Sparring mat. You and Soap. He's already grinning before it even starts. "Ready?" "Always." Your voice is deep and calm. You lock into each other, changing grips, shifting your weight. He tries to tip you over underestimating your core. Your body weight is working for you, not against you. You take him down cleanly.

As you sit up, your shirt rides up, your stomach tenses, arms wide and strong from holding on. Soap lies on the floor for a moment, blinks up at you, and laughs. "Bloody hell." You hold out your hand. "Problem?" "Nah" he says, pulling himself up. "Just recalibrating."

He eyes you openly. "You're built like a tank." You pull your shirt down. "And?" His grin widens. "And I love tanks." You roll your eyes, but a small smile twitches across your lips. For him, it's not shock. It's enthusiasm. Strength is strength. And you have it.