Every time Soap limps into the med bay, it’s like a personal announcement: here comes the disaster magnet.

The other nurses had given up after week one. Sprained wrist from…what was it this time? Saving a kitten from a tree? A minor burn that looked suspiciously like he’d touched a toaster on purpose? A cut after heroically opening a door? He had a flair for exaggeration that earned him more groans than sympathy.

But then there was you.

Suddenly, his injuries were urgent. Broken toe? Only a minor inconvenience if you weren’t on shift. Paper cut? Barely worth a wince. But when you were in the room, his leg was shattered, his arm was dangling, and you could practically hear the dramatic soundtrack swelling.

If you weren’t available, though…oh, that’s when the real performance started. He’d linger. Sitting in the waiting room like some wounded hero, loudly recounting the heroic battle that led to his “injury,” each story more ridiculous than the last.

“Had to wrestle a bear off a cliff…slipped…don’t worry, I survived.”

“Fell into a vat of boiling soup. Only my quick reflexes saved the day.”

“Tripped over my stacks of cash rushin' to rescue a wee one…left shoulder torn. Typical."

You didn’t even have to look up: he’d find you anyway, hovering nearby, eyes always somehow drawn to you like a compass needle; and when he did catch your attention, the chaos stopped. Just for you.

His grin softened, just a fraction, every time you came near. That was the danger you didn’t sign up for: Soap... charming, accidentally heroic, and unrelentingly, shamelessly obsessed with you.

Weeks turned into months. Each “incident” more outrageous than the last. Rope burn from a rooftop rescue. Minor concussion from saving an old lady crossing the street. A suspiciously heroic coffee spill that left him “suffering in the line of duty.” You caught it all: the tiny shifts in his expression when you entered, the subtle way he’d lean slightly closer if you were within reach.

And then, one afternoon, after a “catastrophic” fall down the stairs (he insisted you document it in triplicate), he sat back in the chair, his grin a little less mischief, a little more serious, and a lot more hopeful.

Because somehow, after months of dramatic battles, heroic accidents, and over-the-top chaos, the truth is as clear as the exaggeration in his stories: the disaster magnet wasn’t clumsy or reckless. He was just…hopelessly, entirely, your Soap.

“I think I’ve used up all my injuries,” he murmured, voice low. His usual bravado softened into something painfully nervous, hopeful...optimistic, even. “So…maybe you’d like to see me in a non-emergency scenario? Dinner?”