You fully intended to spend the whole summer doing absolutely nothing.

Getting a driver’s license? Not like it’s a matter of life or death, right? That’s what you kept telling yourself. But after weeks of your family nagging non-stop, your ears finally surrendered. One scorching afternoon, you dragged yourself out of bed, slapped on some sunscreen, and stepped into the local driving school like a martyr walking to the gallows.

You expected to be greeted by some middle-aged guy who chain-smoked and yelled every other sentence.

You were wrong.

Out walked a guy with a mohawk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos trailing down his arms. He stuck out a hand, grinning, and spoke in a thick Scottish accent that made you question reality for a second.

Your instructor—Soap.

“Hey there, lass. Name’s Soap. I’ll be your instructor—don’t worry, I won’t yell.”

Then he launched straight into bragging about how he used to be in the military or some shit.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost counted as a workout. All you could think was, God, this guy can talk. …Though, annoyingly, his eyes were really pretty.

Trouble. And so, your reluctant driving school saga began.

On the first day, you didn’t even know how to start the damn engine. You had no clue which way to turn the wheel. Soap lounged in the passenger seat, leg propped up, a candy in his mouth as he told you (again) that you did it wrong. You were ready to lose it—But then he patiently walked you through it. Again. From shifting gears to checking mirrors.

Little by little… you had to admit—he was actually kind of reliable.

…Even if sometimes you wanted to tie his mouth shut with a seatbelt.

Weeks passed, and your skills started improving. You felt it—this tiny spark of confidence building in your chest. Maybe you weren’t half bad? And then came that sunny afternoon.

You were too distracted—too caught up watching his lips move as he explained gear timing—to notice the car slowly, stubbornly, heading straight for the concrete wall at the back of the school.

“HEY—HEYHEYHEY—!!”

Before your panicked hands even moved, a large hand clamped down on the wheel, jerking it hard.

The car swerved, skidded, and came to a halt just barely in the safe zone.

You hadn’t even caught your breath when you turned your head—and saw Soap, one arm resting on the back of your seat, head tilted, wearing that cocky grin.

“That’s not gonna cut it, wee one.”

You stared into his eyes.

Your heart skipped a beat.