Kenz

The first thing you notice about Task Force 141 isn’t the briefing room, or the weapons laid neatly across the table, or even the weight of the room itself—it’s the way every conversation seems to pause for half a second when you walk in, like you’ve stepped into a space that already belonged to people who know exactly who they are and are immediately deciding where you fit into it.

You keep your posture professional, shoulders squared, eyes forward, like you were trained to do. New assignments always feel like this at first—measuring glances, silent evaluations, the unspoken question of whether you’ll slow them down or keep up. You’ve learned how to endure it. You’ve learned how to make yourself small without looking like you’re trying to.

“Right,” a voice cuts through the room, casual and unbothered, like it doesn’t care that everyone else is tense. “So this is the new addition?”

The speaker is already looking at you before you even turn your head.

Johnny MacTavish is leaning back in his chair like rules were never meant to apply to him in the first place, one arm draped over the backrest, the other loosely holding something he isn’t even paying attention to. There’s a smirk on his face—not mean, not mocking exactly, but amused in a way that makes it feel like he’s already decided you’re going to be interesting whether you like it or not.

He pushes himself up slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world, boots scraping lightly against the floor as he stands. “Soap,” someone mutters from across the room, almost like a warning, but it doesn’t stop him.

“Name’s Soap,” he says anyway, like you might’ve needed clarification, like it’s important you hear it from him personally. Then his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, like he’s not just looking but noticing. “You look like you’ve already regretted joining us.”

There’s a pause after that, just long enough for it to feel intentional, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll laugh, snap back, or stay silent.

And when you don’t answer right away, his grin widens slightly.

“Aye,” he says, softer now, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “This is gonna be fun.”

The room settles again, but not back into calm—more like a temporary truce, the kind that exists only because everyone is waiting to see what you’ll do next. You take your place near the table, eyes scanning the layout, the mission briefing already waiting on the screen. It’s easier to focus on that than on the weight of attention still lingering in the room.

Captain Price starts speaking, voice steady and clipped in that way that makes it clear he doesn’t waste words on things that don’t matter. Locations. Objectives. Extraction points. Your role gets mentioned near the end, simple and precise—support, recon, adaptability. Nothing you can mess up, nothing that should draw attention.

Except it already has.

Because every time you shift your weight or glance at the screen, you can feel it—Soap’s attention isn’t just there, it’s following, like he’s bored of everything else in the room and has decided you are the only thing worth studying.

You ignore it. Or try to.

“Recon support, yeah?” Soap cuts in suddenly, voice slicing through Price’s briefing like he never learned the concept of waiting his turn. “That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re sending them in blind and hoping they don’t die, isn’t it?”

A couple of the others shift slightly, like they’re used to this and just waiting to see how far he’ll push it this time.

Price doesn’t even look up. “It’s called trusting your team, MacTavish.”

“Aye, well, I trust my aim more than I trust blind optimism,” Soap replies easily, then tilts his head toward you like he’s including you in a conversation you didn’t agree to have. “No offense.”

You blink once. Slowly. “None taken.”

It’s automatic, controlled. Professional.

But Soap looks almost disappointed by how calm you are.

“Quiet too,” he says under his breath, like he’s making notes only he can hear. Then, louder again, he leans forward slightly, elbows on the table like he’s fully invested now. “So what, you just observe people getting shot at for a living or do you actually get your hands dirty?”

That gets a small shift from the room—someone exhales like they’re holding back a laugh, Ghost barely moves but his attention sharpens in a way that suggests he’s listening more closely now too.

Price finally looks at him. “Soap.”

“What?” Soap spreads his hands slightly, like he’s innocent. “I’m asking for operational clarity.”

“You’re being an arse,” Gaz mutters.

Soap doesn’t even deny it. His eyes are still on you.

And when you finally glance back at him, really look at him this time, he smiles like that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Go on then,” he says quietly, like he’s testing something. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

The briefing finally comes to an end, and for a moment, you think you'll be free of Johnny MacTavish's attention. Price dismisses everyone with a few final instructions, chairs scraping against the floor as the room begins to empty, conversations breaking out immediately between teammates who have known each other for years. You gather your notes, already planning to familiarize yourself with the training facilities before the mission, when Price's voice cuts through the noise.

