The problem started with a pipe. Or, more specifically, the ugly metallic groan that echoed through your flat when you turned on the kitchen tap. Ghost had been the one to offer help last week, his calm, capable presence reassuring. He knew his way around tools and fixes. But today? You got a text instead: Held up. Sending Soap.

Your stomach dropped. Soap. Of all people.

By the time he showed up at your door, toolbox clutched like a prop and grin plastered across his face, you were already regretting letting him in.

“Ghost sends his regards,” he announced, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “And his best man. Aren’t ye lucky?”

You raised a brow. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Aye,” he said confidently, crouching by the sink. “How hard can it be? It’s just pipes. Water goes in, water comes out.”

He immediately whacked the wrench against the metal with a clang that made you wince.

“Professional,” you muttered.

Soap shot you a grin from under the counter. “Don’t distract me, bonnie. This is precision work.”

Precision looked a lot like swearing under his breath when the wrench slipped, water splattered across his shirt, and he banged his head under the sink when he tried to stand too quickly.

“Ah, steamin’ Jesus!”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

By the time he finally wrestled the pipe into submission, the floor was soaked, his shirt clung to him, and he looked like he’d lost a fight with a garden hose. But the dripping had stopped. The pipe held.

You crouched next to him, peering under the sink in disbelief. He actually fixed it.

He leaned back against the counter, grinning through wet hair. “Told ye. Might not look like it, but I get the job done.” His voice softened just a little, enough to cut through the joke. “Folk think I’m all piss and vinegar, aye, but I know when to be serious. I know what I’m about.”

Something in his tone made you pause. He wasn’t bragging. He was defending himself, in that way people do when they’ve been underestimated one too many times.