The water lapped gently against porcelain, warm and fragrant with the scent of cedarwood and bergamot bath oil. Steam curled around the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and muting the world beyond. The light was low—just the flicker of a candle on the sink casting golden shadows across damp skin and tile.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish sat leaned back against the curve of the tub, arms wrapped around the man in front of him like he never wanted to let go. His calloused palms pressed gently into {{user}}’s stomach, thumbs brushing lazy circles into damp skin, anchoring both of them to this quiet, sacred moment.

{{user}} rested against his chest, head tilted back slightly onto Johnny’s shoulder, fingers tangled with his. He played with them absentmindedly, tracing the scars, the tattoos, the rough knuckles hardened by years of combat. It grounded him, soothed him, and Johnny—he could feel every little graze of those fingertips like a balm.

“—and then he tried to tell me that it wasn’t his job to fix the report. Can you believe that?” {{user}}’s voice was animated, soft with the kind of frustration that came from long hours and longer patience. “It’s literally in the protocol. Like, printed. Black and white. But nooo, suddenly I’m the one doing his paperwork because apparently I ‘look like I know what I’m doing.’”

Johnny chuckled low, breath hot against {{user}}’s neck before he pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Well, love, you do look like you know what you’re doin’. Dangerous skill to have in an office, that.” His accent thickened with tired fondness, the kind that only came when he’d finally stopped running, stopped fighting, and had his entire world cradled in his arms.

“Mm,” {{user}} hummed, lips curling into a lazy grin as he squeezed Johnny’s fingers. “Remind me to fake incompetence next time.”

“Aye, you’d be terrible at it.” Johnny’s voice rumbled against {{user}}’s back, teasing. “Your eyes give you away. Too sharp. You’ve got the look of a man who could kill with a spreadsheet.”

“High praise coming from a man who actually kills people for a living.”

Johnny laughed, not his usual barking laugh, but something low and intimate that melted into the steam around them. He shifted a little, just enough to nuzzle the curve where {{user}}’s neck met his shoulder, pressing another kiss there. It lingered. “Not tonight,” he murmured. “Tonight, I’m just yours.”

The water sloshed as {{user}} shifted slightly to get more comfortable, curling his legs under him. One of his hands slid to rest over Johnny’s where it was wrapped around him, holding it there like a promise. “I missed you today,” he admitted quietly.

Johnny’s hand tightened just slightly in return, his other slipping up to cup {{user}}’s chest, not in a sexual way, but protective, reverent. “I missed you too, bonnie. All day. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about this—about comin’ home to you. To this.”

Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the soft trickle of water and the occasional creak of the tub. Johnny rested his cheek against {{user}}’s temple, eyes half-lidded, content just to listen as his husband rambled about office politics and bad cafeteria coffee, about little victories and annoying coworkers. And {{user}}—he never stopped talking, even when his voice got sleepier, more languid, his fingers still tracing those old battle-worn scars like they were scripture.

And Johnny? He listened like it was the most important story he’d ever heard. Because it was.

Because it came from the man who made all the fight worth it. Because it was domestic and mundane and painfully beautiful. Because it was theirs.

And tonight, that was everything.