#cod headcannons

measuring.

deciding if it was intentional.

• his jaw shifts slightly

• his eyes narrow in thought, not irritation

• he exhales slow through his nose

• his posture straightens, subtle but telling

if he realizes it was an accident?

he doesn’t take it personally.

not immediately.

“didn’t sound like y’ meant that how it came out, did it?” he’ll say, calm, even. giving you room to correct yourself.

he offers an out before he takes offense.

because he knows people trip over words when they’re tired, stressed, emotional.

and if you do correct yourself? apologize? clarify?

that’s the end of it for him.

truly.

he nods once, lets it go, doesn’t bring it back up to guilt you later.

price isn’t fragile. his ego doesn’t bruise easy.

but—

if it hits somewhere real? somewhere personal?

that’s when the quiet shows.

he won’t snap, but he will withdraw a fraction.

not distance, just… a curtain drawn halfway.

his voice gets more neutral. his responses shorter.

not punishment. processing.

“right,” he might say. “got it.”

and you’ll know from the tone alone that something landed deeper than expected.

price values respect. not blind praise — just consideration.

if he admits it bothered him, it’s straightforward.

“not angry,” he’ll tell you.

“just didn’t expect that from you.”

and that sentence carries weight, because he doesn’t hand trust out lightly.

the real tell that he cares?

he talks about it instead of burying it.

pulls you aside later, somewhere private.

“look,” he’ll say, voice low, steady,

“i know y’ didn’t mean it, but it stuck a bit, y’know. thought y’ should know”

no dramatics. no guilt-tripping.

just honesty.

and if you apologize sincerely?

he accepts it just as simply.

“we’re alright,” he’ll murmur. “don’t make a habit of it, yeah?”

sometimes he even softens enough to add a small huff of humor after.

“been called worse by better.”

and that’s his way of easing the tension back down.

because with you, he doesn’t want walls.

he wants clarity.

price doesn’t need perfect words from you.

he just needs to know you don’t mean to wound him.

and once he knows that?

he’s steady again. grounded. unchanged where it matters.

because one slip of the tongue won’t undo the respect he’s built for you — and he hopes the same goes both ways.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

simon riley

simon doesn’t react on the surface.

that’s what throws people off.

when your words land wrong, maybe you joked poorly, maybe you said something blunt without thinking, maybe you hit a nerve you didn’t know existed, he doesn’t snap or argue.

he just… goes quiet.

and with simon, quiet is loud.

• his shoulders still

• his head tilts slightly like he’s replaying the sentence

• his gaze lingers on you a second longer than normal

• whatever he was doing pauses mid-motion

he’s not angry first.

he’s assessing.

simon’s lived around cruelty. real cruelty. the deliberate kind. so he knows the difference between harm and clumsiness.

if he decides it was accidental?

he lets it slide outwardly.

but inwardly, it sticks for a bit.

“didn’t think you meant that,” he’ll say, voice low, even. not accusatory — just stating a conclusion he’s reached.

he gives you space to fix it.

and if you catch it and apologize?

he accepts with a small nod.

“alright,” he says. “leave it there.”

no lecture. no dragging it out.

but if it hit something personal — something tied to his past, his scars, his mask, his identity?

you’ll notice the shift.

he doesn’t pull away dramatically. he just becomes more reserved for a while.

less talk. more observation.

not to punish you — to recalibrate.

simon doesn’t bruise easy, but he remembers things.

not to hold against you, just to understand you better.

later, if he brings it up, it’s private. quiet. never in front of others.

he’ll stand beside you, not looking directly at you when he says it.

“that comment earlier.”

a beat.

“caught me off guard.”

that’s him admitting it mattered.

and that’s not small.

if you apologize sincerely, explain you didn’t mean it?

he exhales slow.

“i know,” he says.

“you’re not like that.”

and that right there is trust — him deciding who you are in his head and standing by it.

the real tell he cares?

he doesn’t shut you out.

he still stands close. still watches your back. still checks if you’ve eaten, slept, rested.

his actions don’t change.

because simon judges people on patterns, not single moments.

and if you’re someone he cares about?

one accidental sting won’t undo that.

he might add quietly, hours later, almost gruff:

“just… mind your aim next time, yeah?”

not harsh. not cold.

just honest.

because simon can take a hit.

he just prefers it not come from you.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

johnny mactavish

johnny’s reaction is immediate — but not explosive.

it shows in his face first.

his smile falters just a touch. not gone, just… dimmed around the edges like a light behind a cloud.

