on instinct.

And Soap knew. The heat behind his ribs was immediate. Not just jealousy—but guilt. Rage. Panic. He didn’t confront you there. No, he waited. Quiet. Controlled.

But when you got home, keys barely in the bowl, you turned to find him standing in the kitchen. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. “How long?

You blinked. “What?”

His voice dropped, gravel and fire. “Don’t insult me. How long, bonnie? How long have you been makin’ someone else feel like your husband?”

Silence.

His chest heaved once. He paced. Then it exploded.

“I gave ye everything. Every bit of me I had left—and maybe it wasn’t enough, maybe I wasn’t enough, but ye don’t get to act like I walked out on us when I was bleeding myself dry just tryin’ to make it to the next fuckin’ day!”

Your voice cracked. “You shut me out, Johnny! I tried—I tried, and you gave me nothing!”

He slammed his fist against the table—once. Just enough to make the room feel like it quaked. You’d never seen him cry angry. But there it was—waterline thick, his voice breaking even as he tried to hold onto that steel.

“I thought ye were the one thing I still had.”

You didn’t know what to say. Because maybe he wasn’t wrong. But neither were you. And somehow, that made it worse.