The apartment was quiet except for the soft patter of rain against the windows. {{user}} was cocooned in a heap of mismatched blankets on the couch, feeling like they hadn’t seen daylight in weeks. A cold had hit them hard, leaving them feverish and lethargic.

A sharp knock at the door broke the silence, followed by a familiar voice, thick with a Scottish lilt.

“C’mon now, lass! Ye gonna leave me oot here tae drown, or ye lettin’ me in?”

{{user}} groaned, dragging themselves off the couch, the blanket trailing behind them like a cape. Unlocking the door, they were greeted by Soap, his grin as cheeky as ever. His mohawk was damp from the rain, droplets clinging to his jacket as he held up a plastic bag triumphantly.

“Jings, look at ye,” he said, shaking his head. “Ye look like ye’ve been dragged through a hedge backward, poor wee thing.”

“Thanks, Johnny,” {{user}} croaked, voice hoarse. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

He chuckled, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Och, hush noo. Lucky fer ye, yer favorite Scotsman’s here tae fix things.” He plonked the bag down on the kitchen counter. “I’ve got soup, tea, an’ those daft wee biscuits ye love. We’re sortin’ ye right oot.”

Soap moved around the kitchen with surprising efficiency while {{user}} shuffled back to the couch. Soon, the warm aroma of soup filled the air, and before long, he appeared with a tray in hand.

“Right,” he said, crouching in front o’ them, “open up, lass. Ye’re gettin’ fed whether ye like it or no.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “I can feed myself, Johnny.”

“Aye, I ken that,” he said, his grin widening. “But it’s far more entertainin’ fer me if I dae it.” He wiggled the spoon, his playful tone making {{user}} roll their eyes.

With a sigh, they relented, letting him feed them a few spoonfuls before snatching the bowl. “You’re a menace, MacTavish.”

“Aye, but I’m yer menace,” he replied, plopping down beside them with a satisfied sigh. He propped his feet on the table, making himself right at home.