“I don’t know who you think I am I don’t know who you think I am I don’t know who you think I am I don’t know who you think I am—am, am, am, am, am, am, am…”

You were belting Breaking Dishes like you were headlining a sold-out concert, the car’s aux blaring at a level that probably violated a few noise ordinances. Hair whipping in the breeze from the cracked window, sunglasses crooked on your nose, you looked like chaos in motion—and you were loving every second of it.

Meanwhile, Soap sat stiffly in the passenger seat, shoulders hunched, looking like he’d been dropped into an alien dimension. Which, to be fair, he kind of had. Loud feminist anthems in a girl’s beat-up hatchback weren’t exactly familiar territory for a man more used to the roar of helicopters and the snap of gunfire.

It was, in short, the most out-of-place he’d ever felt.

But he didn’t say a word. He wasn’t about to complain—not when he was technically homeless on leave and crashing at your place out of pure charity. You were a childhood friend, after all. Loud, strange, and entirely yourself.

So he kept his mouth shut, trying not to wince as you hit the high notes—badly—and wondering how on earth this had become his life.