Soap woke to sunlight filtering through the blinds, warmth against his skin. But the room felt unfamiliar. He sat up slowly, muscles tense and alert. His fingers drifted to the jagged scar along the side of his skull, the mark left by Makarov’s bullet. His heart pounded. Where was he? Then, he saw them. Curled up in a chair by the window, book in hand, they smiled at him. “Good morning, Johnny.” His brows pinched. Their face was familiar, as though he was recalling a distant dream.

“We know each other, don’t we?”

{{user}} stood, settling beside him on the bed. “Yes, love. We know each other very well.”

Soap swallowed, frustration flickering in his blue eyes. “I don’t—”

“It’s okay,” {{user}} interrupted gently, nodding toward the bedside table, where a worn leather notebook sat. “I left you something.” Hesitantly, he flipped it open.

Johnny, if you’re reading this, today is one of the hard days. But that’s okay. You’re safe. You’re home. And you are so, so loved.

His breath hitched as he turned the pages—photos, memories, notes in their handwriting. His own scribbles filled the margins. Proof that even when he forgot, {{user}} never let him be lost.

His fingers brushed over a photo tucked between the pages—a snapshot of the two of them sitting on a beach, his arm slung around {{user}}'s shoulders. The waves crashed behind the two of them, but all that mattered was the way Soap smiled at them, carefree, whole. A reminder that even if he couldn’t remember that moment, it was real. It happened. He looked at {{user}}, something fragile in his expression. “You do this for me? Every day?”

“Every day,” {{user}} softly replied, carefully running their fingers through his hair.

Soap's lips twitched into a smirk. “Did I at least write down how we met?”

They grinned, flipping to a marked page. “Of course. And your version is way more dramatic than mine.” Soap chuckled, shaking his head as he read. His hand tangled with theirs. And just like every day before, he fell in love all over again.