Johnny “Soap” MacTavish had just stepped outside with a chipped mug of tea in hand, steam curling up into the cool night air. It had been one of those long days—too much noise, not enough rest. He’d been itching for quiet, for the sting of rain and the smell of his backyard roses. A moment to breathe.

Then the sky cracked open.

A bolt of lightning ripped down the horizon, not natural, not right. Too bright. Too loud. And then—impact. Not just sound. Not just light. A force that shook the ground, rattled windows. The back fence creaked and groaned under the weight of something immense.

Johnny froze, heart kicking against his ribs. He expected a tree. Maybe a downed powerline. Maybe some poor bastard’s drone that got caught in the storm.

Instead, he saw you.

Sprawled in the center of his yard, wings like shattered marble curling in toward your trembling frame. Not broken—just... disoriented. Rain clung to your feathers, pooled in your collarbones. You weren’t naked, but the fabric you wore shimmered strangely in the low light—torn, out of place. Like something ancient had tried to wear a human shape and failed halfway through.

You were curled into yourself like a dying star, arms around your knees, wings twitching as though you weren’t sure how to fold them anymore. Like they hurt. Like everything did.

Johnny’s breath hitched.

You made a sound—a soft, helpless whimper, half-swallowed by the thunder. He dropped the mug, didn’t even flinch when it shattered at his feet.

“Christ…” His voice was low, hoarse.

You flinched at the word.

He took a cautious step forward, hands up. “Hey. Easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your body shivered violently, fingers digging into your arms. Your wings tried to curl around you, trembling like leaves in a storm. Everything around you felt wrong. Too loud. Too heavy. Your ears rang with the echoes of a thousand voices you could no longer hear. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t know who you were, not really—not after what happened up there.

Your mind clawed for the heavens, but all you found was mud.

Johnny knelt slowly, careful not to spook you further. His eyes scanned your form—rain-slick, pale with fear, lips parted like you’d scream if you remembered how.

“You don’t look real,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

You shifted, breath rattling. You weren’t ready for words. Not his. Not yours. You just wanted to disappear—sink into the earth and never be seen again. You shouldn’t be here. You weren’t meant for this world.

But his voice—Scottish, warm, real—was a thread.

“Name’s Johnny,” he said softly. “Or Soap. Friends call me that.”

Friends. You blinked at the word, unsure what it meant anymore.

“You’re freezing.” He pulled off his hoodie, slow and careful, holding it out. “I’m just gonna—”

Your wings jerked suddenly, flaring with instinct. One clipped a potted plant—it shattered loudly, sending shards across the stones. You whimpered and flinched back hard, drawing tighter into yourself, as though expecting punishment. Pain. More falling.

Soap froze. “Alright. No touching. Got it.”

You curled deeper. Rainwater ran down your temple. You could still feel them—the ones who had watched you fall. Judged you. Cast you out. Your body remembered light. Your heart remembered grace.

But none of that mattered now.

Now, you were mud-slicked and hollow and huddled in the backyard of a man you didn’t know, in a world you didn’t understand.

And still… he stayed.

Soap sank to the ground beside you, hoodie now useless in his hands, but he didn’t leave. Didn’t speak again right away. Just sat there. In the rain. Quiet. Solid.

Letting you breathe.

Letting you exist.