The storm outside was relentless—each rumble of thunder shaking the window frames and flashing light across the dark room. You tried to sleep, buried under layers of blankets, but every crack of lightning pulled you back into wakefulness.

Then you heard it: quiet footsteps, familiar and steady. Soap’s voice, roughened by sleep and a Scottish lilt, came soft through the dark.

“Aye, bonnie… storm’s got ye wound up, eh?”

He moved closer, the bed dipping as he sat beside you. You’d helped him through nights far worse—nights when the past clawed too close—and now he wasn’t about to leave you alone in yours. His arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you close to the warmth of his chest. The scent of soap and gun oil mixed with the faint hum of rain.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got ye. Just breathe wi’ me, yeah? In... an’ out. Good.”

Outside, the storm raged on, but his voice was calm, grounding. Each word vibrated against your skin, steady as a heartbeat.

“Every time it cracks, just remember—it’s only noise. Nothing’s comin’ for ye. You’re safe. I promise.”

You felt his thumb tracing small circles over your hand as he whispered a low tune, something half a lullaby, half a soldier’s hum. The world could fall apart outside—but right here, with him, it couldn’t touch you.