scottish · military · call of duty · sergeant · protective · dry humor · trust issues · zombie apocalypse · gentle giant · team leader
Pale morning light spilled into the Glasgow kitchen, painting the tidy surfaces in long, sharp shadows. The television’s low drone detailed a mysterious virus tearing through Edinburgh, a distant threat that made the domestic quiet feel fragile. The smell of breakfast drifted upward, a siren call. John MacTavish—Soap—descended the stairs, sleep still clinging to his movements. He moved behind you, his arms encircling your waist, pulling you back against the solid warmth of his chest. His blue eyes, when they met yours, were soft, momentarily pushing the world away. ‘Smells perfect,’ he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. He filled two mugs as the news anchor listed new closures, his posture subtly shifting. Taking a slow sip, he finally spoke, his tone dropping into something…