• his brows lift slightly • his head tilts like he’s double-checking he heard right • his laugh comes a second too late or not at all • he rubs the back of his neck, a subtle self-soothing habit

johnny’s thick-skinned in most ways. banter, teasing, sarcasm — he lives in that world.

but when something lands wrong from you, it hits different.

because with you, his guard is down.

if it’s clearly accidental, he doesn’t snap.

he gives you an out almost instantly.

“ye didnae mean it like that, did ye?” he’ll ask, tone light but searching.

it’s not confrontation — it’s clarification. he’s giving you room to fix it without making it heavy.

if you realize and apologize?

his shoulders loosen right away.

“ach, dinnae worry,” he says, waving it off. “i’ve heard worse from people i actually like.”

and he means it.

johnny doesn’t hold onto small hurts. he’s too used to rough edges and imperfect words.

but if the comment poked somewhere personal — his skills, his past, something he’s insecure about but doesn’t show?

he gets quieter.

not cold. just thoughtful.

he’ll go a little more observant, a little less playful for a while.

not sulking — processing.

johnny feels things deeply, he just doesn’t always broadcast it.

later, when it’s just the two of you, he might bring it up in that casual-but-not tone.

“that thing ye said earlier?”

a small shrug.

“caught me off guard, that’s all.”

that’s him being honest without making it a guilt trip.

if you apologize again, sincerely?

he smiles, the real one this time.

“hey,” he says gently,

“if i got mad every time words came out wrong, i’d have no pals left.”

then softer, quieter:

“just hits different when it’s you, y’know?”

because that’s the truth of it.

you matter more, so your words do too.

the real sign he’s okay?

the teasing comes back.

the easy chatter. the shoulder nudges. the warm presence at your side.

johnny doesn’t punish people he cares about for human mistakes.

he values intent over delivery.

and if he trusts your heart?

one slip of the tongue won’t shake that.

he might grin later and add,

“next time ye insult me, at least buy me a drink after, aye?”

half joke. half truth. all him.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

kyle garrick

kyle’s reaction is quiet — that’s the first thing.

he doesn’t bristle. doesn’t snap. doesn’t make a scene.

it shows in the micro-expressions most people miss.

• his brows pull together slightly • his jaw shifts once like he’s thinking • his eyes flick to you, then away • his posture straightens a touch, guarded but calm

gaz is used to banter. he works with soldiers, half their language is sarcasm and half is worse.

but with you, he listens differently.

so when something you say lands wrong, he doesn’t react from ego, he reacts from confusion.

like he’s trying to understand, not defend.

if it was clearly accidental, he gives you a beat to catch it yourself.

he trusts you enough to assume good intent first.

if you don’t notice right away, he’ll gently check:

“sorry — what d’you mean by that?”

not sharp. not accusing. just genuinely asking.

he wants context before emotion.

and the second you realize and apologize?

his whole demeanor softens.

“hey, it’s alright,” he says easily.

“didn’t think you meant it like that.”

and he truly means it.

gaz doesn’t collect grudges, especially not over clumsy wording.

but if it touched a real insecurity — his competence, his loyalty, his judgment?

he goes a bit quieter.

not distant. just reflective.

he’ll still talk to you, still be kind, but you might notice he’s choosing his words more carefully for a bit.

not as a wall, more like recalibrating.

later, in private, he might bring it up calmly.

“can i be honest about earlier?”

a small breath.

“that one stung a little.”

no blame. no drama. just honesty.

gaz believes in clearing the air before it turns into fog.

if you apologize again, sincerely?

he gives you a reassuring half-smile.

“we’re good,” he says.

“people misspeak. happens.”

then, quieter:

“i know your heart’s in the right place.”

and that’s the core of it.

intent matters to him more than perfect phrasing.

the real sign he’s moved on?

he goes back to normal with you — fully.

the easy conversation. the dry humor. the gentle attentiveness.

maybe even a playful nudge later:

“next time you’re roasting me, give me a heads up, ye?”

said with the faintest grin.

because gaz doesn’t want you walking on eggshells.

he just values honesty and gives the same in return.

with him, one accidental offense doesn’t crack trust.

it just becomes another moment handled with quiet maturity.

