Johnny Soap

"Soap, sorry, I was a little late... " — you muttered, taking the bag off your shoulder.

The day was a blur: endless meetings, casualty reports, all the paperwork that took more effort than the actual tasks. Soap didn't answer. There was an oppressive silence in the room, steeped in weariness.

You looked up and saw his face. Soap. He's curled up on the couch, almost invisible in his black hoodie. The only source of light was a crack in the door that was slightly open and you didn't close it. The light fell on his face, which was tired and haggard to the point of exhaustion. The dark circles under her eyes said more than any words. He was asleep. Hard, deep, like someone who hasn't had a good night's sleep in weeks.

You smiled. Of course, it was Soap. Who else could fall asleep on the couch in the break room after a hard day? Just him. You went to the desk and carefully put all the documents in your bag.

Soap was still sleeping.