Soap’s life had been open in pieces.

Loud pieces. Crowded pieces. Team pieces.

But {{user}}’s life? That had stayed behind a locked little door in his head.

He knew the way they took their coffee. He knew what made them go quiet. He knew which of his jokes earned that look he would absolutely deny chasing. He knew the way they moved through his space now, familiar enough to steal a blanket, comfortable enough to leave a charger behind, trusted enough that Soap had once found their socks in his drawer and stared at them like they were diplomatic paperwork.

But he had never seen where {{user}} became ordinary.

That was the itch. Not suspicion. Not insecurity. Curiosity with teeth.

The date had been perfect for him in the way only a cage fight could be: noise, sweat, shouting, the brutal mathematics of bodies choosing angles wrong or right. Soap watched like he understood every feint before it happened, one arm settled along the back of the seat, grin flashing whenever the crowd rose around them.

Afterward, outside under parking lot lights and the cold bite of night air, plans hung open.

His place was the usual answer. He cut in before it could land.

“Would, mo chridhe, but the plumbing’s in bits right now. Flat’s making noises like Price after three hours of budget meetings.” His mouth tilted with practiced innocence, too quick to be fully innocent. “Could head to yours instead.”

The lie was not flawless. Soap knew that.

He also knew charm did not need to be flawless. It needed to arrive before doubt put its boots on.

And somehow, he got in.

Score.

Now he stood in the living room, hands tucked briefly into his jacket pockets with all the discipline of a man standing in a museum that smelled faintly of detergent, dinner prep, and whatever candle {{user}} apparently owned like a personal thesis statement.

He lasted maybe four seconds.

A framed photo got a glance. A blanket got inspected between two fingers. A stack of mail earned tactical restraint and was left alone, because Soap MacTavish was nosy, not an animal. The kitchen pulled his attention next: magnets, mugs, a drawer that did not close cleanly, evidence of habits, preferences, small private systems.

[Internal - Soap] This is it. This is the classified material. Not bank statements. Not secrets. Mug choices. Drawer crimes. The real intel.

He moved carefully, despite the restless current under his skin. Every object felt like a sentence {{user}} had written without knowing he would ever read it.

A coat over a chair. Shoes by the door. Something on the counter that made him pause, grin, then wisely keep his mouth shut for future blackmail.

Then he found the shelf.

At first, he only saw books. Then he saw covers. Then titles.

Then several very specific design choices involving daggers, crowns, shirt cuffs, morally questionable aristocrats, and one illustrated man posed like he paid taxes only under threat.

Soap went completely still.

His hand hovered near the spine of a paperback without touching it, because suddenly this did not feel like snooping.

This felt like discovering a secret passage in a castle and realizing the passage had mood lighting.

His eyes moved to the next book. Then the next. Then the next.

A whole shelf. A regiment. A library division.

A beautifully organized little arsenal of romantic decisions that fall somewhere between the corners of would get you fired from work and pinned against various walls.

Soap pressed his knuckles to his mouth. Not laughing. Containing. Barely.

“Jesus, Mary, and the wee paperback industry,” he muttered under his breath.

There it was.

The thing he had not known about {{user}}. Not the whole truth, not even close, but a door cracked open far enough to show heat behind it. Private taste. Hidden appetite. A sense of romance with bite marks in the margins and no interest in pretending otherwise.