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and yet his pulse still picks up every time he almost brings it up.

he tells himself it’s just an invitation.

simple. normal. nothing tactical about it.

because with you, he’s careful. not distant — just mindful. like you’re something he doesn’t want to mishandle. he pays attention to your mood, your timing, whether you seem tired, whether you’re busy, whether it’s the right moment. he wants the ask to feel easy for you, even if it isn’t for him.

so when it finally happens, it’s so casual you could miss it.

you’re mid-conversation, talking about something completely unrelated, and he just slips it in —

a quiet, “we could grab dinner sometime, if you’d like.”

he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. doesn’t hover or pressure. he gives you space to answer, expression calm, shoulders relaxed. only the slight tension in his jaw gives him away.

like it’s a passing thought.

like he didn’t rehearse it a hundred times.

and if you say yes?

there’s a flicker of relief he tries to hide, a small smile he ducks his head to conceal.

because to him, asking mattered.

not because he doubts you — but because letting himself want something personal feels bigger than he lets on.

later, you might realize the courage wasn’t in the words themselves.

it was in the trying.

in the way he chose vulnerability over silence.

and sometimes, that means a simple invitation that carried more weight than you ever saw.

kyle doesn’t do grand declarations.

he does quiet bravery.

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@nerdypuppylover7

the first hiccup is the timing. he shows up five minutes late with an apology and a grin, hair slightly wind-tousled like he ran the last stretch. then he realizes he mixed up the booking time. then the place he wanted to take you has a wait. a long one.

he looks so genuinely frustrated with himself you almost feel bad — almost — until he starts laughing it off, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering something about plans never surviving contact with reality.

and somehow, that’s where johnny shines.

so the fancy dinner turns into street food and a walk.

the planned activity turns into wandering wherever looks interesting.

the perfect schedule dissolves into whatever feels right in the moment.

because once he stops trying to make it perfect, he just focuses on you. pointing out silly things he thinks will make you laugh, bumping his shoulder into yours, telling stories that get more animated the longer the night goes on.

at one point something goes properly wrong — maybe you both get caught in the rain, maybe he takes a wrong turn and ends up somewhere completely unintended — and instead of sulking, he pulls you along with a bright, “well, we’re here now, aren’t we?”

later, when things quiet, he admits in a softer voice that he wanted today to be special for you. that he tried to make it big because you deserve big things.

you’re both laughing by the end of it.

the kind of laughter that leaves your cheeks sore and your guard down.

but the truth is written all over the day already:

the way he kept checking if you were having fun.

the way he adjusted every plan the second you looked tired.

the way your happiness clearly mattered more to him than the plan itself.

that part never misses.

the grand gesture might not land perfectly.

but the effort? the heart behind it?

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@nerdypuppylover7

it’s a quiet secret, the kind he never bothers to explain — and you never push.

so when there’s a box of chocolates between you, it feels ordinary at first. shared space, shared snacks, the comfortable silence he prefers over small talk. you pick one, then another, chatting about nothing in particular while he listens in that low, attentive way of his.

you see it in the slight tilt of his head, the almost-reach of his hand before he stops himself. a tiny pause. a decision.

eventually only one is left.

the good one.

the one he’s been picking around the entire time.

then, without a word, he slides the box toward you.

no comment. no dramatic gesture. just a small nudge across the table like it means nothing at all. like he isn’t giving up the piece he wanted most.

if you look at him, really look, you’ll catch the tell — the way he leans back, pretending disinterest, eyes flicking to make sure you take it. a quiet confirmation.

because simon isn’t the type to say he cares in obvious ways.

he won’t dress it up in soft words or grand confessions.

and somehow, it is.

he’ll just give you the last chocolate.

his favorite one.

and consider that explanation enough.

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@nerdypuppylover7

price is a busy man by nature, responsibility stitched into him as tightly as discipline. there’s always somewhere he’s needed, something demanding his focus. which is why the absence of all that feels louder than any grand gesture.

he pours the drinks himself. chooses a place that’s comfortable, private, somewhere you can talk without raising your voices. the kind of setting where time stretches instead of compresses.

and he listens. really listens.

eyes on you, not the room.

mind present, not planning three steps ahead.

simple as that. no explanation offered, none needed.

when you ask if he’s expecting a call, he just shakes his head.

