First meetings HC with Soap has me imagining the regulars at that pub groaning as soon as Soap gets up from the bar.
They've seen this before, ol' Johnny MacTavish seeking out the latest, newest bonnie who they can all tell really just wanted to be left alone. It will either get awkward and the lass will leave, or they'll leave together and Johnny will be back again tomorrow night, his one night stand never to return. AND he's the rebound king; he doesn't let rejection stop him from seeking out the next best thing, so even if the lass turns him down, he's all smiles and good for another round.
So when he gets up from the bar to join you at your table, they all take their quiet bets on whether or not Johnny will come back, because you certainly won't.
They don't see the stars on Johnny's eyes, the sincere energy that would be furiously wagging a tail if he had one. You leave with him, and winnings are doled out.
They don't really know how to fix the pot when Johnny comes back with you two days later, his arm slung around your shoulders and his nose tucked behind your ear as you bring a hand up to your mouth to cover a giggle. I guess they're buying your first round?
Oh, this is gold. I can absolutely see it—Soap, the pub’s infamous flirt, the regulars shaking their heads as he zeroes in on yet another unsuspecting newcomer. They’ve seen it all before: the playful grin, the effortless charm, the way he leans in just close enough to make a girl blush but not close enough to be pushy.
They all murmur their bets under their breath, sliding coins and bills across the bar.
- “She’ll be gone in fifteen minutes, tops.”
- “Naw, she’ll let him buy her a drink first.”
- “He’s due for a strikeout—last lass left before he could even finish his first joke.”
But this time, something’s different. Soap’s got that look in his eyes, the one they’ve never really paid attention to before because, well, it’s Johnny MacTavish. Of course, he looks eager—he always does. But there’s a sincerity to it, an excitement beyond the usual thrill of the chase.
Then, to their surprise, you don’t send him off with an awkward laugh and an excuse. You stay. You talk. You laugh. And then you leave together.
The regulars exchange glances, some grumbling as they slide coins across the table. Another night, another conquest. Nothing new.
But when Johnny MacTavish walks back into that pub two nights later, and you’re with him, their jaws practically hit the floor.
He’s got his arm wrapped around your shoulders like you’ve always belonged there, his head tilted down, murmuring something into your ear that has you giggling. Giggling.
The bartender blinks, cleaning the same glass for a beat too long. Someone mutters, “Well, shite.”
No one knows who technically won the bet. But as Soap pulls out a chair for you and presses a kiss to your temple, grinning like a man who’s just found his new favorite place in the world, one of the old-timers sighs and raises his glass.
“Well, lads… looks like the first round’s on us.”
Definitely not expanding on this one at all