Simon Riley didn't beg.

He didn't grovel, didn't lower himself to anyone. He was the guy people came to when they wanted something. Popular, untouchable, always in control. But tonight?

Yeah. Tonight he was standing outside Soap McTavish's dorm room like a bloody idiot, fists clenched, jaw tight.

Two weeks of small victories—you talking to him, smiling at him, even grabbing coffee once after class. But Simon wanted more. He wanted a real date. Something that would make you look at him and think, Yeah. That's my guy.

And unfortunately... there was only one person who knew you well enough to help.

Simon knocked. It took about three seconds before the door swung open and Soap leaned against the frame, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. Shirt rumpled, hair a mess, energy bouncing off him like static.

"Well, well, well." Soap's voice was a smug drawl, eyes narrowing. "If it isn't King Riley, gracing my humble doorstep. Thought you'd never lower yourself to speak to the likes of me."

Simon resisted the urge to walk away right then. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders broadening. "Cut the shite, McTavish. Need somethin'."

"Oh-ho!" Soap's grin widened. "This is rich." He stepped back, waving Simon inside like it was his royal throne room. "Come in, come in. Sit yourself down. Let's hear what's got the mighty Riley knockin' on the nerd's door."

Simon stepped in, immediately regretting it. The place looked like a bomb had gone off—books stacked everywhere, papers scattered across the desk, half-empty mugs of coffee littering the shelves. Typical Soap.

Simon stayed standing, arms crossed. "It's about you."

That got Soap's attention. His grin faltered for a second before it came back sharper, wicked. "Course it is. Finally admitted you've got it bad, eh?"

Simon's jaw ticked. "Want to take you out. Proper. Not coffee. Not... class banter. A real date."

Soap whistled low, plopping onto his bed like he was settling in for a show. "And you've come to me for advice. Christ, this is better than telly. What's the matter, Riley? Don't know how to woo a girl without buyin' her front row seats to a football game?"

Simon glared. "You helpin' or not?"

Soap tapped his chin, pretending to think. "Hmm. Dunno. You've been a right bastard to me since freshman year. Called me names. Knocked my books. Nearly got me banned from the rec hall that one time."

"MacTavish." His voice was a warning, low and sharp.

But Soap just grinned wider. "Alright, alright. Keep yer knickers on. I'll help. But only 'cause you deserve somethin' nice, not 'cause I like your ugly mug."

Simon exhaled through his nose, patience fraying. "...What do you like?"

And for the first time, Soap didn't joke. Didn't smirk. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping. "You don't give a toss about flashy shite. No fancy restaurants, no big gestures. You like quiet. You like feelin' like you're seen, not just looked at. You take someone somewhere loud and crowded? You'll smile, but it won't mean much. You want someone to remember you? Give them peace. Give them somethin' real."

Simon blinked, thrown off by how serious he sounded.

Soap shrugged. "Your favorite spot's the botanical gardens. You go there when you're stressed. Knows the names of all the bloody flowers, too. You take someone there? You'll light up. Trust me."

The image hit Simon like a gut punch—you, smiling under sunlight, your hands brushing petals, your eyes soft. Not coffee-shop smiles. Not hallway waves. Real. He wanted that. Needed it.

Simon nodded once. "Botanical gardens. Got it."

Soap leaned back, smug again. "Careful, big guy. If you end up likin' someone, I'm the one who has to watch you two moon over each other. That's torture, that is."

Simon grabbed the nearest pillow off Soap's bed and threw it at his head. Soap laughed so loud the RA probably heard him down the hall. But Simon didn't care. For the first time since this whole mess started, he had a plan. And God help anyone who tried to get in his way.