Variations on that conversation have taken place between soldiers of all ranks and nationalities that have had the privilege of crossing paths with the inimitable Sergeant MacTavish.

Johnny deals with his burning need for physical affection by whoring himself out in exchange for human comfort.

Whenever he gets lonely or particularly depressed he heads straight for the nearest bar, lines up several rounds of shots and takes home the first lass to offer to neck one with him.

He plays his part brilliantly, spewing dirty talk like it’s a second language in an accent that drives girls of all backgrounds wild. He fucks rough and thorough and makes sure they have a good time.

And then he gets his end of the deal; after-sex cuddles. The only time it’s appropriate for Johnny to curl up in the warmth of another person and finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Of course, that relief is often interrupted by the poor girl getting the creeps from their one night stand’s extended spooning session and jumping up to leave suddenly.

When they leave like that, Johnny feels their absence like a knife in his chest. The sudden lack of warmth feels suffocating and he folds in on himself to try and chase the remnants of the comfort he’d just been feeling.

Then he meets you, out late one night in a foreign city he can’t pronounce the name of. You’re a uni exchange student; he couldn’t care less. He rushes you out of the pub and back to your shabby uni accommodations, cooing filthy nothings into your ear the whole walk back.

He takes his time lapping at your cunt until you’re shaking and moaning, but when it comes time to push himself inside and you catch his eye, you can tell he’s somewhere else.

His thrusts are robotic, rehearsed even. He’s just going through the motions, like this is a means to an end. What end? you wonder to yourself.

You get your answer when you notice the way he’s gripping your hips; not possessively, but desperately, like you’re tethering him somehow.

Realization dawns. Ohhhhhhh; this big strong masculine military man really just wants a hug.

“Hey, um, can we stop?” you ask timdly and Johnny’s body immediately ceases all movement, “I’m kinda not feeling it,”

“Oh my god, yeah, of course; bon I’m so sorry,” he stammers, pulling out of you and shuffling away from you on the bed, “I’ll be going, you just get some rest; all good love, all good,”

His cheeks are flushed red and his hands are shaking as he reaches for his boxers.

“Wait! You don’t um, don’t have to go….” you stammer, playing it up perfectly, “it sounds kind of dumb but, uh, we could just cuddle? Like, hang out? If you want to, of course,”

Johnny’s ears go red to match his face as he stares into your eyes with wide-eyed appreciation. No one’s ever asked to stop having sex in favor of cuddling instead before.

He shakes his head slightly, as if to check that his ears heard you correctly.

“Bonnie, that’d be great, I’d love a cuddle” he stutters, rushing to get back into bed with you. You smile; he thinks this is all just for you. Now he can get what he needs and not feel weird for asking.

After pulling on your underwear and t-shirt, you insist on putting Johnny in a little spoon position. You lean back and spread your legs, patting the spot of bed between them.

Johnny bounds into place like an overeager Labrador. He nestles his head right beneath your sternum, his torso framed by your inner thighs, arms along the outside of them, hands rubbing absent circles on your calves.

You both make easy conversation as your hands begin to roam his body gently. After a few minutes Johnny just closes his eyes and sinks into a state of bliss he’s never felt before.

You rub his arm muscles, massage his neck and draw invisible patterns on his lean chest with your warm fingers. His breathing is slow and deep and a permanent smile remains tugging at his lips.

You periodically pull his calloused hands up to your mouth to pepper with soft kisses. He’s sighs contentedly each time and returns the favor, practically worshipping your hands with his lips.

When your hands begin to slowly knead and rub his scalp, some band of resolve in Johnny just snaps. Slowly, small sniffles begin to escape his throat while hot tears well and eventually fall down his weathered cheeks.

“I’m sorry, fuck-so sorry. Steaming bloody Jesus, I’m a mess bonnie,” he stammers, face going red in embarrassment. He goes to sit up, to pull himself away from you because he thinks it’s what you’d want.

Because here he goes again, fucking crying at the feeling of finally receiving the physical affection his body’s been screaming for. How pathetic, how needy, how ridiculous is he to be sobbing in some poor girls arms who just wanted a one night stand with a sexy military man.

He can’t stand himself and his stupid bloody needs. The monumental hole in his chest that felt almost filled as you caressed his body.

But you push him back down into you and wrap your arms tightly around him. Of course he could easily break out of your grip if he wanted to but he stays like he’s trapped.

“You’re ok, Johnny, you can cry. I’ll just hold you,” you murmur in his ear. That phrase is all it takes for the damn to fully break. The sobs come more ragged, he lets every tear fall uninhibited as he holds onto you like he would a life raft in a hurricane.

