Soap was never the kind to pray, but right now, he would sell his damn soul if it meant undoing what had happened.

You were gone.

The mission had gone to hell faster than any of them could react. Bullets, fire, screaming—chaos swallowing you whole. He had been too far away, pinned down when you needed him most. The moment he heard your voice cut off over the comms, something inside him broke.

By the time he got to you, it was too late.

He remembered how his hands shook as he pulled you into his arms, how he pressed down on the wound even when he knew—fuck, he knew—it wouldn’t matter. He remembered Ghost pulling him away, his voice distant, drowned by the ringing in his skull.

Soap had lost people before. That was the job. But not you. Never you.

And yet, here he was.

Back on the same battlefield.

The same mission.

The same moment—except this time, he wasn’t too late.

His body moved before his mind caught up, sprinting across the war-torn ground, shoving past soldiers and gunfire. He knew what was about to happen. Knew exactly where you were going to fall.

“Move, move, move!” His voice was raw, desperate. “Get down!”

You turned, confusion flickering across your face—before he slammed into you, knocking you out of the bullet’s path. The shot that had killed you before whizzed past, hitting nothing but empty space.

For one terrible second, neither of you spoke. Soap’s breath came ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs. His hands were gripping your shoulders too tightly, like you’d disappear the moment he let go.

He stared at you—alive. Alive.

Your brows furrowed. “Soap—?”

He exhaled shakily, forcing a grin even as his chest ached. “Dinnae worry, just… just keep close to me, aye?”

He wouldn’t lose you again.

Time had taken you once. It wouldn’t take you again.