“not tonight.”

the conversation drifts easily — stories, small confessions, comfortable silence. the sort that settles warm instead of awkward. every now and then you catch him watching you in that thoughtful way of his, like he’s cataloging the moment for later.

because price knows how rare this is. how rare it is for him to be still, and rarer to want to be.

but with you, he makes the space first and lets everything else move around it.

if anyone else asked for his time, they’d get what’s left over.

what’s practical.

what fits between obligations.

by the end of the night, it clicks — this wasn’t a free evening that happened to include you.

it was an evening cleared for you.

and from a man like john price, whose life is built on priorities and command and duty, that quiet reservation says more than flowers or fancy words ever could.

you don’t just have his attention.

you have his time — the one thing he never wastes.

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@nerdypuppylover7

“captain price. y’alright? welcome aboard,” he says, voice calm, gravelly.

professional. grounded. respectful.

he doesn’t flirt. doesn’t linger. but he does watch how you handle pressure. whether you keep calm when someone comes in bleeding. whether your hands shake when things get loud.

competence impresses him far more than looks.

if you prove capable? you earn his respect quickly.

and when price respects someone, it shows in subtle ways: • he listens when you speak • he backs your medical calls without question • he makes sure others don’t undermine your authority • he checks that you’re getting proper rest between shifts

if someone makes a comment about you being “easy on the eyes,” price shuts it down with a look alone.

“they’re a medic. treat ’em like one, yeah?”

end of discussion.

now if you’re also charming? warm? good with the team?

that’s when you might catch the faintest shift.

price’s tone softens slightly when he greets you. he remembers how you take your tea. he asks if you’re settling in alright.

not personal. just leadership that borders on thoughtful.

the men might tease him for being polite to the “pretty nurse,” but price doesn’t rise to it.

he’s seen too much, lived too much, to get distracted by a smile and a nice face.

what actually earns his quiet approval is when you stand your ground with stubborn soldiers.

“sit down, captain,” you might say, pointing to a chair while patching him up.

and if you’re right?

he sits.

with a small huff of amusement in his chest and a muttered, “aye, alright then, nurse.”

not charmed. not flustered. just respectful of someone who knows their job.

because to john price, pretty fades. reliable doesn’t.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

simon riley

simon notices you the same way he notices everything — silently, from the edges of a room, like a shadow that misses nothing.

new medic. new variable.

that’s what matters first.

not your face. not your smile. not whether the lads straighten a bit when you walk by.

he clocks efficiency. how fast you move when someone calls for gauze. whether you double-check dosages. whether your voice stays steady under pressure.

he trusts skill. not appearances.

if you’re pretty, that’s background noise.

he doesn’t introduce himself right away. doesn’t see the need.

but eventually paths cross. maybe you’re assigned to look at a healing rib injury or a split knuckle.

you ask for his name.

he studies you for half a second like he’s deciding how much to give.

“riley,” he says. low. rough. neutral. “simon.”

no rank thrown around. no extra words.

just facts.

he watches how you react to him more than he lets on. some medics get nervous around him. some stare at the mask. some try too hard to act unfazed.

if you treat him like any other patient?

that earns a quiet tick of approval.

simon respects people who don’t dramatize him.

if someone makes a crude comment about your looks nearby, he doesn’t join in. doesn’t laugh. doesn’t even look amused.

he’ll cut in with something flat and final like, “they’re staff. pack it in.”

and the tone alone kills the joke.

he’s not doing it for your attention. he’d say the same if you weren’t there.

respect is baseline. not a favor.

over time, his approval shows in small, nearly invisible ways: • he doesn’t argue when you give medical orders • he actually follows your recovery instructions • he positions himself nearby if the med bay gets chaotic • he steps in if a patient gets mouthy

not protective in a loud way. just present. solid.

if you tell him to sit still while you check a wound, he might grumble, “i am sittin’ still.”

even if he wasn’t two seconds ago.

if you’re calm, competent, and don’t pry?

you land in the rare category of people he doesn’t mind being around.

and that’s saying a lot.

the team might tease him, ask if he likes the “new nurse.”

he doesn’t bite. doesn’t deny it either. just stares until they drop it.

because to simon, attraction is irrelevant in a warzone. trust is what matters. and trust is earned quietly.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

johnny mactavish

johnny notices you immediately because he notices everyone immediately.

new face? new story. new person to welcome.

that’s just how he’s wired.

the “pretty” part registers, sure, but it’s paired with a bright, easy curiosity rather than anything heavy.

he’s the type to clock a smile and think you look kind, not just that you look good.

he’s also the type to walk right up and introduce himself before anyone else does.

