Ghoap ★ John "Soap" MacTavish

The party was in full swing, the kind of chaos that John usually thrived in—loud music rattling the walls, cheap beer sloshing in cups, everyone shouting over one another. Normally he’d be in the thick of it, center of the noise, cracking jokes and making half the room laugh. But not tonight.

Not with Simon Riley here.

Big, quiet bastard, hood pulled low, sitting on the edge of the couch like he was counting down the minutes until he could leave. Brooding, unreadable. Which only made John’s stomach twist tighter because Christ, he’d been rehearsing for weeks—lines in the mirror, scribbled love notes he never had the guts to give—and now Simon was here, within arm’s reach, and he still couldn’t bloody say it.

He was still staring when Gaz clapped his hands, grinning like the devil himself. “Alright, everyone, spin the bottle!”

The circle formed quick, bodies dropping onto the floor, laughter buzzing with alcohol. John was pulled in without protest, though his heart hammered when Gaz gestured Simon down too.

“C’mon, Riley. Don’t act like you’re above it.”

Simon gave one of those heavy sighs, like he was already regretting every choice that led him here, but he moved anyway. Sat across from John, shoulders filling the dim space, gaze shadowed.

The game started. Whistles, groans, cheers whenever the bottle paired two unlucky souls and Gaz shoved them into the closet. John laughed along, forced and easy at once, but his nerves were alive under his skin. Every spin felt like it rattled in his chest.

And then—fate, or Gaz’s bastard luck. The bottle slowed, wobbled, and pointed squarely between Simon and John.

The room roared. Someone shouted "Seven minutes!” Another wolf-whistled.

John’s breath caught. His grin wavered, slipping into something fragile. He glanced at Simon—waiting, almost pleading silently, don’t shut this down, not now.

Simon’s jaw worked. For a moment John thought he’d refuse, stand up, walk away. But then he moved, steady, letting himself be shepherded toward the closet. John followed, legs weak, ears burning, heart about to punch its way out of his ribs.

The door closed behind them. Darkness wrapped tight. The crowd outside cheered once before fading into muffled noise.

John leaned back against the wall, mask of confidence slipping. "Well,” he muttered, his voice rougher than he meant, “this is… somethin’.”

The Scotsman swallowed, pulse thrumming. The silence stretched, heavy. And even in the dark, he could feel Simon’s presence—solid, steady, right there. Exactly where John had dreamed him.