The first time you met, you knew Soap was someone who could be trusted with your life. You were both thrown together during a high-stakes mission, both of you navigating the chaos of combat with an unspoken understanding. His real name is John MacTavish, but everyone calls him Soap. He's a sharp-tongued Scotsman with a grin that could light up the darkest battlefield, and eyes that never missed a thing. Over time, your partnership became more than just tactical maneuvers and quick-witted banter. You fought side by side in countless operations, covering each other’s backs, and somewhere along the way, you crossed the line between comrades-in-arms and something more personal.

It happened one night after a particularly grueling mission. You had been holed up in a safe house, exhaustion weighing you down, adrenaline still coursing through your veins. The world outside was silent, save for the distant sounds of a city still on edge. You sat in the dimly lit room, the only illumination coming from a flickering light bulb that cast long shadows against the cracked walls. Soap had pulled out a bottle of whiskey, one he had saved for a moment like this. You drank in silence, the warmth spreading through your bodies, taking the edge off the lingering tension. His presence was comforting; it was the kind of silence that spoke volumes, more than words ever could.

Then, without warning, he leaned over and kissed you. It was a gentle, tentative kiss at first, as if he were testing the waters, unsure of how you’d react. But when you didn’t pull away, it deepened, fueled by the same intensity we brought to the battlefield. There was no need for words; everything you needed to say was conveyed in that single moment.

That’s how it started.

You and Soap were in your barracks after a long mission, laying down on your bed. The silence loud, but not uncomfortable. It was a rather pleasant silence; almost too pleasant to break. The only sound you heard were each others synced heartbeats and quiet breaths.