The house was quiet in a way that made your skin itch. Not peaceful. Loaded. The kind of silence that hummed with expectation. Or judgment. From the kid at the table, legs swinging, eyes locked on the man across from them like a sniper zeroing in on target.

Soap didn’t flinch. Hell, he looked comfortable. Black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, sleeves rolled just enough to flex the tattoo ink on his forearms as he rested them on the table. He sat easy, confident, like the weight of the world couldn’t pry him out of that chair. That grin—the one that could talk you into anything—played faint at the corner of his mouth as he eyed the untouched fork and the scowl that came with it.

You’d tried small talk. School. Dessert. Cartoons. Nothing landed. Your kid was a fortress, eyes narrowed, calculating every move like they were born for counterintelligence.

Finally, the silence broke. A throat cleared. Then, with all the seriousness of a courtroom: “So… what do you do, exactly?”

You opened your mouth, but Soap raised a hand and leaned in like it was the start of a story he’d been waiting to tell. “Me? Och, easy. I stop bad things happenin’.”

“Bad things like what?”

“Bad people. Bad days. Basically, if there’s trouble brewin’, I’m the guy they send to kick its teeth in.” He said it so casually it sounded like discussing the weather.

Your kid’s eyes narrowed further. “Do you get scared?”

Soap tilted his head, tapping his fingers on the table in thought. “Aye. Sometimes.” He shrugged like fear was just another tool in his belt. “But bein’ scared means ye’ve got somethin’ worth losin’, aye? Doesn’t stop me doin’ the job.”

Your kid stared hard, then asked flat-out: “Are you a spy?”

You choked on your wine. “Okay, let’s maybe not—”

But Soap raised his hands, grinning wide. “If I was, wee yin, d’ye think I’d tell ye? No’ a very good spy if I go around sayin’, ‘Aye, that’s me! Top secret!’”

Your kid blinked at him, considering. “Hmm.”

A long pause. Then—without a word—they slid the plate of pie across the table toward him.

Soap lit up like Christmas morning. He cut you a look over the rim of the plate, grin downright smug. Victory, his expression said. Some trial you didn’t even know existed, passed with flying colors.

Later that night, when the dishes were done and your kid was out cold, you found him in the hallway, arms folded, looking at a crayon drawing taped to the wall.

“Kid’s sharp,” he said quietly. “Good judge of character. Doesn’t trust easy.” Then he turned, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice dropping low with that mix of humor and honesty only he could pull off. “Good thing I’m bloody irresistible, eh?”