"MacTavish."

Soap pauses halfway to the door.

"You're running today's training exercise. Take our new addition with you."

You don't miss the way Ghost's head tilts slightly, or the look Gaz quickly hides behind a cough.

Soap, meanwhile, looks entirely too pleased with this development.

"Happy to, Captain."

You aren't convinced.

The walk to the training grounds is mercifully short and unfortunately spent in Soap's company. He keeps pace beside you without being invited, hands shoved casually into his pockets as if the two of you are old friends catching up rather than strangers who met less than an hour ago.

"So," he begins.

You immediately regret answering.

"So?"

"You're quiet."

"You've mentioned that already."

"Aye, because it's true."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "Maybe I just don't have anything to say."

Soap hums thoughtfully beside you, as though you've presented him with a fascinating puzzle rather than a perfectly normal response.

"Nah."

"Nah?"

"Nah," he repeats. "I think you've got plenty to say. I think you're just deciding whether the rest of us deserve to hear it."

The worst part is that he's close enough to being right that you don't have an immediate comeback.

His grin grows.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"That look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're trying very hard not to tell me to shut up."

You stare at him.

He laughs.

The sound is warm and effortless, carrying across the training yard as he pushes through the doors ahead of you.

By the time you reach the range, several members of the task force are already there. Targets line the far end of the course while equipment is scattered across nearby tables. Soap immediately slips into instructor mode, though not completely. The professionalism is there, hidden beneath layers of confidence and sarcasm, and for the first time you begin to understand why Price puts up with him.

He's good at what he does.

Annoying.

But good.

The exercise begins simply enough. Movement drills. Communication checks. Target identification. You focus on the work, grateful for something that requires concentration instead of conversation. Every task becomes another opportunity to prove yourself, and every successful completion chips away at the assumptions that inevitably follow being the newest person on the team.

At some point, Soap stops talking.

That, more than anything, gets your attention.

The constant stream of commentary dries up as he watches you clear a section of the course with efficient precision, moving through obstacles without hesitation. You don't rush. You don't show off. You simply do the job.

When you finish, the silence stretches for a moment longer than expected.

Then—

"Right."

You glance toward him.

His eyebrows are raised.

"Right," he repeats.

"What?"

Soap shakes his head slowly.

"No one told me you were actually good."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it.

His eyes widen immediately.

"There it is."

You freeze.

"There what is?" you ask carefully.

"The laugh."

You groan.

"Oh, that's staying with me for months."

"You heard me laugh once."

"Aye."

"And?"

"And now it's my mission to hear it again."

You turn away before he can see the smile threatening to appear.

Unfortunately, that only seems to encourage him.

By the end of training, he has discovered your preferred coffee, your least favorite exercise, your opinion on military paperwork, and the fact that you absolutely refuse to engage with half of his ridiculous comments.

By the next morning, he somehow appears beside you in the hallway before breakfast.

The morning after that, he materializes outside the armory.

The day after that, he drops into the empty seat across from you in the mess hall without asking.

You begin to suspect he's following you.

The realization finally reaches its breaking point nearly a week later.

You exit the gym, tired and sweaty after an early workout, only to find Soap leaning casually against the wall outside as though he'd been there the entire time.

For several seconds, you simply stare.

He smiles.

You narrow your eyes.

His smile grows.

"Do you actually have a job?" you ask.

Soap looks genuinely offended.

"Course I do."

"Then why are you everywhere?"

"Everywhere?"

"Everywhere."

He considers this for exactly half a second before answering.

"Aye."

"Aye what?"

A mischievous glint appears in his eyes.

"Irritating you is just my favorite part of it."

The answer should be infuriating.

Instead, to your immense frustration, it makes you laugh.

And judging by the triumphant look on his face, Soap decides in that exact moment that the sound is worth chasing.

The thing about Johnny MacTavish is that, eventually, you stop noticing when he's around.

Not because he becomes less annoying.

If anything, he becomes worse.

He steals the seat beside you during briefings before anyone else can take it. He appears during meals without invitation. He has somehow learned exactly how to make you roll your eyes, exactly how far he can push before you snap back at him, and exactly which comments are guaranteed to earn him a laugh.

