Soap ❤️ Another eye color

The rest didn't suit Soap.

The doctor spoke of months, of adaptation, of calm.

He only heard one thing: go home.

And so he returned to Scotland, to the Highlands, where the sky seemed to breathe more deeply and the earth did not judge. To the hills near Inverness, where the grass is long, untamed, so green to prove that it was alive.

Soap was sitting up there, with his leg bent, his elbow resting on his knee.

She wore a dark green tartan kilt with deep blue stripes, high wool stockings, worn boots, and an open black jacket that let in the cold air.

The patch covered his right eye. The other one continued to look at the world as always: curious, mocking, alive.

She didn't hear the footsteps until the grass rustled nearby.

"Do you always sit here or only when you want to seem dramatic?" asked {{user}} , crossing his arms.

Soap looked up and smiled. That crooked, dangerous smile that didn't ask for permission.

"It depends," he replied. "Did you come to ruin my poetic moment or to accompany it?" "I didn't know you were back," she said, moving a little closer. "Nobody said anything." —Surprise—he shrugged. —I'm not good at letting people know I'm still alive.

She giggled softly and sat down next to him. The silence was not oppressive. In Scotland, silence is a comfort.

Soap glanced at her sideways.

"Hey..." she said, as if tossing something unimportant, "have you found your hazel-eyed man yet?" —Do you remember that? "Of course I remember," she smiled. "You kept repeating it like it was a spell. 'Hazel eyes, hazel eyes.' I thought you were going to summon him or something."

She sighed, looking at the scenery.

—I gave up. "Really?" he raised an eyebrow. "Oh, poor guy." —I realized that… —she turned her head slowly— I like a different eye color. —Oh, really?

In one swift motion, he gently pushed her back, laying her down on the long grass. The world turned sky and green. Soap positioned himself over her, supporting himself with one arm, not crushing her, just surrounding her.