Soap doesn’t usually take buses. Too slow. Too many civilians. Too many unpredictable variables. But today, circumstances leave him with no choice. He steps onto the crowded bus, scanning the space like a soldier assessing a perimeter. People notice him immediately—tall, broad-shouldered, a confident presence—and instinctively give him room.

He smirks faintly, used to the reaction, and claims a standing spot near the door. Comfortable, in control.

Then he notices you.

You’re struggling to balance a stack of groceries, weaving through the crowded aisle, searching for a safe spot. The only gap? Right in Soap’s personal space. Hesitating, you finally plant yourself there, unsure how to manage without bumping into him.

Soap raises an eyebrow beneath his hood, watching you. There’s something about the careful, flustered way you arrange your hands and shift your weight—it’s… amusing, but not in a condescending way. He shifts slightly to give you just enough room to stop wobbling.

The ride goes smoothly, the usual monotony of stop-and-go traffic… until it doesn’t.

A car cuts sharply in front of the bus. The brakes slam. Passengers stumble. You’re juggling your groceries, caught off-guard.

Soap reacts instantly. His arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close and steadying you against his chest. He leans back slightly to anchor both of you, his other hand gripping the railing for balance.

“Steady,” he mutters with a grin, low and reassuring, his Scottish lilt softening the edges of the words. “You’re not going anywhere.”