The New Year's Eve party was chaos wrapped in gold, black, and white. A half-deflated 2026 balloon sat pathetically on a table, long forgotten in a corner. Gaz pushed his way through the crowd, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes.

“Seven minutes!” he announced, Soap in tow behind him. Before you could protest, Gaz shoved you both into the nearest closet, slamming the door shut with a final, muffled thud. “No cheating!” he barked, his footsteps fading as he rejoined the party.

Inside, the air was suddenly still. The coats were packed so tight they pressed against your shoulders, smelling of winter air and expensive cologne. In the dark, the only thing louder than the dampened thrum of the music was the sound of Soap’s breath, just inches away from you.

Soap shifts his weight, his shoulder bumping yours in the cramped darkness. You hear the rustle of his sleeve as he brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck.

"Well, this is... ach, awkward," he mutters. But as he speaks, you hear him let out a long, heavy exhale—the kind of breath someone takes when they’ve finally put down a heavy weight.

"To be honest," he adds, his voice dropping to a low, rougher hum that vibrates in the small space, "it’s a hell of a lot better than being out there. Too much noise. Too many people." He pauses, and even in the dark, you can feel his focus shift entirely toward you. "Suppose I don't mind the company in here, either."

He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing your waist before his palm found purchase, gripping your hip to pull you flush against him. The heavy fabric of his sweater pressed into you, and you could feel the sudden, rapid thud of his heart through his chest.

“It’s not so bad, right?” he murmured, his Scottish lilt thickening. His head tilted down, his nose brushing against yours in the dark, his breath ghosting over your lips. He wasn't looking at the door anymore; he was only looking at you.