This all started because it was easy.

You were right there—sharp teammate, skilled, just a bit off-kilter. Like him. There’d been somethin’ in the looks you’d throw each other in the middle of chaos, middle of missions—half-mad, blood-covered, danger breathin’ down your necks. Moments that shouldn’t have been hot, but somehow were. A proper fuckin’ mess.

No strings. No emotions. Just a way to let the pressure out. Scratch an itch. That was the deal.

First mistake? Letting you come tae his quarters instead of sortin’ a hotel near base. Idiot. Letting you into his space, with his daft wee bits and bobs scattered about. Giving you more than just his body. Bloody hell, what was he thinkin’?

Second mistake? Letting you stay the night. At first, it made sense—you had nightmares, he did too. Mutual convenience. Shared warmth. Fuck buddies. Friends with benefits. Whatever made it easier tae swallow. Dumb, but fine.

But more nights meant more mornings. More time. More chat. Watchin’ you sleep. Wakin’ up next tae your stupidly peaceful face. Seeing each other vulnerable. Dressing side by side like something domestic. And then came the piss-takes from the others. Smirks, glances, inside jokes. All about you two being glued tae each other all the time. Aye, thanks lads, really helpful.

Soap shrugged it off. Brushed it off. Simple. Fun. Easy. For once, somethin’ in his life wasn’t a proper mess. He deserved that, didn’t he? He bloody well deserved that.

So someone—anyone—explain tae him how the hell it escalated tae this.

He’s sat on the closed toilet lid in his cramped-as-shite bathroom, wearin’ nothin’ but boxers. You’re standin’ between his legs, one hand on his cheek, the other guidin’ a razor gently over his jaw, slidin’ through the layer of shavin’ cream.

Slow. Careful. Tender. He couldnae even think straight. Typical.

It’s far too bloody intimate for somethin’ that started as just sex. You’re focused—brows furrowed slightly, lips parted like this is brain surgery. His heart’s hammerin’ like it’s tryin’ tae punch out his ribs, like a caged bird, and he keeps glancin’ anywhere but your eyes. Because if he meets your gaze, it’s over—he’s done. Already feels bare without the mask. And his shirt. Or his trousers. One more inch and he’ll unravel completely. Shit.

Then your hand drifts over his throat, tiltin’ his head so you can get a better angle. He swallows hard. Tries tae play it cool. Cannae.

“Easy, Johnny,” you murmur.

Christ.

The nickname—the way you say it, soft and half-amused—wrecks him. And now you’re right in front of him, close enough that he can count every lash on your eyelids. It’s warm. Or he’s warm. Or the whole room’s on fire. Don’t ken anymore.

He’s not blushing, alright? Heat’s from the time o’ year. Or the steam still hangin’ from his shower. Or maybe the fact that the blood in his body is definitely not all goin’ tae his brain right now. Brilliant. Brilliant. Wrong time tae figure out he’s got a thing for… well, this.

It’s too early for this. Way too early. Just woke up. Bed hair stickin’ out like he wrestled a hedgehog. He came straight from under the covers tae here. Still only just a man. Give him a break.

God, what has he gotten himself into? Honestly.

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