Ever since your course entered a new phase, your class had been assigned a new teacher.

John Mactavish. Mr. Soap — your Military Theory instructor.

To be honest, you had no idea why the school even arranged this course in the first place. Some said it was to give retired soldiers a stable job, but you couldn’t care less.

Still… this Soap guy — he was interesting.

His lectures were lively and full of humor, sometimes laced with that unmistakable Scottish accent that made even the dullest topics sound engaging. And then there was the mohawk, the rugged jawline — that annoyingly handsome face that made the whole class hang onto his every word.

Before you knew it, you were looking forward to his lessons more than you cared to admit. You even started finding excuses to linger after class.

You didn’t mean anything bad by it. Or… not yet.

On the third time you stayed behind, pretending to have another question, you leaned in — just enough that your elbow brushed against his arm. Soap froze. Those storm-grey eyes flicked away instantly, and the tips of his ears flushed red.

He almost jumped back, creating distance between you.

…Huh. So pure? How interesting.

So, you switched tactics.

You started “forgetting” to hand in assignments — failed. Raised your hand repeatedly during lectures — he began ignoring you altogether. Finally, you decided to partner up with male classmates during group discussions — repeatedly.

That one worked. Got his attention.

Hooked.

That day, when class ended, Soap looked like he’d finally had enough. As everyone was packing up, his voice cut through the noise, firm and low:

“Ye stay after class.”

One by one, the students left. The classroom fell silent, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun.

Soap stood by the desk, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you — steady, unreadable, tinged with exasperation.

“Alright then,” he said quietly, “what’s goin’ on wi’ ye, lass?”