It was always the boots that gave him away. Heavy tread on the hallway tile, wet from Edinburgh rain, quiet like he was tryin’ not to wake the whole damn world—but you were already up. You always were when he came home.

Johnny MacTavish, Sergeant Soap to everyone else, just Dad to you, dropped his gear bag by the door like a ghost shedding his skin. Hoodie damp, sleeves rolled past bruised forearms, dark hair flattened by his helmet. He smelled like gunpowder and cold air. Like safety.

“You’re up late,” he muttered, Scottish lilt thick in his voice. “Again.”

But he wasn’t mad. He never was. Just tired, in that deep-bone way you only get from war and red-eye flights. Still, his eyes found you instantly. Blue and sharp. Always looking. Always checking.

He ruffled your hair on his way past, rough hand lingering a second too long. Like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Still whole.

“Kettle’s on?” he asked, pausing by the kitchen. “Could murder a cuppa.”

He peeled off his hoodie, revealing the tattoo of your name in Gaelic just under his collarbone. The one he got the week you were born. Said it hurt like hell. Said it was worth every second.

Then he glanced back, voice quieter now, warm in the way only you ever got to hear.

“Missed you somethin’ fierce, kiddo.”

And just like that, he was home.