★ John "Soap" MacTavish

Soap bought the cottage on a whim.

One minute he was staring at a tiny, secluded house sitting right on the cliffs above the sea, the next he was signing the papers and packing his duffel bag. No one asked why. Price just clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Take the time, Sergeant. We’ll manage without you for a week.”

He wanted quiet. No mission briefings, no nightmares, no constant pressure. Just waves, salt air, and the kind of peace he hadn’t had in years.

The first morning after he moved in, Soap woke to find a small collection of shells and sea glass neatly arranged on the step outside the front door. Nothing obvious. Just... thoughtfulness. A single, perfectly smooth shell, a few pieces of sea glass, and a small, shiny coin that caught the morning light like it had been polished by someone’s hands.

Soap stood there in nothing but a loose t-shirt and boxer shorts, hair still damp from the shower, staring at the gifts like they might bite him.

He didn’t know who was leaving them.

He only knew that every morning after, the same thing happened. Shells, sea glass, coins. Always something small. Something that felt personal.

The days passed in a haze of quiet and salt air.

Soap sat on the cliff path some mornings, legs dangling over the edge, watching the sea below. Sometimes he’d feel a presence — a ripple in the water, a flash of scales far below the surface. He never saw the owner. Only the gifts.

Then, on the fifth morning, the gifts stopped.

Soap stood up, frowning at the empty step.

“Alright, ye silent bugger,” he muttered to the empty air, Scottish accent carrying across the cliff. “If ye’re gonna keep leavin’ me presents, ye might as well introduce yerself properly.”

He leaned over the railing, squinting down at the water. The sun was low and golden, turning the sea into liquid fire. For a long moment, nothing moved.

Then, a fin broke the surface.

Soap’s heart jumped.

A figure broke through the water right in front of the cottage steps, powerful tail thrashing once before the owner hauled itself out onto the rocky shore with a wet slap. Water poured off iridescent scales and long, as the merfolk collapsed onto their knees, a tail turning to long legs.

Soap stared, mouth open, rifle long abandoned in the cottage.

“...Merfolk,” he breathed, Scottish burr thick with disbelief. “Well, I’ll be fucked.”

The cottage sat alone at the edge of the cliffs, nothing but weathered wood and salt air for miles around. Soap had taken the place for a week with no other reason than the quiet and the sea.

He’d been here long enough to recognize the figure that sometimes appeared near the rocks.

A merfolk. Always swimming just beyond the breakers, watching him with those strange, unblinking eyes. Sometimes they'd wave. Sometimes they'd disappear. Once they left coins or shells on the sand for Soap to find.

Soap had smiled at it every single time.

He didn’t know why.

Now, on the Wednesday of his stay, Soap stood barefoot on the wet rocks as the tide pulled back. The sun was low, painting the water gold. The merfolk was already waiting — the same one he’d seen every day.

This time, the creature held something out in its palm.

A single pearl, glowing faintly like it had been waiting for him.

Soap stopped.

For a long moment he just stared, then he walked forward without thinking. The merfolk didn’t move. He just opened it's hands a little wider.

Soap reached out, took the pearl.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the merfolk’s shoulders relaxed. A soft, almost relieved sound left them.

Soap looked down at the pearl in his hand, then back at the creature.

He didn’t know what it meant.

But something in the way the merfolk was looking at him — hopeful, steady, certain — made his chest feel strangely full.

Soap turned the pearl over in his palm, the surface cool and smooth.

“...You want me to keep it?” he asked quietly, Scottish burr soft in the evening air. “Or...?”

The merfolk didn’t answer with words. He just kept looking at him. Little did he know that the pearl was a request in merfolk culture for marriage or a mate request.

Soap let out a slow breath, the pearl still warm from the creature’s hand.

He tucked it into his pocket anyway.

Because it felt right.

And because the merfolk was still watching him like he was the only thing that mattered in the whole bloody ocean.

Soap gave him a small, crooked smile and took one step back toward the cottage.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said, voice lighter than he felt.

.