“john mactavish,” he says, offering a hand and a grin that’s warm without being pushy. “but everybody calls me soap. long story, that.”

his voice is thick. softened vowels, a cadence that makes everything sound friendlier than it has any right to be.

friendly. open. disarming.

he doesn’t loom or crowd your space — medics get enough of that from injured soldiers already. instead he leans casual, like he’s making sure you know the task force isn’t full of hard cases and silence.

he’ll probably crack a light joke to ease tension.

“ye picked a lively lot tae work wi’, eh? dinnae worry, we only come in bleedin’ half the time.”

what actually wins him over though?

competence.

if you move fast, keep calm, and don’t panic when someone’s hurt, johnny’s respect is instant.

and once he respects you, it shows: • he’s cooperative during treatment • he keeps other soldiers from crowding you • he thanks you — genuinely, every time • he remembers your name right away

if someone whistles or comments on your looks, johnny’s smile drops a notch.

“cut it out, aye? they’re here to do a job.”

simple. direct. effective.

now if you’re kind on top of capable?

that’s when his natural charm shines a bit brighter.

he’ll chat while you work. “how’re ye findin’ the base so far?” “they treatin’ ye awright?” “ye need help findin’ anythin’, just say the word.”

and if you tell him to sit still?

he laughs softly and obeys. “aye, aye, nurse — yer the boss.”

he’s not flirting. he’s just… johnny.

warm. respectful. a little sunshine in a place that doesn’t get much of it.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

kyle garrick

kyle notices you quietly.

not in the double-take way some others might, more like a subtle awareness that files into place the second you step into the med bay.

new medic. new dynamic. new responsibility.

his attention goes to how you move first.

do you hesitate? rush? listen before acting?

kyle respects process. calm competence stands out to him far more than appearances ever could.

the “pretty” part registers, sure — he has eyes — but it’s secondary and never shows on his face.

he introduces himself when it makes sense.

“garrick,” he says, offering a steady handshake. “but everyone calls me gaz. welcome to the madhouse.”

he gives you space automatically.

instead, he’s the one redirecting others so you can work.

what earns his approval?

how you handle pressure.

if someone comes in hurt and you stay level-headed, voice steady, hands sure — he clocks it immediately.

and once you have that respect, it shows: • he follows your instructions without argument • he makes sure others do too • he thanks you sincerely • he checks if you’ve had a break

if someone comments on your looks, kyle’s tone stays calm but firm.

“bit unprofessional, that. they’re staff, not scenery.”

now if you’re friendly on top of capable?

his warmth shows more.

“settlin’ in alright?” “they givin’ you a proper tour?” “shout if you need anything, yeah?”

and if you tell him to stop moving?

“right, sorry. all yours.”

he’s not flirting. he’s not trying to impress.

he’s just respectful in a way that makes people feel at ease.

because to kyle garrick, medics are the backbone of the team.pretty might catch his attention for a second. reliable keeps it.

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price doesn’t bring it up. not directly. he’s old-school like that. believes some things deserve the right moment. privacy. respect. but it leaks out anyway.

in the way his eyes track you when you speak. in the way his voice softens without him meaning it to. in the way he stops mid-sentence sometimes, like he almost says your name instead of whatever rank or excuse he meant to use.

he’s more attentive now. notices when you’re tired before you say it. offers tea without asking. adjusts his pace to match yours without comment. when someone interrupts you, he shuts it down with a look sharp enough to cut glass.

and when someone else needs you — really needs you — and pulls you away?

price watches you go like he’s memorizing the sight.

later, when it’s quiet, when there almost might be time again, he hovers. not looming. just… present. leaning against a wall nearby. arms crossed. eyes flicking to you every few seconds like he’s checking you’re still real.

he cracks fewer jokes. but when he does, they’re just for you. murmured. low. “don’t get used to that,” he mutters once, corner of his mouth twitching. you don’t miss the way his ears go pink when you smile.

price is gentler now and that scares him a bit.

because he knows exactly what he was about to say before you were interrupted. knows there’s no un-saying it. no pretending it didn’t happen.

sometimes he almost does it anyway.

a hand lingering on yours when he passes something over. his thumb brushing your knuckles like it’s accidental, like he hasn’t replayed that moment a dozen times already.