Somewhere along the way, his presence becomes normal.

Expected.

Which is why it takes you far longer than it should to realize he's missing.

The observation catches you off guard one afternoon as you step into the common room. A handful of team members are scattered throughout the space, Ghost seated in the corner with a book, Gaz occupied with something on his phone.

No Soap.

You hesitate.

Then frown.

Then immediately hate yourself for noticing.

"You look disappointed."

You glance up.

Gaz is smirking.

"I'm not disappointed."

"Sure."

"I'm not."

"Right."

You narrow your eyes at him.

Gaz only looks more amused.

Before you can defend yourself further, the door opens.

And there he is.

Soap steps inside, mid-conversation with Price, one hand running through his mohawk as he laughs at something that was apparently said outside. The moment he enters the room, his gaze sweeps across it.

Then lands on you.

Immediately.

Without hesitation.

Without searching.

Like finding you was the first thing he intended to do.

The realization hits harder than it should.

Because he smiles.

And it's different.

Not the grin he gives everyone else.

Not the cocky smirk.

Not the teasing one.

Just... happy.

Like seeing you improved his day.

Your stomach does something deeply unhelpful.

"You know," Gaz says from beside you, "this has become painful to watch."

You don't look away from Soap.

"What has?"

"The both of you."

That finally gets your attention.

"The both of us?"

Gaz gestures vaguely between you and the approaching Scot.

"He's practically been making heart eyes at you for weeks."

"What?"

"Please don't make me explain flirting."

"I know what flirting is."

"Could've fooled me."

Before you can respond, Soap reaches the group.

"What's got you lot talking?"

"Nothing," you answer immediately.

"Absolutely nothing," Gaz agrees, standing up and leaving before either of you can stop him.

Coward.

Soap watches him disappear before looking back at you.

Suspicious.

"What was that about?"

You cross your arms.

"What was what about?"

"The weird look."

"There was no weird look."

"There was definitely a weird look."

You sigh.

He waits.

You sigh again.

He keeps waiting.

Unfortunately, patience appears to be one of the many irritating skills he possesses.

Finally, you cave.

"Can I ask you something?"

His eyebrows lift.

"Aye."

You hesitate.

Then decide you've come too far to back out now.

"Are you like this with everyone?"

For the first time since you've met him, Johnny looks genuinely surprised.

The usual confidence falters.

Only for a second.

But it's there.

"Like what?"

"You know exactly what."

A slow smile spreads across his face.

Not smug.

Not teasing.

Something softer.

Something far more dangerous.

"Nah."

The answer comes easily.

Without thought.

Without hesitation.

Just honest.

Your pulse immediately betrays you.

"Oh."

"Aye."

The room suddenly feels much smaller.

Neither of you says anything for a moment.

Then Soap takes a single step closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough.

"Was wonderin' how long it'd take you to figure it out."

Heat rises into your face.

You hate that he notices.

You hate even more that he looks pleased about it.

"So you've just been following me around for weeks?"

"I prefer the term persistent."

"Annoying."

"That too."

Despite yourself, you laugh.

His expression softens instantly at the sound.

Like it always does.

And for the first time, you finally understand why.

Because it was never about getting a reaction.

It was never about teasing you.

It was never even about making you laugh.

It was about you.

Just you.

"Johnny," you say quietly.

His grin fades into something gentler.

"Yeah?"

You shake your head.

A smile pulling at your lips.

"You're unbelievable."

"That's not a no."

The laugh that escapes you this time is helpless.

Completely helpless.

It was their day off, and the team was stuck inside because of the rain pouring down.

The weather had been miserable since early that morning. Gray skies, thunder rattling the windows, and rain hitting the roof hard enough to drown out almost every other sound.

Being trapped inside with nothing to do was how they ended up here.

"This was a terrible idea."

Price pinched the bridge of his nose as Soap dealt out cards around the table.

"We haven't even started yet," Soap protested.

"Exactly."

Gaz snorted into his drink.

Y/n smiled from her spot on the couch, watching Soap dramatically clutch a hand to his chest like Price had personally offended him.

