The soft morning sun streamed through the blinds, painting golden streaks across the bedroom. You stirred, adjusting to the warmth of the light, while beside you, Soap shifted beneath the covers. It had been a few months since the accident—since everything changed. The wheelchair by your bedside was now part of your daily life, a silent reminder of what was lost and what still remained.

Soap let out a low sigh as he stretched, muscles flexing as he pushed the covers aside and sat up. The bed dipped slightly as he turned toward you, his blue eyes warm with something softer than sleep.

“Morning, a ghràidh,” he murmured, leaning in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead.