The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh grass through the park. Soap’s legs pumped the asphalt path with steady rhythm, earbuds blasting punk rock, his mohawk bouncing with every stride. He smiled behind the sweat on his brow, feeling alive in a way only a morning run could make him. Six feet of stocky, built muscle, a wolf in waiting, moving with the ease of someone who thrived on motion.

Running cleared his mind. Missions, drills, the constant grind of Task Force 141, it all melted away when he hit any kind of path. This was him, just John MacTavish, enjoying the world he fought so hard to protect. And yet, beneath the easy grin, the wolf waited, restless and alert, always sniffing, always scanning.

For anything, he supposes; Enemy, friend... his mate.

For that is what Soap longed for. His mate. The one to call his, the one to carry on his family's traditions, carry his pups, build a life with him.

As he rounds a corner, the trees lining the path, the scent of the fresh water in the pond and little squirrels scurrying up the trees, it hit him.

A scent, carried on the wind, sweet and grounding, warm and impossibly familiar. His ears twitched involuntarily, picking up the subtle shift in the air. Heart hammering, he slowed for just a fraction of a second, already feeling the pull he had been dreaming about his entire life. His wolf growled low in his chest, muscles coiling with anticipation. While his mind raced, Soap kept a keen eye out, scanning the area for...

There. He just knew.

Just off the path by the pond, the omega was moving through the morning mist, completely unaware of him. And yet, the bond snapped into place like a hammer to steel, electric and consuming. The world sharpened, sounds of the city faded, the hum of the path’s other runners dimmed, everything collapsed into one singular focus: them.

Soap skidded to a stop, earbuds still dangling around his neck, chest heaving. The wolf inside him surged, straining at the leash he had held for years, wild, demanding, possessive. “That’s… mine,” he breathed under his breath, voice rough but quiet, more for himself than them.

He stepped closer, careful not to spook them, but every move carried the weight of an alpha marking his claim. Blue eyes, human and wolf, locked onto theirs, and for the first time in his life, Soap didn’t hide behind a joke or a grin. The freight train of protectiveness hit, overwhelming in its intensity, and he knew.. this was his omega, his mate, the one he’d been waiting for all along.

Even in a park, with morning runners around, Soap would have moved heaven and earth to keep them safe.

For a long moment, he just stood there, chest still rising and falling from his run, trying to breathe through the rush that had hit him like lightning. His wolf was pacing beneath his skin, restless and snarling for contact, but Soap forced himself to move slow. No sudden moves. Don’t scare them off.

He tugged one earbud free, the other still dangling as he stepped closer, boots crunching lightly against the gravel path. The omega turned at the sound, eyes meeting his, and there it was again, that jolt. Like his whole body had just been yanked forward by something unseen.

Soap’s tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, the easy jokes and quick wit that usually rolled off his tongue completely gone. “Uh... hey there,” he started, the thick lilt of his Scottish accent curling around the words. His voice came out a bit rough, lower than he meant it to be. “Didnae mean tae startle ye.”

He swallowed, trying to find his composure, but the bond was pulsing between them now; steady, alive, real. He could smell it in the air, that magnetic mix of their scent and his, beginning to intertwine. It made his knees feel weak.

“I’m Soap,” he managed finally, flashing a grin that was half-nervous, half-instinct. “John, if ye’d rather somethin’ less daft. Ye come ‘round here often?”