"See?" Soap pointed at Price. "Negative attitude already. That's why you're no fun."

"I'm your captain."

"Same thing."

"Careful, Johnny," Gaz laughed. "Keep talking and he'll make us run laps tomorrow."

"On our day off?"

Price raised an eyebrow.

Soap immediately sat down.

"Right. First round."

"Thought so," Price muttered.

The game finally started.

For the first few rounds, it was exactly the disaster y/n expected.

Soap laughed at his own cards before they were even read.

Gaz was somehow taking the game seriously.

Price looked like he regretted every life decision that had led him to this moment.

And Simon...

Simon sat at the end of the couch with his arms crossed, looking completely unimpressed.

"You haven't played a single card," Soap accused.

"I have."

"One card."

"Still counts."

"It does not."

"It literally does."

"No, because you're not participating."

Simon looked at him for a long moment.

Then tossed a card onto the pile.

"There."

Soap narrowed his eyes.

"You're annoyin', d'you know that?"

"Been told."

——

The game had somehow been going for nearly an hour.

Y/n wasn't entirely sure how.

Maybe because every round turned into an argument.

Maybe because Soap wouldn't stop accusing everyone of cheating.

Or maybe because watching Price slowly lose his patience was far more entertaining than the game itself.

"Johnny."

"I'm innocent."

"You haven't even let me finish the sentence."

"I know the tone."

Gaz snorted into his drink.

Y/n laughed, shaking her head.

Across the room, Simon sat exactly where he'd been all evening.

Quiet.

Observing.

Every now and then he'd toss a card into the pile and watch the chaos unfold.

Most of the time he seemed content to let everyone else make fools of themselves.

Soap, unfortunately, refused to let that happen.

"Ghost."

"No."

"I haven't asked anything yet."

"No."

"One round."

"No."

"You afraid?"

Simon looked up.

The room immediately got quieter.

Because everyone knew that look.

Soap grinned.

"Oh, he's thinkin' about it."

"Johnny."

"Aye?"

"Shut up."

Y/n laughed into her hand.

So did Gaz.

Even Price's mouth twitched slightly.

Soap looked delighted.

"See? Everybody's havin' fun."

"Debatable," Simon muttered.

The next card was drawn.

Soap took over reading duties immediately.

"'What's my secret power?'"

Soap rubbed his hands together.

"Oh, this is gonna be good."

One by one, he started reading the cards.

"'Tax fraud.'"

A few laughs echoed around the room.

"'An unhealthy emotional attachment to energy drinks.'"

Y/n immediately pointed across the table.

"That's literally Johnny."

Soap gasped.

"The betrayal."

"It is."

"I thought we were friends."

"We are. That's how I know."

Gaz laughed into his drink while Soap dramatically placed a hand over his chest.

"I've been attacked."

"Good," Price muttered.

"Captain!"

The next card made Soap pause.

Then grin.

Then immediately lose composure.

"'The Geneva Convention.'"

The room erupted.

"No way."

"Absolutely not."

"That's horrible."

Soap bent forward laughing.

"WHO PUT THAT?"

Y/n was laughing so hard her stomach hurt.

Price looked seconds away from confiscating the entire deck.

"Nobody say a word."

"Why?" Soap wheezed.

"Because I already know who it was."

Every head slowly turned.

Toward Simon.

Simon looked up from his cards.

"...What?"

That only made everyone laugh harder.

The room dissolved into arguments.

Everyone talking over each other.

Laughing.

Pointing fingers.

And then—

A sound y/n wasn't expecting.

A laugh.

Real.

Warm.

Soft.

Her head turned immediately.

Simon had leaned back slightly, shaking his head as Soap continued losing his mind.

The smile on his face was small.

Barely there.

But it was there.

The room didn’t notice at first.

And then he laughed again.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just genuine.

For a moment, he looked younger.

Lighter.

Like the weight he carried every day had slipped from his shoulders.

The sight hit y/n harder than it should have.

Hard enough that her own smile faded.

Hard enough that her chest tightened.

Because she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him look like that.

Happy.

The room carried on around her.

Soap was still arguing.

Gaz was still laughing.

