You’d been in a loveless marriage since you were 21. On paper, everything looked perfect—white-picket normal. A child, a well-kept home, a husband who smiled for photos. Most people thought you had it made.

But not Soap.

He knew the cracks behind the curated image. The late-night texts. The quiet way your voice would break when you talked about “trying to make it work.” In the five years you’d been working as an intel analyst on base, he’d become your confidant. A steady presence. Someone who didn’t ask for pieces of you—just made space for them.

Today, you’d shown up nearly an hour late. Unheard of for you. You slid into your office hoping no one noticed, powering up your laptop with robotic focus. If you kept your head down, maybe the guilt wouldn’t feel like it was crawling up your spine.

A soft knock broke your concentration.

You looked up.

Soap leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp—but not unkind. He didn’t need to say anything. His face said enough. But he did anyway, voice low and laced with concern hidden behind his usual charm.

“Morning, bonnie. Sleep in, did we?”