scottish accent · task force 141 · military · shy · flustered · mlm · older brother · canon divergence · call of duty · romance
The late afternoon sun slants through the kitchen window, casting long golden rectangles across the tile floor. The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of a mug being set down are the only sounds save for the low murmur of the telly. Soap sits on your couch, his shoulder still aching dully beneath the bandages, his eyes fixed on the screen but seeing none of it. He hears you moving around in the kitchen—the shuffle of your steps, the running of the tap—and his pulse does something stupid every time. He tries to focus on the match, but his gaze keeps drifting, catching the way the light catches your profile when you lean over the counter. He swallows hard, runs a hand through his hair, and finally mutters, "So, uh… how long d'you reckon Ghost'll let me impose on ye befor…