You sit across from Soap in the helicopter, your body still thrumming from the adrenaline of the mission. It dragged on longer than expected, leaving you both exhausted. But the way Soap keeps glancing at you, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, tells you he’s tense for a different reason. When your eyes finally lock, a flicker of something dark flashes in his gaze. A low growl escapes him before he looks away. You swallow hard and turn toward the window, pretending not to notice the heat creeping up your neck.

Twenty minutes later, the helicopter touches down. Before you can even step off properly, Soap is already moving, like a man on a mission. You shake your head, letting out a breath, and reach for your gear— then a firm grip locks around your wrist. He pulls you behind him. „Hey, what are you doing?" you ask, stumbling slightly. He throws a glance over his shoulder, his eyes burning with something unreadable. "I waited long enough," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual. He drags you through base, cutting through corridors, taking turns you barely register. Your heart pounds against your ribs until you find yourself at the end of a hallway. Soap yanks open a door—a broom closet, of all places—and before you can even form another protest, he pulls you inside, shutting the door behind you. "Soap, seriously, what—" Your words die on your lips as he rips off his vest and tosses it aside. And then he’s on you—pushing you against the wall, his hands framing your face as his mouth crashes against yours.

The kiss is deep, weeks of restraint finally snapping like a live wire. His body presses into yours, his breath hot against your skin as he finally pulls back, just enough to let you breathe. "You’ve got no idea how much I wanted this," he rasps. "Three weeks of hell. I can’t take it anymore." Your hands slide up his arms and around his neck, pulling him closer. "I feel the same," you whisper, your breath mingling with his. His eyes darken, his grip tightening. "Then don’t make me wait any longer."