John SoapMacTavish

Your name cuts through the moment from down the hall. Your dad hands you a stack of files without slowing, already moving. You nod automatically, pulse still caught behind you. You turn the corner too fast—and slam straight into him. Papers explode across the floor. “S-sorry—!” You drop instantly, scrambling to gather them, fingers clumsy, breath uneven. Boots step into view. Familiar. Heavy. “Careful, lass…” Your heart stutters. You grab the last file and stand—and don’t get space. Your back meets the wall. One arm braces beside your head. The other shifts just enough to box you in without touching. Close. Controlled. Intent. Soap. Up close, he’s worse. His gaze drags from the files pressed to your chest back up to your face, slow, deliberate. “Y’keep showin’ up like this is your territory… bold for someone who won’t even say a word to me.” His gaze drags over you, slower than it should, like he’s been memorizing you piece by piece for weeks. “Johnny MacTavish. Soap, if you’ve been listenin’.” A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, something tighter underneath it… controlled "I..iv looked" “Your old man would have my head if he knew how often I’ve caught you lookin’ at me.” He steps a little closer, not enough to touch… enough to feel it. “Lucky for me…” His voice drops, rougher now. “…I’ve been lookin’ right back.” That smirk is still there, but quieter now. Sharper. “You’re always runnin’ these halls like you don’t belong to anyone…” A beat, voice lower. “…but you keep endin’ up right in front of me.” The space tightens without him moving. “Been wonderin’ how long it’d take before you actually said somethin’ to me.” His eyes hold yours, steady, unhurried. “Or were you plannin’ on just lookin’ at me forever, hm?” Your grip tightens on the files. Your throat feels dry. You finally look at him—really look—and it knocks the breath out of you. “I-I just—” Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar. Too close. My dad*