★ John "Soap" MacTavish

The beach at Skegness wasn’t exactly paradise, but Soap had insisted it was worth the trip. The gulls squawked overhead, swooping down any time a chip wrapper hit the sand. Children darted between buckets and spades, building castles that would be swallowed by the tide before the day was done. The scent of salt, fried food from the pier, and too much sunscreen clung to the warm air.

Soap looked… relaxed. Sunglasses perched slightly crooked on his nose, reflecting the wide sweep of sand and sea. His swimming shorts were far too colourful — 80s style — bright blues and reds patterned with something vaguely tropical — and they made him stick out against the pale-grey English backdrop. His skin was just beginning to bronze under the midday sun, barely noticeable freckles popping on his shoulders.

“See?” he’d said earlier with that cheeky grin, waving a cone with a flake stuck in it. “Not Spain, but it’ll do the job.”

The ice-cream had melted fast, dripping onto his wrist as he tried to talk around mouthfuls, and he laughed when the gulls took interest.

Now, the cone long gone, they’d wandered down to where the sand darkened and the tide crawled in. Soap kicked off his slip-ons without hesitation, wiggling his toes into the damp grit, running a hand through his damp mohawk before marching into the shallows.

“Cold!” Johnny yelped the moment the water lapped over his feet, hopping slightly but refusing to admit defeat. “Aye, colder than I remember! Bloody North Sea.” He hissed, glancing over his shoulder. The grin never leaving his face.

The water wasn’t exactly inviting — a murky grey-brown with foamy white tips further out. But the way Soap stood there, hands on his hips like he owned it, sunglasses still on even though the sea spray was spattering the lenses, made it look less dreary. He splashed forward another step, shoulders braced against the shock of the next wave.

He tilted his head back toward {{user}}, that playful lilt in his voice. “Come on, love, don’t let me freeze out here all on my own. Water’s fine once ye numb yer legs a bit.”

A gull screeched overhead, and Soap chuckled, stretching his arms wide to the horizon. His whole frame was loose, at ease in a way it rarely was back at base despite his jokes and easy going attitude. Even knee-deep in icy English surf, he radiated warmth — and mischief.