Price was threatening to end game night entirely.

But y/n couldn't hear any of it.

Couldn't look at anything else.

Because Simon Riley was smiling.

And somehow that was all it took.

All it took to make her heart race.

To make her stomach flip.

To make her realize she was completely, hopelessly in love with him.

“Pleaseee can we make cookies? I promise I won’t burn them again.” You say as you grab Simon’s hands and try to pull him off the couch.

The last time you baked with Simon, you set the oven a whole 50 degrees higher than you were supposed to and then you still left them in too long. The cookies came out black. Simon swore he would never let you bake again.

“No, absolutely not,” he grumbled. “You almost burned the house down last time. I won’t let that happen again.”

“So don’t let it happen again. You can supervise the wholeee time, I promise. Pretty please Simon.” You beg, still pulling him up, but he’s too big and he doesn’t move an inch.

But Simon being the absolute simp he is, gives in. He can’t say no to your adorable face, especially not when you’re begging him.

Simon gets off the couch and you walk to the kitchen together. Well, more like you skip to the kitchen while dragging a grumbling Simon behind you.

“I can’t believe you’re makin’ me do this, sweetheart.” Simon complains, even though he clearly chose to get up and do this with you. There’s no way he would let you do this alone again.

Before he could even make it into the kitchen, you were already pulling ingredients from the cabinets.

“Slow down.”

“I am slow.”

“You grabbed three different bags of flour.”

You glanced down at your arms. “Oh.”

You giggle and hand two of the bags to Simon for him to put back. Simon puts the bags of flour back and by the time he turns back around, you already have sugar spilled onto the counter and a handful of chocolate chips being stuffed into your mouth.

“What the hell? I turned around for two seconds, baby. What happened?”

Simon severely underestimated your talent for making a mess of something so simple.

You just smiled, offering some chocolate chips to him. He let out an airy chuckle and kissed your cheek.

“Okay baby, what’s next?”

“Well, since I know what I’m doing, I don’t think we need to follow the directions on the box.” You throw the box away, and Simon just watches you.

“I don’t think that’s a smart idea.”

“You don’t trust me? I’m not going to mess it up. Plus, you’re here to save the day if anything goes wrong.”

“Alright, do your thing then honey.” Simon sighs, but as you start pouring and mixing the ingredients, he goes to the trash can and gets the box back out.

In the next ten seconds, you have flour on the floor and covering your hair. You had somehow managed to hit the bowl with your elbow when you turned to get the eggs, and when you turned back you knocked the entire bag of flour over. You turn to Simon with a sheepish smile, “Oops..”

You ignore the mess and continue to mix the ingredients, but Simon comes up behind you and stops your hands by putting his on top of yours. You turn around and look up at his tall figure.

“Maybe slow down a little, yeah?” he says, glancing at the flour coating the counter.

“I’m doing fine.”

“There’s flour on the floor.”

“It’s decoration.”

Simon lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “Decoration.”

“Yep.”

His eyes meet yours and you can’t help but grin. Simon loves watching you have fun, even if it usually ends with him cleaning up the aftermath.

You continue to stare at him for a moment before an idea pops into your head.

Carefully, you reach behind you and grab one of the eggs from the carton.

Simon narrows his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“Right.”

As he leans down to kiss you, you quickly crack the egg against the side of his head.

For a split second, you look very proud of yourself.

Then Simon reaches behind his back and reveals an egg of his own.

Your jaw drops.

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”

Before you can escape, the egg cracks against your hair.

You gasp dramatically while Simon finally breaks into genuine laughter.

“Simon!”

“You started it.”

“I barely touched you!”

“You put an egg in my hair.”

“It was one egg!”

“And now we’re even.”

“That is not even.”

“Looks even to me, sweetheart.”

The egg mixed with the flour already on you, and Simon laughed out loud. He threw his head back with laughter, “Sweetheart, you look like a walking cookie. Here, let’s add some chocolate chips to give you some flavor.”

He grabs a handful of chocolate chips, still laughing, and poured them onto your head.

“Simon! I can’t believe you just did that. I’m so going to get you back!” You yell, as you grab some more flour and start chasing him around the kitchen. He stopped in the corner of the counter, and you got closer.

