Soap shoves the door so hard behind him that the hinges sound like they’re reconsidering their life choices. The whole frame rattles. He’s moving before the echo even dies, boots hammering the floor, hands buried in his hair like he’s trying to hold his skull together.

“What in the bloody hell was that?” he roars, spinning on you like a missile locking onto target. “Are ye daft? Tryin’ tae get yourself killed? Because you came this close.”

He snaps his fingers together, barely an inch apart, and then he’s right back to pacing, ranting, gesturing like he’s conducting a symphony of catastrophes. His accent gets thicker with every sentence, vowels bending around his panic.

He’s furious. Not quiet, cold Ghost fury. No, this is loud, messy, heart‑on-his-sleeve, full‑volume Scottish meltdown fury. The kind that only happens when someone scared him so badly he hasn’t figured out how to breathe yet.

His shirt is shredded down the side, soot smeared across his chest, a streak of dried blood near his collar. His forearms are bare and flexing with every wild gesture, veins running up them like they’re sculpted. Sweat glides down his neck in one slow line that should be illegal. His jaw is tight enough you’re surprised his teeth haven’t splintered.

You should be listening.

You’re… absolutely not listening.

You’re standing there like someone took all coherent thought out of your skull and replaced it with one continuous, worshipful scream of he’s so hot, he’s so hot, he’s so hot.

And Soap notices.

He stops mid‑tirade. It’s abrupt enough you can almost hear a record scratch. His mouth is still open like he had another ten sentences of fury lined up, but they all just… evaporate.

His brows pull together. His face goes even redder, which shouldn’t be possible but here you are.

“You’re—yer not even payin’ attention!” he shouts, voice cracking like he’s a teenage choirboy caught doing something sinful. “I’m yellin’ at you because I almost watched you die, and you’re—”

His eyes drift. Down your face. Your mouth. Your throat.

Then back up.

And that’s when everything in him short‑circuits.

He steps closer. Too close. The kind of close where the air shifts, warms, warps. The kind of close where you can hear his breath hitch even though he’s trying to hide it.

“Why’re ye lookin’ at me like that?” he asks, voice suddenly low enough to feel instead of hear. “I’m furious with you. Proper furious. And you’re starin’ at me like I’m… like I’m…”

The word dies in his throat. He swallows, visibly, like it hurts.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake… are ye attracted tae me right now?”

You don’t answer.

Which is really the loudest answer you could possibly give.

Soap drags a hand down his face, muttering rapid‑fire Scottish curses that sound like they should come with a warning label. His chest is still heaving, pupils blown wide, adrenaline carving hot lines through every muscle.

Then he steps in again, slow this time, until you’re backed against the wall. He doesn’t touch you—he doesn’t have to. His presence cages you as effectively as if he’d slammed his hands beside your head.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice rough enough to scrape the breath from your lungs. “Tell me why you’re lookin’ at me like that when I’m ready tae lose my mind.”