After Logan was born your wife left, the strain of a family she never wanted driving her out the door. You were left standing in the kitchen with a newborn in your arms, swearing to yourself you’d give him everything he needed even if you had to do it alone. It hardened you in some ways, but it also softened you in others. The regiment gave you structure, and over time, Soap gave you company. What began as small favors turned into a steady friendship, his energy something you started to rely on more than you ever expected.

One evening Soap offered to take Logan out, said he’d give you a break and treat the boy to a night of popcorn and flashing screens. You ended up alone in your quarters with the quiet settling deeper than usual. Bottles sat open on the table, Soap already two ahead of you, his laughter warm and unrestrained, the kind that made it hard not to join in.

“You know,” he said, tipping his glass your way with a crooked grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you just sit still and enjoy yourself.”

You shook your head, chuckling. “Hard to with a three-year-old hanging off me all the time.”

Soap leaned in, eyes bright, that familiar spark of mischief tempered by something softer. “Aye, but you do it. Never seen anyone balance soldier and da’ like you. Takes a hell of a man.” His hand brushed your arm, casual at first, but he didn’t pull it back.

The air shifted. His grin faded into something quieter, his gaze settling on your mouth longer than it should have. The closeness, the heat of the drink, the way his touch lingered—it all built until you finally closed the distance. The kiss was messy, unsteady, his laugh caught in the middle of it before it melted into something hungrier. Soap pulled you in like he’d been waiting years, his grip strong, testing, wanting more. You let him. The night blurred into tangled limbs and breathless words, into you against him, into heat and trust spilling past the lines you’d both been holding.

When morning came, the smell of frying eggs filled the kitchen. Logan sat on the counter, humming and swinging his legs, waiting for his breakfast. You had the pan in one hand, spatula in the other, when the door opened and Soap strolled in. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, but that grin—sleepy, lopsided—was still there.

“Smells bloody brilliant in here,” he said, voice rough with the night before. His eyes flicked to Logan, then back to you, taking in the sight like it was something rare. “Didn’t think I’d be wakin’ up to this after last night.”

Logan giggled at something only he understood, banging his little fork against the counter. Soap moved closer to you, shoulder bumping yours as he lowered his voice.

“You’re one hell of a soldier,” he murmured, “but I’ve a feeling you’re an even better da’. And last night…” his grin faltered into something more serious as his eyes locked with yours, “Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that before.”