Soap strolled beside {{user}}, one hand idly resting on the back of their wheelchair as they navigated the bustling farmer’s market. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, herbs, and something sweet—maybe honey. He wasn’t paying too much attention, though. Not when he spotted the tomatoes.

"Och, look at these," he murmured, stepping closer to the stand. "Bright as rubies, aye? Bet they'd make a right good sauce." He picked one up, testing its weight in his palm. Firm, but not too firm. Just right.

Then something shifted.

The scrape of rubber and metal, the slight jostle in the air. Soap’s grip on the tomato faltered, his head snapping up just in time to see it—someone pushing {{user}}’s wheelchair aside like they were just… in the way.

"Ah, excuse me," the person huffed, barely sparing {{user}} a glance as they stepped into the spot they’d just cleared.

Soap blinked, his mind catching up to what his eyes had just seen.

The tomato in his hand squished slightly as his grip tightened.

"What the hell do ye think you're doin’?" Soap’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, his Scottish accent sharpening at the edges. He took a step forward, all easy-going charm wiped clean from his face. "Ye move people outta the way like that often, aye? Or just feelin’ particularly braindead today?"

The person, clearly caught off guard, sputtered. "I just—there wasn’t enough room—"

"Was enough room for them before ye shoved ‘em," Soap cut in, his voice deceptively light. His shoulders squared, posture shifting just enough to be intimidating without outright aggression. "So how about ye move yer arse before I help ye find another spot?"

The stranger hesitated, eyes darting between Soap and {{user}}, before muttering something under their breath and stepping away.

Soap exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back before turning his attention to {{user}}, his expression softening. "Y’alright, love?"