Mornings used to come gently.

Light filtering through curtains you argued about for weeks because you swore the floral pattern was “too much,” and he swore it was “pure serotonin.” Soap bought them anyway, installed them crooked, then kissed your forehead and said, “Bonnie, it’s called charm.”

He always woke first. Your walking sunrise.

Your soldier wrapped in a hoodie. Leaning over you with that tiny, secret smile: the one that never made it to base, the one he saved like a hidden stash just for you. The smile that said the world could wait one damn minute.

The coffee maker would be groaning in the background. Some aggressively cursed playlist blasting because “it keeps the blood pumpin’, hen.” You’d drag yourself in wearing one of his shirts, sleeves past your fingers, hair rejecting the laws of physics; and he’d turn like he’d just seen his favorite miracle stumble into the room.

He’d kiss you slow.

Soap, who lived like a firecracker in every other hour of the day, kissed you in the mornings like he was afraid the moment might shatter if he breathed too hard.

Dance first, breakfast second. His rule. He’d say it like it was ancient Scottish law.

He’d tug you into the kitchen by the fingers, hands warm, mug half-abandoned. Spin you across those tiles with surprising gentleness for a man built of adrenaline and smartassery. Forehead to yours. His laugh low, his nose brushing yours, the quiet kind of affection he never let anyone else see.

He always smelled like clean cotton, engine grease he couldn’t fully scrub off, and that mint body wash he pretended not to like but bought eight bottles of.

You didn’t know a moment could turn to memory while you were still inside it.

Then the knock came.

Not explosive, not dramatic. Just firm. Steady. An intruder in the morning he had loved so fiercely.

A folded Scottish flag. Dog tags heavy in their hands, infinitely heavier in yours. His ring: the one you slid onto him with a laugh because he insisted “real men wear shiny things” looped around the chain.

“Sgt. MacTavish didn’t make it back.”

The world didn’t crash. It dimmed. Like someone pulled the fuse from the sun.

You sat very still. Soap would’ve hated that: your stillness. He was always nudging, teasing, insisting you move, dance, live; but your body couldn’t remember how anymore.

They spoke. You didn’t hear a single word. You saw him instead: barefoot, mug in hand, tapping the counter to the beat of some awful song he swore was “a banger.”

The world didn’t end, but it hollowed.

Lights too bright. Rooms too quiet. His jacket still slung over the chair because he always forgot it. His boots by the door like he’d step into them any second.

You still play his playlist. Even the bagpipes. Especially the bagpipes. They make the house feel less empty.

Sometimes your body turns toward the doorway on instinct: expecting him to be there, hair sticking up, smirk lazy, saying, “Miss me, hen?”

You dance in the kitchen again. Not because it heals you: it doesn’t; but because your muscles remember how he held you. Because grief has choreography of its own.

Your hands lift without meaning to. Seeking him. Knowing they won’t find anything but air.

Some days… there’s no music. Just the sound of you trying to breathe.

Grief clings to this house the way his laughter used to. Soft around the edges. Impossible to ignore. You speak to him in the quiet places: the ones he used to fill with warmth and ridiculous jokes and half-burnt toast.

You sway. Eyes closed.

And for a fleeting, treacherous heartbeat… you swear you feel calloused hands guiding you through the steps.

You keep dancing anyway.

Because loving Soap was movement. And remembering him is, too.