“You can’t get away now, I’ve got you cornered.”

You get your hand ready to throw the flour at him, but before you can he grabs you by your hips and flips your position. Now you are in the corner, and he holds you there with his hands on either side of you.

Simon laughs, as you get flustered from the switch.

“That’s not fair! You’re so much bigger than me!”

“Life’s not fair, love.”

After your little play fight, Simon cleans up the flour that somehow made its way across the kitchen, and you get back to mixing the rest of the ingredients together.

Although, this time Simon made sure you read the directions. Once the dough was made, you make little balls on the sheet. You let Simon set the temperature on the oven, him saying something along the lines of someone in this house needs to know how to read numbers.

The smell of fresh cookies fills the house as you pull the tray from the oven.

You immediately reach for one.

“Ow!”

“Told you they were hot.”

You glare at Simon while shaking your hand dramatically.

Once the cookies cool enough to eat, you grab one and take a bite.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh my God.”

Simon looks concerned for half a second.

“What?”

“They’re actually good.”

“They’d better be. We practically fought a war making them.”

Simon takes a bite of his own cookie.

You watch him closely.

“Well?”

He hums thoughtfully.

“Well?”

“They’re good.”

You grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

“I knew it.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I did.”

“You threw away the directions.”

“Minor details.”

Simon shakes his head and settles onto the couch beside you.

As a movie starts, you lean against him and grab another cookie.

After a few peaceful minutes, you glance up at him with a mischievous smile.

“Soooo…”

Simon immediately looks suspicious.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Brownies next?”

Simon closes his eyes and groans.

“Absolutely not.”

You take another bite of your cookie.

“I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

The bar was too loud to think properly.

That was what she kept telling herself as she leaned back in her chair, laughing at something one of the guys had said—she wasn’t even sure who started the joke anymore.

It was easier that way.

If she kept laughing, kept drinking, kept pretending she didn’t notice anything… then maybe she could get through the night without thinking about him.

Simon Riley sat across the room.

Of course he did.

And of course he wasn’t alone.

The blonde beside him leaned into his shoulder like she belonged there. Like it was easy. Like it didn’t take anything out of her at all.

Y/n forced her eyes away before she could stare too long.

Soap noticed anyway.

He always did.

“You alright there, lass?” he asked, nudging her shoulder with his elbow.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I’m good.”

Soap hummed like he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t push—at least not yet.

Someone on the small stage at the front of the bar tapped the microphone.

Feedback screeched through the room.

“Alright, alright!” the man said, laughing. “We need some volunteers for karaoke tonight! Don’t be shy—get up here!”

The table around her immediately erupted.

“No chance,” one of them laughed.

“Absolutely not,” another added.

Soap, however, turned slowly toward her.

Oh no.

“No,” she said immediately, already shaking her head.

“Ah, c’mon,” Soap grinned. “You’ve been sittin’ there sulkin’ all night. Get up and sing somethin’.”

“I am not sulking.”

“You are absolutely sulking.”

“I’m not—”

He stood up before she could finish.

That was the problem with Soap.

Once he had an idea, it was already too late.

“Johnny, don’t you dare,” she warned.

He ignored her completely, stepping back and gesturing toward the stage like he was announcing something important.

“I’ve got one!” he called out. “We’ve got a volunteer!”

“No we don’t!” she hissed, grabbing at his sleeve, but he was already laughing.

Across the room, she felt it before she saw it.

Simon hadn’t moved.

But she could feel his attention shift.

Soap pointed right at her.

“There she is!”

The table exploded with noise—cheering, laughing, someone clapping like this was the best idea anyone had ever had.

“No, no, no—Johnny, I swear to God—”

But her voice was already lost under the noise.

And then someone slid a microphone onto the stage.

And the night got a whole lot harder to ignore.

Y/n barely remembered standing up.

One second she was sitting at the table, Soap still laughing like he’d won something, and the next she was being guided through a wave of noise and flashing lights toward the small stage at the front of the bar.

The microphone felt wrong in her hand.

Too heavy. Too real.

The man running karaoke smiled at her like she wasn’t internally panicking.

