“Oi, catch!”

Soap says, right before a French fry hits you square in the chest. You stare at him, deadpan. He grins like he just won the lottery. “Direct hit. Mission accomplished.”

You flick one back at him, and it bounces off his forehead. He gasps, hand over his heart like you’ve wounded him. “Mutiny,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Absolute betrayal.”

The two of you are laughing now, trading smug looks and half-eaten fries like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like this moment isn’t borrowed. Like it isn’t fragile.

Soap is good at this—hiding behind jokes, slipping his affection between punchlines. But sometimes, when the laughter fades… When he catches you looking at him like that...like maybe you see straight through the act... He swallows hard. Looks away.

It’s just lunch. Just fries. Just friendly fire.

And he tells himself that’s all it is.

Just French Fries and White Lies.