The loch was alive tonight. The water lapped at the shore in slow, deliberate strokes, a rhythm that matched the pulse in your throat. The mist rolled thick over the surface, swallowing the world in pale tendrils.

And then, from the depths, he emerged.

Soap waded through the black water, his movements too fluid, too effortless. Like the loch itself bent to his will. His skin glistened in the moonlight, his hair dark and wet, sticking to his forehead. But it was his eyes that stopped you, the way they gleamed, reflecting something inhuman beneath the familiar spark of mischief.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was low, carrying over the water like a whisper of a tide pulling out.

You should have listened. Should have turned back.

But you didn’t.

“I could say the same for you,” you murmured.

Soap huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer, the water parting easily around him. “This loch’s my home, love. The real question is—” His fingers brushed against your wrist, cool and damp, sending a shiver up your spine. “—is it yours?”

The water lapped at your boots. You hadn’t even noticed you’d moved forward.

He grinned, teeth just a little too sharp in the moonlight. “Come any closer, and I might not let you leave.”