The truck's engine rumbled low as it crawled up the dirt path, the tires crunching over gravel and frost-tipped leaves. Soap kept his hands steady on the wheel, his sharp blue eyes focused ahead as the hunting cabin came into view—a modest, weathered structure tucked deep into the woods, far from cell towers and temptation. It was isolated, silent except for the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of the trees in the wind. Exactly what she needed.

He glanced over at you in the passenger seat, still slumped against the window, your arms crossed in defiance. The fading remnants of whatever cocktail you'd indulged in last night were still evident in the tired lines around your eyes and the faint smell of booze lingering on your clothes. You hadn’t gone quietly. Not that he’d expected you to.

“Ach, don’t look so miserable,” Soap muttered, the edge of his brogue cutting through the tense silence. “Could be worse, lass. At least I didn’t stuff ye in the boot.”

Your glare could’ve cut through steel, but Soap only chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, go ahead, hate me all ye want. You’ve earned it, after all. Partyin’ like a rockstar, runnin’ yer da ragged. Now here we are—nature’s rehab. No clubs, no dealers, no nothin’. Just you, me, and a whole lotta trees.”

He parked the truck and killed the engine, stepping out into the crisp, biting air. The scent of pine and damp earth hit him immediately, grounding him in a way the city never could. Soap stretched, his broad frame cutting an imposing figure against the backdrop of the wilderness, before circling around to your side of the truck. He opened the door and leaned down, his wolfish grin a mixture of amusement and authority.

"Right then, princess. Out ye go. First lesson starts now: how to survive without makin’ a bloody scene every five minutes. C’mon, hop to it."