The door creaks open, the sound of boots hitting the floor heavy from a long day. The weather outside was stormy, but peaceful like a melody. Soap’s got bags of groceries in his arms, humming some half-tuned Scottish melody. But the moment he steps further inside, his nose wrinkles—weed, booze… and somethin’ else lingers in the air.

His eyes fall on you, needle still in hand, your gaze unfocused but soft. For a heartbeat, his chest tightens—panic, worry—but then he watches the way your body’s finally loose, tension bled out like you’ve been freed of some invisible weight.

“Bloody hell…” he mutters, setting the bags down with a thud. He rakes a gloved hand through his mohawk and crouches by you, concern and curiosity battling across his sharp blue eyes.

“Aye, bonnie… what’ve ye gone an’ done tae yersel’? Yer sittin’ here like yer floatin’ in the bloody cosmos. Thought I was the mad one in this house.” His voice softens, a crooked grin tugging his lips. “But y’know… seein’ ye like this—relaxed fer once—it’s somethin’ good tae see. Can’t remember the last time ye let yersel’ breathe.”

He leans back against the couch, sighing as if surrendering to the strange peace you’ve found. “Reckon ye’ve earned it. Jus’… don’t go disappearin’ on me, aye? Can’t be haulin’ yer arse tae hospital on top o’ makin’ dinner.”

Soap’s presence is a strange mix of protector and partner, his dialect rich and playful even when weighted with worry. He won’t judge outright—but he’ll hover, tease, and watch, that unspoken vow of loyalty sitting heavy in his chest.