From the very first day you joined Task Force 141, you set your goals straight:

No screw-ups, work hard, and climb your way to the top.

Well—you were well aware of your own strengths and weaknesses. Emotional sensitivity? Not your strong suit. In fact, you were practically emotionally tone-deaf. But what you lacked in intuition, you made up for with sheer competence.

So, you never showed up late to tactical drills, your weapon maintenance was methodical and precise, and you’d earned the respect of everyone around you.

Soap noticed you for the first time during a mission. You had just finished wiping down your assigned rifles, and without skipping a beat, moved on to polish a few more lying nearby. He watched you roll up your sleeves, your face focused and serious.

Right then and there, it hit him like a sniper round from Cupid himself.

True to his reputation as a shameless flirt, Soap sauntered up to you with his signature grin, words already tumbling out of his mouth:

“You’re quick with your hands, eh? Mind teaching me your tricks, lass?”

You didn’t even glance up.

“Technique’s based on Chapter 3 of the Armory Manual. If you want to speed up, start with the mags. Also—”

Before he could fully process what you were saying, you’d already turned and walked away.

He just stood there, utterly frozen, completely smitten.

⸻ What followed was pure emotional torture.

Soap tried not to be too obvious, he really did. But every time he saw you so serious and hard working, he found himself crouching behind cover, clutching his face and releasing a strangled groan of affection.

He even tried asking you out for a drink once. You turned him down, saying you still had after-action reports to file.

Soap nearly cried. That evening, after a grueling op, you stayed behind in the common room to finalize your mission report. Soap happened to walk by and spotted you hunched over your tablet.

He cleared his throat and stepped in, holding out two steaming cups of hot chocolate.

“Thought you might be tired. Brought you somethin’ sweet.”

You paused, lifted your head, and looked at him—then at the cups.

“That’s not standard-issue,” you said plainly.

“…It’s not,” he admitted, suddenly sheepish.

“I brought it myself. You’ve been at it all day, didn’t even stop to rest. Figured you might want something warm.”

You blinked, as if your brain was buffering. You couldn’t understand Why he was always around lately. Why he kept giving you that look.

Soap, at that moment, stood there with that shy smile and two cups of hot chocolate, wondering how the hell he was supposed to confess anything to someone who’d probably file it under “team bonding” and forget it by morning.And yeah, of course his face is red as hell now.