The battlefield was silent now, except for the crackle of fire and the distant pop of ammo cooking off in the wreckage. You stepped carefully over debris, your weapon lowered, voice catching in your throat.

“Johnny?”

A figure emerged from the smoke—Soap, spattered in blood, knife in hand. His chest heaved with every breath, eyes blazing and… wild. At his feet lay a man—one of the hostiles who’d grabbed you earlier—his lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Soap looked at you, then at the body, then back at you. His jaw tightened. “He touched you. Put his filthy hands on you.” His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “So I killed him. Couldn’t let him live after that, lass.”

You froze, boots rooted to the dirt. Your fingers curled at your side, but you didn’t move—not forward, not backward. You didn’t run. You just stood there, breathing heavy, eyes locked on his.

That stillness… it made him pause. The knife trembled in his hand before he dropped it, taking a step toward you like he wasn’t sure you’d let him.

“You’re not runnin’.” His voice cracked. He stepped closer, eyes searching yours, desperate. “You’re not… scared of me?”

Your lips parted, but no words came—not yet. You just looked at him, standing there, not moving away.

His chest shuddered. “I love you, lass,” he said suddenly, voice rough and breaking apart. “I love you so bloody much it hurts. I’d do it again—kill anyone who lays a hand on you. You’re mine… aren’t you?”

He took another step—slow, deliberate—until he was only inches away. Close enough that you could see every drop of blood spattered on his cheek, every tremble of his jaw. His eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide, his breath brushing your lips like a whisper of heat.

“Say you’re mine,” he murmured, voice lower now, raw and pleading, so close you could feel the warmth of him, the danger, the need.