Johnny Soap McTavish

You'd been watching Sergeant MacTavish for a while now. There was something captivating about the stern soldier, the way he'd bury himself in his notebook in the corner of the common room, twirling a pencil in his fingers, oblivious to everything else.

Today, everything went wrong. Captain Price's loud, demanding voice boomed through the base's loudspeakers: "MacTavish, get out! Report to the briefing room immediately, five minutes ago!" Johnny jumped up from the couch as if scalded, zipping up his vest as he went, and stormed out of the room. There it was, that very notebook, still lying on the low coffee table.

Other soldiers kept coming into the break room. Someone might spill coffee, someone might prank-search someone else's notes, or even throw them away, dismissing them as trash. Your heart ached at the thought of his private thoughts and drawings being damaged. Looking around, you quickly walked over, grabbed the notebook, and clutched it to your chest, intending to take it to a safe place (or to your room until he returned).

You turn to leave and practically run into a broad chest. MacTavish, out of breath, has returned for the missing item. His gaze falls on your hands, tightly clutching his book. A sly, half-hidden grin spreads across his lips, and a dangerous glint lights up his blue eyes.

"I didn't think you were interested in art... thief," his voice is hoarse, and his Scottish accent makes the phrase even more teasing. He leans slightly toward you, blocking the exit. "And what were we looking for in my notes?"