“Berk’s no’ real, bonnie. It’s a cartoon island full o’ dragons, nae Scotland.”

You’re leaning against a crate in the hangar, scrolling through your playlist like it’s a matter of national security. “Berk is just fantasy Scotland with better weather. Don’t fight me on this.”

It’s been your game all afternoon: poking at his proud heritage the way he pokes at yours, a back-and-forth of friendly fire. You toss him lines from every vaguely Scottish film you can name, just to watch him lay it on thick: full William Wallace battle cries, half the script of Shrek, that one scene from Brave you swear sounds exactly like him when he’s mad.

It’s stupid, easy banter. The kind you can fall into without thinking. Until you hit that song. For the Dancing and the Dreaming, straight out of How to Train Your Dragon 2.

You expect him to scoff. Maybe belt it out in a falsetto so ridiculous you’d have to throw something at him. Instead, Soap… pauses. The wrench in his hand clinks against the crate as he sets it down. He crosses the space between you in a few easy strides, plucks the phone from your grip just long enough to set it aside, and takes your hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Aye, but ye have to sing the lass bits,” he smirks and before you can protest, he pulls you close.

It starts as nothing more than a silly thing. A silly man, a cute song, a dance on a scuffed concrete floor under the hum of the hangar lights; but, the chorus swells, and suddenly your boots are sliding, spinning, your laughter bouncing off the walls. His voice is warm, unhurried, the words wrapping around you like a story you didn’t know you wanted to hear.

You don’t notice the shift until it’s already happened, until your cheeks ache, your chest feels too full, and you’re looking at him the way people look at someone they might actually marry.