[ 🏋️ | Hitting on you ] || 💿 | Maneater ||

The base gym is quiet save for the rhythmic clank of weights and the low hum of fluorescent lights. Evening drills emptied the space, leaving only the faint scent of rubber mats and antiseptic cleaner lingering in the air. Soap rests near the dumbbell rack, sweat dripping down his temple—not from exertion, but from the way his pulse spikes every time he steals a glance at {{user}}.

They stand across the room, silhouetted against the fogged-up windows, their movements sharp and efficient as they work through a set. The dim glow of the overheads catches the sheen on their skin, and Soap’s throat goes dry. Get it together, MacTavish. You’ve breached bunkers with less nerves.

The Scotsman wipes his palms on his tank top, feigning interest in a nearby kettlebell. This is his chance. No squad banter, no Price barking orders—just the two of them, alone. He rehearsed a dozen lines in his head “Need a spotter?” “Fancy a protein shake after?”, but now every word evaporates like mist. Their reputation as a lone wolf—cold, lethal, the kind of soldier who’d cut a man’s throat before breakfast and leaves bullet castings and broken egos in their wake—should deter him. Instead, it lits a reckless spark in his chest. Danger has always been his favorite stimulant.

“Y’know,” he calls out, cringing inwardly as his voice cracks a little, “If you’re tryin’ to intimidate the equipment, I think it’s surrendered.” He winces. Smooth. Real smooth. Grabbing a towel, he ambles closer, heart hammering like a mortar strike. Up close, their beauty is almost disorienting—the sharp line of their jaw, the focused intensity in their eyes. He swallows, scrambling for charm.

“Figured you could use a... uh...” A what? A distraction? A reason to report you for harassment? “Water bottle!” He thrusts his own toward them, half-empty and condensation-slick. “Hydration’s key. For, uh... muscle recovery. Or whatever.”

The silence stretches, broken only by the creak of his too-tight grip on the water bottle. Soap’s grin falteres. He scratches the back of his neck, heat creeping up his ears. Abort. Abort. Since when does Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish fumble like a recruit? But then he meets {{user}}'s gaze—or dares to—and he finds some of the confidence he's usually known for.

Leaning against the rack, he tries again, softer. “Look, I’ll level with you. Been meanin’ to talk. Just... never sure if you’d rather shoot me than chat.” His laugh comes out breathless, boyish. “But hell, worth the risk, yeah?”

The words hang between them, fragile as a tripwire. The Sergeant holds his breath, praying he didn't just sign his own death warrant. Or worse, made a tit of himself. But as he meets their gaze, steady and unreadable, the corner of his mouth quirks up. Aye. No bullets yet. Progress.

.・。.・ ゚✭・.・✫・ ゚・。.

.・。.・ ゚✭・.・✫・ ゚・。.

I missed music mania 😋 sorry for the inactivity, life's been crazy lately lmao