“we’ll talk,” he says quietly one night, voice rough around the edges. not a question. not a promise. something in between. “properly. when there’s time.”

there’s a pause. his gaze holds yours. steady. intense. soft where it matters.

“didn’t forget,” he adds, low. unmistakably deep. “wouldn’t do that to you, love.”

and until that conversation finally happens?

price acts like a man who’s already chosen you — he just hasn’t been allowed to say it yet.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

simon riley

simon before he admits he cares

simon changes in ways most people wouldn’t notice, but you do.

it starts with proximity. not obvious. not possessive. just… closer. he positions himself near you without comment, like gravity did it for him. if you move, he adjusts. if the room shifts, he’s already recalibrated to where you are.

he doesn’t say much about the almost-confession. in fact, he says nothing about it. simon’s not the type to circle a moment with words — he locks it away, analyzes it, carries it quietly like extra weight on his kit.

but it bleeds through anyway.

he watches you more. not staring — assessing. checking your reactions, your mood, whether you’re alright before you ever say it. he notices the small things now. a hitch in your breath. a pause in your voice. tension in your shoulders.

“you good?” he asks, low and rough, voice thicker when it’s just the two of you.

if you say yes too quickly, he doesn’t argue but he stays.

simon becomes careful with his hands. that’s the tell. where he used to be all instinct and efficiency, now there’s hesitation, a fraction of a second before contact. when he does touch you, it’s deliberate. grounding. thumb at your wrist. palm at your back guiding you through a doorway. fingers brushing your sleeve like he’s reminding himself you’re there.

he positions himself between you and everyone else without making a show of it. doesn’t glare. doesn’t threaten. just exists as a barrier. most people get the message.

when someone interrupts you — pulls you away mid-conversation — simon’s jaw tightens. just once. controlled. he lets you go, but his eyes follow until you’re out of sight.

later, he finds you again. no excuse offered.

“you alright?” he repeats, quieter this time. closer.

the almost-confession sits between you like unfinished business. simon doesn’t bring it up because to him, words are commitments — and he refuses to offer half of one. he wants the moment to be right. private. safe.

until then, he shows it instead.

he waits for you after missions. leans against walls near your quarters like it’s coincidence. slows his pace so you don’t have to rush. hands you his jacket without comment when it’s cold, already shrugging out of it like the decision was made ages ago.

once, when you thank him, he exhales through his nose — quiet, fond, almost a laugh.

“don’t thank me,” he mutters. “s’what i do.”

but it’s not. not like this.

there are moments where he almost says it. you can feel it — the tension in the air, the way his shoulders square like he’s bracing himself. his mask angled toward you, voice dropping lower.

“there’s somethin’ i—” he stops. swallows. looks away.

later that night, when it’s quiet and the base hums softly around you, he stands close enough that your arms brush.

“didn’t forget,” he says suddenly. voice rough, honest. “just… not sayin’ it wrong.”

his gaze flicks to you. steady. serious. vulnerable in the way simon riley rarely allows.

until he finally admits it, simon behaves like a man already tethered to you — guarding. grounding. choosing you in every silent way he knows how.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

johnny mactavish

Johnny before he admits he cares

johnny changes loudest in the quiet moments.

at first, it looks like nothing — same grin, same jokes, same easy confidence — but if you know him, really know him, you start catching the cracks in the performance. the pauses. the glances that linger half a second too long. the way he suddenly seems very aware of where you are at all times.

he gets closer.

not in an overbearing way — in a johnny way. shoulder brushing yours when he laughs. leaning in when you talk, even if he’s already heard the story. finding reasons to sit next to you instead of across the room.

“move over,” he says casually, voice warm and lazy. “you’re hoggin’ all the good space.”

he jokes like he always does, but there’s something gentler threaded through it now. his teasing shifts. less sharp, more careful. like he’s testing how close he can get without crossing a line he hasn’t officially named yet.

after the interrupted confession, johnny pretends it didn’t almost happen.

pretends a bit too hard.

he talks more when you’re around. fills silence with commentary, bad impressions, half-finished stories. it’s not nerves, it’s avoidance. if he keeps things light, keeps you laughing, he doesn’t have to risk saying the wrong thing.

but when the laughter fades? that’s when it slips.

he watches your face when you’re not looking at him. studies your reactions like he’s memorizing something important. if you look tired, his voice drops automatically.

“rough day?” he asks, softer. real.

if you brush it off, he lets you but later, you’ll find a mug pressed into your hands. or him sticking closer than usual. or him quietly adjusting his pace to match yours.

johnny becomes attentive in a way that borders on reverent.

he remembers the little things now. how you take your coffee. what makes you go quiet instead of angry. which jokes make you laugh for real versus the polite kind.

he checks in without making it obvious.

“you good, yeah?” “need a break?” “c’mon, walk wi’ me.”

his voice thickens when it’s just the two of you — softer vowels, less bravado. the mask slips in private moments, replaced with something earnest and a little unsure.

physical touch becomes instinctive — but careful.

a hand at your lower back guiding you through a doorway. fingers hooking briefly around your wrist when you drift too far. sitting close enough that your knees brush, but never pushing for more.

once, when you lean into him without thinking, his breath stutters.

he still jokes. still flirts. but now it’s layered with something else — like he’s afraid to scare you off by wanting too much.

when someone interrupts you — pulls you away mid-conversation — johnny laughs it off, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. he watches you go, jaw tightening just a fraction.

later, he finds you again.

“was in the middle o’ somethin’, weren’t we?” he says lightly, but there’s a question under it. hope. vulnerability.

there are moments when he almost says it.

you’ll catch him staring, grin fading into something quieter. his mouth opens, closes. he scratches the back of his neck, a nervous habit he pretends he doesn’t have.

“there’s somethin’ i’ve been meanin’ tae tell ye,” he starts once, voice low, sincere.

then someone calls his name. a mission update. a distraction. the moment fractures.

johnny exhales sharply, runs a hand over his face, laughs under his breath.

“bad timin’, eh?”

after that, he becomes protective in ways he doesn’t comment on. always has your six. always checks you’re safe first. always positions himself just close enough to step in if needed.

when you thank him, he shrugs.

“just lookin’ out for ye,” he says. then quieter, almost to himself, “always have.”

until he finally admits it, johnny loves you loudly in small ways — with laughter. with presence. with a devotion disguised as friendship.

and every time your eyes meet, there’s that unfinished sentence hanging between you.

not forgotten. just waiting for the right moment to be said.

ㅤ────୨ৎ────

kyle garrick

Kyle before he admits he cares

kyle changes quietly.

there’s no dramatic shift, no sudden tension you can point to — just a steady, subtle recalibration around you. like everything in his world starts orbiting a little closer to where you stand.

after the almost-confession, kyle becomes intentional.

he notices where you are before he notices anything else. eyes flicking your way first when he enters a room. positioning himself so you’re always in his line of sight — not staring, just aware.

if you move, he adjusts. if you leave, he clocks it.

“you headin’ out?” he asks casually, accent low and even. “i’ll walk with you.”

he doesn’t push conversations anymore. lets you talk at your pace. listens with the kind of focus that makes you feel like the room has gone quiet even when it hasn’t.

when someone interrupts you mid-sentence, kyle doesn’t raise his voice, he just waits. patient. grounded. then gently brings the moment back to you later.

“you were sayin’ somethin’ earlier,” he reminds you, like it mattered enough to remember.

touch becomes practical before it becomes emotional.

a hand at your elbow to guide you past someone. fingers briefly resting at your shoulder when he passes. standing close enough that you feel his warmth, but never close enough to make it awkward.

he’s careful. almost too careful.

after the interrupted confession, there’s a new gentleness to him like he’s afraid one wrong move will undo something fragile he hasn’t had the chance to explain yet.

his voice softens when he speaks to you.

“you alright?” “need anythin’?” “take a minute if you want.”

no teasing. no pressure. just steady presence.

kyle starts anticipating you before you ask.

a bottle of water appearing in your hand. your gear already set aside. him stepping in smoothly when someone’s crowding you, calm but unmistakably firm.

