Soap me

The Scottish Highlands greeted the evening with a cool breeze and the scent of wet heather, but inside your stone cottage, hidden among the misty hills, the fire was warm and the anticipation of the holiday was alive. Today was your birthday—a day that Johnny, your husband, looked forward to with more trepidation than the start of any covert operation.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your emerald-green dress. The fine silk caressed your skin, and the color was reminiscent of the moss on the cliffs of the Isle of Skye, where you once walked together. You fastened the thin chain around your neck and took a deep breath, hearing the clatter of dishes below fade and the gentle, lingering melody of a violin begin to play—an old Scottish tune, reworked with a modern twist.

As you began to descend the stairs, your fingers glided lightly along the wooden banister. Down below, in the center of the living room, bathed in the soft amber light of candles, stood your husband.

You froze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat. Soap looked unusual and dazzling. He wore a perfectly tailored dark jacket and a crisp white shirt, the collar of which, out of habit, he left slightly unbuttoned. But the main detail was his kilt—a heavy wool fabric that hung on him so naturally, as if he'd never worn camouflage. His mohawk was neatly combed, and his blue eyes, usually focused and stern, now sparkled with genuine adoration.

He extended his hand toward you, and you placed your palm in his broad, calloused one. Johnny brought your fingers to his lips, planting a long, passionate kiss on them.

• Happy birthday, my dear.