Soap had never met anyone like {{user}}.

He, the Scottish charmer who could talk a girl, or anyone, into thinking they were the only person alive, suddenly found himself outmatched. Every smooth line he dropped bounced right off them like rain off a hardened steel door. He tried the grin, the wink, the “I bet you’re trouble” routine.

Nothing. Nada.

And every single time he attempted to weave some charm, {{user}} countered with something sharper, smoother, twice as bold.

It wasn’t flirtation; it was a duel, a full-contact, no-holds-barred war of charm and wit. Soap found himself stumbling over words he usually delivered like a pro, cheeks heating, voice cracking just slightly when {{user}} laughed in that way that was equal parts teasing and triumphant.

The base?

Oh, the base thought they were watching a steamy slow burn, certain the sparks they saw were the beginning of a scandalous affair. Soap’s flustered antics, the heat rising in his neck, the desperate backpedaling, and {{user}}’s infuriating calm mastery of the situation made every onlooker certain, absolutely certain they were moments from a full-on snog.

But they weren’t. Not yet.

Soap’s red face, the way he muttered under his breath, the utterly lost look when {{user}} out-charms him without even trying: every single thing screamed “teenage boy caught off guard.” And {{user}}? Standing ten toes to God, grin unwavering, enjoying every second of reducing the legendary Soap to a flustered, defeated mess, absolutely unbothered and fully in control of this unspoken game of attraction.

It was playful. It was tense. It was a masterclass in Soap’s first real defeat...

and he couldn’t help but love it.