“they’re good,” he says evenly. “give us a sec.”

it’s protective but never possessive. the difference is important to him.

when it’s just the two of you, kyle relaxes a little. shoulders dropping. posture easing. he lets himself be with you instead of guarding the moment.

his accent slips thicker then, words slower, warmer.

“you make things easier,” he admits once, eyes fixed on the floor like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

after that, he goes quiet but not distant.

he listens more than he speaks. watches your expressions. learns the difference between when you’re tired and when you’re hurting.

if you laugh, he smiles — soft, genuine, like he’s filed the sound away for later.

there are moments where the confession almost surfaces again.

you’ll be walking side by side, hands brushing. or sitting too close, knees knocking lightly. his breath will hitch, just barely.

“there’s somethin’ i should tell you,” he murmurs once.

then duty calls. someone needs him. timing steals the words again.

kyle doesn’t swear. doesn’t curse the interruption.

he just nods, jaw tightening, and says quietly, “we’ll talk later, yeah?”

and until later finally comes, kyle shows his care in a hundred quiet ways.

by staying. by listening. by choosing you in every small moment.

the confession isn’t gone — it’s waiting.

steady. patient. just like him.

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it happens casually. deceptively so.

you’re standing beside him after a briefing, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. he’s mid-sentence, explaining something low and steady, eyes focused ahead, when you turn just slightly and say, light as anything,

“you know, you look really good when you’re serious like that.”

not loud. not teasing.

direct.

kyle stops talking.

not dramatically, just… abruptly. like someone hit pause.

his jaw tightens for half a second before he realizes what you’ve said. then he blinks. once. twice. turns his head slowly to look at you.

“…sorry?” he asks, british accent calm but edged with uncertainty. “what was that?”

you meet his eyes. don’t back down.

“I said you look good,” you repeat. softer now. deliberate. “especially when you’re focused.”

something in his expression shifts.

it’s subtle, but you catch it. the way his shoulders stiffen. the way his breath goes just a touch deeper. the way his gaze flicks to your mouth before he schools it back into professionalism.

“…right,” he says, clearing his throat. “uh.”

he has absolutely no script for this.

kyle is used to being the one who notices. who watches quietly from the edges. the one who steps closer almost by accident. not this. not you looking at him like you’ve made a decision.

he rubs the back of his neck, eyes briefly dropping to the floor. “that’s… uh. that’s kind of you.”

you smile. step just a fraction closer.

“just being honest.”

that’s when his composure really starts to crack.

because honesty is dangerous.

his ears go pink. unmistakably. he tries to hide it by shifting his stance, angling his body like he’s checking the room, except he doesn’t actually look anywhere else. he stays right there, attention locked on you like you’ve become the most important variable in his immediate environment.

“…you always this bold?” he asks quietly, voice lower now. warmer.

you shrug. “figured one of us had to be.”

that earns a breathy laugh from him, surprised, fond, a little stunned.

“bloody hell,” he murmurs. “you’ve no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

and there it is.

the confession, slipped out before he can stop it.

his eyes widen slightly, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. he straightens immediately, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.

“i mean—” he starts, then stops. exhales. gives up.

he looks at you properly now. not cautious. not guarded.

open.

“listen,” he says, voice steady but honest, british accent more pronounced when he’s nervous. “i’ve been tryin’ not to make things awkward. didn’t want to cross a line you weren’t… ready for.”

you tilt your head. “and now?”

his gaze softens. one corner of his mouth lifts.

“…now i’m thinkin’ maybe i should’ve taken the hint sooner.”

you reach out, just barely, fingers brushing his sleeve.

that tiny touch hits him harder than any flirt ever could.

his breath catches. his hand flexes at his side like he’s resisting the urge to take yours. his thumb twitches, not accidental.

protective instinct. restraint. desire.

all colliding at once.

he leans in just a little, lowering his voice so no one else can hear.

“you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he says quietly, “an’ i’m not gonna be able to pretend this is just… orbitin’ anymore.”

there’s no threat in it.

just truth.

later—much later—when you walk away, kyle stays where he is for a moment longer than necessary. watches you go. runs a hand over his face and lets out a slow breath.

price passes by, raises an eyebrow.

“you alright, garrick?”

kyle doesn’t even look away.

“…yeah,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “reckon i am.”

because for the first time?

the tension isn’t heavy.

it’s promising.

and kyle already knows, once you take initiative like that?

he’s not letting you drift away again.

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