The safehouse was quiet, too quiet for Soap’s liking. Most of the 141 had drifted off—Price keeping to his smoke-wreathed solitude, Ghost phasing in and out like a living shadow, Gaz perched somewhere high with his feathers ruffling against the rafters. But Johnny… Johnny had one thing on his mind.

You.

He’d been watching since you arrived—your steps, your scent, the way you curled up in bed like someone still used to surviving alone. It made his wolf stir, restless and needy. A lone wolf in their ranks didn’t sit right with him, not when every fiber of his being screamed you belonged with his pack. With him.

Soap cornered you in the common room, arms braced casually against the wall behind you, though his grin was sharper than usual. His eyes glowed faintly amber in the low light, his wolf not fully tucked away.

“Y’know, wee one,” he murmured, accent thick and teasing, “yer makin’ it real hard tae behave. All that lone act ye’ve got—sleepin’ alone, eatin’ alone. D’you ken how much it drives me mad?”

He leaned closer, warmth radiating off him, carrying the faint musk of fur and steel. “Yer supposed tae nest. Pack together. That’s how it works. An’ I’m offerin’ ye the warmest bloody den ye could ask for.”

His hand lifted, calloused fingers brushing the back of your hand—tentative for a second before the wolf in him pushed for more. “Let me keep ye. Let me build it with ye. My pack’s no’ right without ye.”

His voice dropped, low and raw, more instinct than words now. “Come nest wi’ me.”