He cries until there’s nothing left, with you planted firmly in place, keeping him emotionally and physically tethered.

“Thank you, fuck, I’m sorry, thank you,” he blubbers through his shame.

“You’re welcome, Johnny; anytime,”

The mirror was merely a fractured rectangle, held against a crumbling concrete pillar by two strips of duct tape. In its cracked reflection, the city of Verdansk —or what was left of it after the blockade— sank into a hazy blue.

Johnny sat backwards on a skeletal metal chair, forearms resting over the backrest with his head tilted high. His face was covered in a thick mask of cheap soap, whipped up in a rusted ration tin using a stiff shaving brush. 

“Hold still, MacTavish, or I’m going to have to leave you with a permanent smile like a Batman villain,” Gaz muttered. He was leaning in close, sharpest knife he could find held delicately between his fingers. With surprisingly steady precision, he dragged the flat of the blade down Johnny’s cheek, clearing a wide path through the thick soap and weeks of stubble.

“I am holding still, ye bloody butcher,” Johnny grumbled, slightly muffled by the layer of foam covering his top lip. His eyes darted up to the mirror, tracking Gaz’s movements with an intense amount of suspicion despite trusting him with his life. “Jus’ making sure I dinnae go home to my gorgeous wife looking like a had a run-in wi’ a blender. Domestic necessities.”

A low huff echoed from the shadows beside the pillar.

Simon was leaning against the structural wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Even inside a decaying apartment building with no running water and zero supply lines, the Ghost managed to look completely unbothered. His dark eyes flickered from Johnny’s overgrown hair down to the foam dripping onto his collar.

“Domestic necessities, my arse,” Ghost rumbled through the distant, sporadic artillery fire outside. “If I were her, I’d leave the deadbolt slid shut.”

“Ah, dinnae listen to him, Gaz,” Johnny flashed a sharp, white-toothed grin cutting through the remaining foam on his face as his eyes sparkled with mischief. “LT’s just jealous ‘cause no one’s seen his jawline since the late nineties. He disnae understand the logistics of a proper reunion kiss.”

Gaz let out a soft chuckle, wiping the edge of the knife on a piece of torn cloth before stepping back in for another pass. “Though personally, Johnny, if I spent eighteen months ghosting the grid just to come home and get nagged about a crooked shave, I’d head right back to Middle East or something.”

Johnny grunted, flinching slightly as Gaz ran the blade along his jawline. “She disnae do the nagging bit. She’ll look at me, at the absolute state of my mohawk, and tell me I look like a rat born out of wedlock. It’s the quiet judgment that gets ye, boys. Saps the confidence right out of a man.”

“Good,” Ghost said, cold amusement bleeding through his mask as he shifted against the concrete wall. “Keep you humble. Lord knows a year and half of surviving on stray dogs  and rainwater hasn’t done much to quiet your mouth, MacTavish.”

“Hey, it’s canned mutton. I won’t allow this smear campaign against our rations,” Gaz chuckled whilst finishing the final stroke along Johnny’s neck and wiping the knife clean on his thigh. “I think making sure he’s got all his limbs is far more important than caring about the symmetry of his body hair.”

Johnny reached up, splashing a bit of cold water from a plastic jug onto his face to rinse away the leftover foam and hair. He blinked through the droplets, looking at his clean-shaven face in the cracked glass. The dark circles under his eyes were deep, and there was a new scar slicing right through the edge of his left eyebrow from a rogue piece of masonry six months back. But beneath the grime and exhaustion, his jaw remained set. He looked like himself again. You’d grab his face and call out how unfair it was for him to be this handsome, he knew it. 

“Aye,” Johnny murmured, patting a cloth against his face to dry the skin. He looked over his shoulder at Simon, then at the Captain, keeping watch by the window. “Eighteen months of this shite. I’m ready for a proper roof.”

Eighteen months of quiet had turned the house into a museum of waiting. The living room, once bursting with Johnny’s booming laughter, discarded clothes thrown carelessly upon the excitement of seeing you home, and the warmth of his all-consuming presence, now felt vast and uncomfortably, uncharacteristically still. 

Friends and family had stopped calling about it around six months back. You barely got any visits from them anymore. At some point, you’d stopped taking up on the offers of going out to a pub, to get something to eat, as friends definitely noticed how hollowed out you seemed; and after that point, people just stopped asking. 

