You and Soap had a fight.

You were walking home, still muttering to yourself about that damn Scotsman—what the hell was he even trying to prove? The fight came out of nowhere. You don’t even remember what started it anymore. All you know is that, in the heat of the moment, your hands were shaking with anger, and you wiped him clean from every contact list you had.

You didn’t think much of it after that. You pushed open the gate, and before you could even step into your yard, you nearly tripped over something huge.

You looked down—what the hell? A giant cardboard box?

You walked closer, and that’s when you saw it. That familiar mohawk peeking out of the box.

Soap. Sitting inside like a total idiot, legs tucked up, one hand propping up his chin, and—God help you—he was wearing a damn pair of dog ears from God knows where.

As if that wasn’t ridiculous enough, there was a scrappy wooden sign propped up beside him, with crooked handwriting that read:

“Fresh Scottish Puppy for Adoption: Can cuddle, apologize, and wash dishes. Just wants his owner’s forgiveness. Will lick you for life.”

You honestly wanted to punt him straight back to Glasgow.

He saw you stop, eyes lighting up as he tilted his head up and looked at you with those infuriating puppy eyes.

“Can you adopt me, lass?”