“Alright,” he said into his mic, turning slightly toward her. “What’re you singing tonight?”

Y/n swallowed.

Her eyes flicked once—just once—back toward the room.

She shouldn’t have looked.

Simon Riley was still there.

Still watching.

Still not alone.

The blonde beside him leaned in, saying something that made him shift slightly in his seat—but he didn’t look away from the stage.

From her.

Y/n forced her gaze forward again.

“Girl Crush,” she said.

She didn’t mean to say it so clearly.

For a second, the room didn’t react.

Then the man grinned.

“Ooooh, alright.”

The first note of the track started.

And everything changed.

Simon didn’t realize he had stopped listening to the conversation beside him.

He only realized it when the blonde said his name twice and he didn’t respond.

“Simon?”

Nothing.

His eyes were already on the stage.

On y/n.

She stood under the soft yellow lights like she didn’t belong there and somehow did at the same time.

The song started.

And something in his chest went still.

He didn’t know why.

He should’ve looked away.

He didn’t.

The first lyric came out quieter than she expected.

Almost like it didn’t belong to her.

But then the music carried her anyway.

Y/n kept her eyes down at first, reading the words like they were safer than the room.

But she could feel it.

She could feel him.

She lifted her gaze.

And that was the moment everything narrowed.

The bar blurred at the edges.

The noise softened like it had been turned down underwater.

And there was only him.

Simon.

Watching.

Not smiling. Not talking. Not moving.

Just… there.

Y/n’s breath caught for half a beat before she forced herself to keep singing.

Her voice didn’t shake.

Even if everything inside her did.

And across the room, Simon Riley didn’t look away once.

Y/n’s grip tightened around the microphone as the music swelled.

She could feel the bar around her, hear it, sense it—people cheering, someone whistling, the low hum of drinks and laughter—but none of it reached her properly anymore.

It was all muted.

All distant.

Because Simon Riley was still looking at her.

And she couldn’t make herself look away.

The first real lyric came out clearer this time, steadier than she felt inside.

“I got a girl crush…”

A few people at the tables reacted instantly—some laughing, some cheering like they recognized the song.

Soap leaned back in his chair, grinning like he’d personally caused this situation.

“Told you she’d be good,” he said loudly over the noise. “She’s got it in her.”

“She always that good?” Gaz asked.

“Aye,” Soap replied, like it was obvious. “Just doesn’t like showin’ off.”

At the table, laughter followed. Glasses clinked.

But Simon didn’t join in.

He didn’t even hear it properly.

Because the second y/n started singing, something in him went… still.

Like the rest of the room had fallen away and only her voice was left behind.

“I don’t get no sleep, I don’t get no peace…”

Her eyes stayed locked forward.

On him.

And Simon felt it then—sharp and uncomfortable, like a memory pressing too hard against a bruise.

This wasn’t just a song.

It wasn’t just karaoke.

Y/n’s voice continued, softer on the next line, almost like she was saying something she didn’t mean to say out loud.

“I want to taste her lips, yeah, ’cause they taste like you…”

Something in Simon’s jaw tightened.

Across the table, the blonde shifted closer to him, laughing at something someone said.

“Isn’t she really good?” she asked, tilting her head.

Simon didn’t look at her.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

But his eyes never left the stage.

“She’s actually unreal,” Gaz said, leaning forward slightly. “Didn’t expect that.”

Price nodded once, taking a slow sip of his drink. “She’s got a good voice.”

Soap looked far too pleased with himself. “Told you lot. You never listen to me.”

“She look nervous to you?” Gaz asked.

“Nah,” Soap said, then paused. “Well… maybe a bit. But she’s pushin’ through it.”

“She’s not looking anywhere but the stage,” someone else added.

Soap followed her gaze for a second, then went quieter.

“…Or maybe she is.”

Y/n’s voice steadied as she moved into the chorus, but her chest felt anything but steady.

The room was gone.

The song was gone.

All that was left was him.

And he wasn’t looking away.

Not once.

“I got a girl crush…”

Her voice caught slightly on the next line, but she forced it through anyway.

“I got a hard rush…”

And then—against every instinct she had to protect herself—she lifted her eyes fully.