You couldn’t blame them, really. Knowing someone is dead was closure. Having a gravestone to caress and leave flowers by was relief. Not knowing where the love of your life might be, whether he was dead or alive, buried or burnt, grave unnamed or not…

You never did well with uncertainty. 

You sat in the exact same spot on the floor, back pressed against the base of the sofa, half-empty glass of red wine resting on the carpet beside your knee. The telly was on, of course, he’d told you to keep it on, and it cast a flickering glow across the dark room as it played that same home restoration show. On the screen, a new couple was bickering over the layout, their superficial problems serving as a numbing cream over your bleeding heart. It didn’t feel like mockery anymore. You found an odd sense of comfort in seeing that at least they had each other. 

You swirled the wine in your glass, watching the dark liquid coat the crystal, mind drifting back to the last afternoon you had spent on this very rug— with Johnny’s heavy, stubborn head resting against your lower abdomen while he grumbled about the work on TV. You had spent all this time nursing that memory, holding onto the phantom weight of his head, the ghost of his gravelly purr. 

The house was hell to walk through. The bathroom shelf with its hollow wall anchor sat exactly as he had left it, the mismatched color of the patchwork he’d done serving as a sacred testament to his messy domesticity that you refused to let anyone touch. You lived your life in a perpetual, agonizing limbo, walking that fragile tightrope without any sort of safety net whatsoever, never knowing if the man who loved you more than his next breath was still fighting his way back, or if the dark had finally taken over. 

You took a slow, deep sip as you stared blankly at the TV screen, completely unaware that a few streets over, a matte-black military transport was quietly cutting through the twilight.

A few minutes later, the heavy thud of a car door shutting broke the silence of the street.

Your hand froze halfway to your mouth, glass of wine tilting slightly whilst your chest locked up. That sound. It was way too heavy for a regular car. None of your neighbors owned a car that sounded like that.

Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as you set the glass down with a shaky rattle, scrambling off the floor. Your slippers skidded on the rug as you dashed into the hallway, hands trembling so much you could barely get a proper grip on the deadbolt. 

You threw the front door open, the cool evening air hitting your face as you stepped outside, but your eyes immediately locked onto the curb. 

The military transport was sitting there, its exhaust spitting thin plumes of gray into the air. But only one door had opened.

Simon stepped onto the pavement. 

He was moving slowly, shoulders hunched, skull mask making him look like the grim reaper incarnate under the dim yellow of the streetlamp. He walked across the grass alone. No loud, booming Scottish accent behind him. No Johnny.

Your world as you knew it, completely tilted on its axis. The terror you had spent eighteen months mourning finally crashed down, crushing out the remaining air from your lungs. 

“No,” you choked out, a breathless sob tearing from your throat as you stumbled down the porch steps. Your hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide, pleading, wild with the paralyzing grief that began to consume you. You didn’t necessarily see a soldier in front of you. You saw the nightmare that kept you awake, the dress uniform, polished shoes, hat off by the chest, and he’s so, so sorry. “Simon, no… please, no. You promised me. You promised…”

Simon caught you before your knees could buckle into the grass. His gloved palms gripped your body, hold firm, grounding as he pinned your collapsing weight against his broad chest. 

“Hey, no, look at me. Look at me, love,” Simon barked, trying to cut in between you and the rising panic bubbling in your heart. He leaned down, forcing his forehead agaisnt yours, forcing his eyes to lock onto your tear-blurred ones. “He’s not dead. Johnny’s alive. Breathe, bloody hell, breathe.”

The words took a second to register through the loud ringing in your ears. You clutched at his vest, fingers digging into the stiff nylon until it hurt. “Where is he? Simon, why isn’t he with you?”

Simon let out a long, heavy sigh, beginning to slowly lead you back into the house. You fought against it, but to no avail, he was too strong for you to fight back and run to the car. 

“Because your husband is the most pig-headed bastard in the entire British Army,” he muttered and you caught the faint edge of exhausted, fond irritation in his rough cadence. He practically forced you into a sitting position on the couch, eyes catching the wine glass and some of the empty bottles around, but he didn’t comment on it, getting down on his knees to force you to look down at him. “Took a nasty bit of shrapnel to the thigh a few days ago. Nothing fatal, skipped the artery, but the idiot hid it from us because he was terrified we’d miss the extraction window.”

You let out a trembling breath, eyes closing for a second as you leaned forward, closer, just to make sure you weren’t mishearing anything. “Oh my god…”

“Fever hit him like a damned train halfway through the flight,” Simon continued, hand coming up to gently pat your knee. “He’s completely out of it, mumbling nonsense. Medics put him straight into the base infirmary the second we touched down to get him on an IV drip and flush the fever out.”

