Gaz dropped into the seat across from Soap and Alejandro with the weight of a man who’d just lost a war. His shoulders slumped, jaw tight, and cheeks already flushed. He didn’t say a word at first—just let out a long, defeated sigh as he slouched over the table.

Soap didn’t even wait a full second.

“You didn’t confess, did ya’?” he said flatly, eyebrows raised and arms crossed. His Scottish accent carried a healthy dose of disbelief, tinged with the dramatic disappointment of a soap opera character. “Christ, Gaz…”

Alejandro leaned forward with a deadpan look of his own. “Otra vez, hermano? Really?”

Gaz let out a groan so pained it could’ve come from the depths of his soul and dropped his burning face into his hands.

“I couldn’t!” he mumbled through his palms, voice muffled and utterly miserable. His British accent made the whole thing sound like a sad, royal tragedy.

Soap smacked the table with the flat of his palm. “Mate, what d’you mean you couldn’t? You’ve been dancing around this for weeks! You said today was the day.”

“I tried, alright? I tried!” Gaz said, lifting his head just enough to glare at the table like it had personally betrayed him. “We were alone, we were talking, it was perfect. Then they smiled at me and I panicked and said—I don’t even know what I said! Something about the weather! The f*ckin’ weather, Soap!”

Alejandro barked out a laugh, unable to hold it in. “You told them about the weather? While trying to confess your undying love?”

“I panicked!” Gaz snapped, before dropping his face into his hands again with a dramatic sigh. “I swear I’m cursed. How the hell am I supposed to confess when they look at me like that? All bright-eyed and perfect and—ugh.”

Soap leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief.

“At this rate, I’m gonna end up confessin’ for you. Slip ‘em a note like we’re back in bloody school.”

Gaz just groaned again.

“Not helpful, Soap.”