Straight into his.

Simon didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t pretend anymore.

Something in his expression had changed—subtle, but undeniable.

Like realization had finally caught up to him.

Like he was hearing something underneath the lyrics that nobody else in the room could hear.

Something meant only for him.

And y/n knew, with a sinking feeling in her chest, that he understood.

Across the room, Simon Riley sat completely still.

And for the first time all night—

he didn’t look at the girl beside him at all.

The last note faded slower than it should’ve.

Like the bar itself didn’t want it to end.

Y/n stood there for a second too long, microphone still in her hand, staring at a point somewhere past the crowd—because if she moved too fast, she might actually fall apart.

Then the applause hit.

Loud. Immediate. Real.

People whooping, cheering, clapping like she’d done something worth remembering.

She forced her shoulders to loosen.

A small smile.

Something that looked like relief.

Her eyes flicked once—instinctively—back to the table.

Simon was still looking at her.

Not clapping.

Not talking.

Just watching.

Like he was trying to memorize something he already knew he’d lose.

Y/n swallowed hard and turned away before she could think about it too much.

“See?!” Soap practically shouted as she returned, clapping her on the shoulder as she approached. “I told you lot she’d be good!”

Y/n let out a breathy laugh, setting the microphone down like it weighed too much now that she didn’t need it.

The table was still cheering lightly, a few of them tapping the table in approval.

“That was actually really good,” Gaz said, smiling at her.

“Didn’t know you had that in you,” someone else added.

Y/n shook her head, still laughing a little like she couldn’t believe what she’d just done.

In the background, the announcer’s voice crackled through the mic again.

“Alright—next volunteer!”

A groan rippled through the room somewhere behind them.

Y/n let out a relieved laugh, dropping back into her seat like her legs had finally remembered how to work.

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head. “Johnny, I’m gonna kill you for making me do that.”

Soap leaned back, grinning like he was proud of himself. “You’re welcome.”

“I was not thanking you.”

“But you did it.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Soap laughed, lifting his drink. “Still alive, aren’t you?”

“For now,” she muttered, taking her glass and finally drinking like she’d been holding her breath for the entire performance.

Simon hadn’t moved.

Not when she finished.

Not when the applause started.

Not even when she walked away from the stage.

His eyes followed her the entire way back to the table.

Like letting go would mean admitting something he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

The blonde beside him shifted slightly.

“You’re quiet,” she said, lightly nudging his arm.

Simon didn’t answer right away.

“…Just watching,” he said finally.

But his attention wasn’t on her.

The conversation around her blurred again into something easier to exist in.

Safer.

Y/n kept her hands wrapped around her drink, nodding when she needed to, laughing when it felt expected.

But the feeling from the stage hadn’t left.

It still sat in her chest like a bruise.

Soap watched her for a moment longer than the others did.

Then his expression shifted—subtle, like he was thinking too hard about something.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter this time.

Y/n nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He didn’t look convinced.

But he didn’t push.

Not at first.

A few minutes passed before the noise around them picked up again—someone else being dragged toward the stage, laughter spilling across the bar.

Soap leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear.

“…You looked at him the whole time you were singin’,” he said.

Y/n blinked. “What?”

Soap’s voice dropped even lower.

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

A pause.

The laughter at the table continued like nothing had changed.

But y/n’s grip on her glass tightened slightly.

“…Johnny,” she said carefully, warning in her tone.

Soap glanced toward the stage, then back at her.

“I’m not blind,” he muttered. “And neither is he.”

Y/n’s expression shifted—just for a second.

Then she exhaled, forcing something like normal back into her face.

“I’m heading out,” she said, standing before anyone could argue.

A few protests came immediately from the table, but she waved them off.

“I’m tired,” she lied softly. “I’ll see you lot tomorrow.”

Soap stood a fraction later than the others, watching her gather herself.

He didn’t speak until she stepped slightly away from the table.

Quiet enough that no one else could hear.

“…You still love him,” he said.

Y/n froze.

Not fully.

Just enough that it meant something.

Soap didn’t look at her like he was accusing her.

Just like he already knew the answer.

And for a second, she couldn’t find the words to lie.