He pulled back a little, then, eyes softening beneath the mask as he looked up at your unraveled face. “He wanted to come straight to the door, love. Genuinely tried to fight the orderly. When he couldn’t, well…” he shrugged, vaguely pointing at himself. “He’s safe. I kept my promise.”

The suffocating amount of terror that had colonized your chest for a year and a half didn’t vanish entirely, that would be too easy. It shifted a bit, transforming into a frantic need to move, right that second. 

“Take me to him,” you whispered, voice cracking as you made a move to stand up from the sofa. “Simon, please. If he’s fighting orderlies, he needs me. Take me to the base.”

Simon refused to move an inch, hands anchored to your knees, keeping you safely seated. “Not like this, love,” he murmured, eyes trailing your mismatched loungewear, the tremor in your hands, the frantic gaze you sported. “The base is a forty-minute drive, and the infirmary is freezing. Wash your face first. Then go put some boots on. Grab a proper jacket. I’ll wait right here.”

You wanted so badly to argue, to tell him you didn’t care if you walked into the military hospital stark naked as long as you got to Johnny, but the authority in Ghost’s gaze brooked no refusal. You nodded sharply, swallowing down a fresh wave of emotional exhaustion as you stood up and bolted down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Your hands shook so violently you could barely pull the sweater over your head. You grabbed the first pair of sturdy boots you could find and snatched Johnny’s heavy flannel off the back of the closet door— craving the faint scent of him even if it was buried under eighteen months of dust.

When you hurried back into the living room, Simon was already standing by the front door, holding your house keys in his gloved hand. He took one look at you. “Right,” he rumbled, turning the doorknob and stepping into the night. “Let’s go get your idiot.”

The engine rumbled with a vibration that seemed to match the anxious knot restarting its hold under your ribs. Simon’s hands rested steady on the steering wheel, eyes tracking the slicked roads as the typical purple twilight bled into the deep ink of the night.

You sat in the passenger seat, wrapped so deeply in the oversized flannel that the cuffs swallowed your hands. Your knees were pulled tightly to your chest, boots braced against the dashboard to keep yourself from coming apart. Every red light felt like a lifetime, every mile of asphalt a physical barrier stretching between you and the breath Johnny was drawing in a hospital bed. 

“Stop that,” Simon didn’t look over you, his eyes locked on the dark highway ahead. “You’re going to put your foot through my dash.”

You slowly dropped your legs, pressing your palms flat against your thighs to force the trembling to stop. “How bad is the fever, Si? Really.”

“He was out of his head by the time we crossed the airspace. Kept trying to unbuckle his harness because he swore he heard you calling him from the cargo ramp.” he let out a huff of quiet laughter, then. “He’s strong. Too strong to let a bug take him down after a year and a half of dodging mortars. But he’s spent. The whole lot of us are.”

You looked out the window, watching the bleak walls of the military base finally materialize out of the dark. “You kept him alive.”

“You owe me one, then,” he spoke flatly, which managed to pull half a smile out of you. The vehicle swung through the security checkpoint, guards waving the transport through on sight. “There were at least a dozen separate occasions in that blockaded sector where MacTavish’s crazy logic was the only thing that cleared a path for us. He fought like a demon to get back to this city. To get back home.”

The vehicle squealed to a halt in the restricted red zone directly outside the brick building of the base infirmary. Simon was out his door in an instant, walking around to your side to throw the door open, hands catching your waist to help you down onto the asphalt. 

“Second floor,” Simon murmured, nodding towards the heavy doors where a faint fluorescent white light spilled out onto the pavement. “I’ll handle the parking. Don’t let the orderlies give you any grief, tell ‘em the Ghost sent you.”

You practically sprinted through the double doors of the infirmary, and bolted up the stairs to the second floor. When you rounded the corner, the harsh lights overhead blurred together, but your eyes instantly locked onto the small, rectangular window of Room 204. 

You flinched upon the sight. Not that he looked like shit, well, he did, but he was Johnny. Your Johnny. Asleep. 

He still looked massive in the narrow hospital bed, broad shoulders propped up by pillows. He was stripped of all his armor, only wearing a loose green medical gown that showed a glimpse of a thick white bandage wrapped around his thigh. His face was flushed with the remnants of the fever, and a cannula was hooked beneath his nose. But his chest was rising and falling. He was breathing, and he looked so, so alive. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

The soft murmur made you tear your eyes away from the window. Sitting on a row of plastic waiting chairs directly outside the door were Price and Gaz. They looked entirely spent, barely out of their dirty uniforms, eyes hollowed out by the same tomb Johnny had just escaped. Each of them was holding a steaming cardboard cup of coffee. 

Gaz was already on his feet before you could get a word out, setting his coffee on the chair beside him. The second his eyes met yours, a look of profound relief broke through the obvious exhaustion. 

You stepped straight into his space, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. He caught you instantly and pinned you to his chest in a brief squeeze that smelled of rain and mud. 

“I got you,” Gaz whispered into your hair. “He’s good. He’s okay.”

As Gaz slowly let you go, Price stood up. The Captain had taken off his iconic boonie hat, revealing a sweat-dampened hairline, though his thick beard couldn’t hide the paternal tilt of his mouth. He looked at you, then down at Johnny’s oversized flannel drowning your frame, and let out a long breath.

You moved directly to him next, throwing your arms around his neck. The older soldier braced himself with his calloused hands coming up to rest against the back of your head, holding you securely against his shoulder for a long moment. It was the embrace of a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but had made damn sure to carry his boys back with him. 

“Go on inside,” he murmured near your ear, voice steady and certain as he patted your back. “He’s just waiting on the right voice to wake up to.”

The heavy wooden door turned with a click as you stepped into a space that felt entirely frozen in time. 

The steady beep… beep… beep… of Johnny’s heart monitor worked as proof that he was here. He was breathing. 

You walked over to his side of the bed, unlaced boots dragging against the concrete floor. Up close, the reality of just how tough the deployment had been was written all over him. Johnny was pale beneath the flush of the fever, jaw rough with a dark stubble. There were small, faded nicks along his collarbone, and a jagged line through his eyebrow looked pink against his skin. He looked thinner. 

Your knees gave out slightly as you sank into the chair right beside the mattress.

Slowly, your trembling hand reached out from the sleeve of the flannel. Your fingers hovered over his hand for a second, genuinely terrified that he might vanish into a puff of smoke if you touched him. But when you finally pressed your palm flat against the back of his hand, he felt real. Skin burning hot, slick with fever sweat, but the weight of his bones beneath your touch was the most beautiful thing you had ever felt. 

“Johnny,” you whispered, the sound small and broken. “My baby.”

At the sound of your voice, the line on the heart monitor jumped, the beeping speeding up just a fraction. Johnny’s jaw shifted sharply. His head rolled against the thin white pillow a little, a pained groan vibrating deep within his chest as his brow furrowed. His internal radar had instantly picked up the one frequency he’d always tune into.

“Sunshine?” he rasped.

His eyelids fluttered, heavy and uncooperative from the medication, but he fought them open. He was a fighter through and through. His bright blue eyes were clouded, unfocused, and bloodshot, rolling blindly across the ceiling before they finally drifted down and locked onto your face. For a long moment, he just stared at you, chest heaving deeper as if he couldn’t quite decide if his mind was playing a cruel trick on him. 

“Am I… am I dreaming ye up again, hen?” he whispered, large fingers twitching beneath yours, desperately trying to find the strength to curl around your wrist. 

Hot tears finally spilled over your eyelashes, dropping onto the back of his warm hand. You leaned over the metal guardrail of the hospital bed and brought your other hand up to cup his face. Your fingers slid into the short, soft hair of his mohawk, thumb tracing the sharp, trembling line of his jaw just like you used to, back home.

You choked out a soft sob, smiling through it as you pressed your forehead gently against his damp temple. “You’re not dreaming. I’m right here. Look at me, John, you’re safe, you’re at the base. You’re home.”

Johnny let out a long, shuddering breath, chest lifting so violently it probably strained the wires of the heart monitor. The rapid beeping of the machine echoed through the room as his clouded eyes slowly began to track the movement of your thumb on his skin. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the dry rasp of his breath.

You could see the sudden wave of clarity breaking through his fevered haze. His jaw trembled, the hard mask he was so used to wear beginning to shatter at the edges.

“Sunshine,” the word ripped out of his chest like a sob.

With a sudden urge of desperate and uncoordinated strength, one of his arms came up, hand locking around the back of your neck to keep you there. He didn’t care about the IV line pulling taut in his veins or the burning of the stitches in his thigh. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he let out a deep breath that tasted stale in his mouth.

The entirety of his body began to shake beneath the thin medical gown, shoulders racking with silent sobs as he held you. His arm kept you pinned so close to his chest that you could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart hitting against your own ribs. He was breathing you in, nose brushing against the collar of his own old shirt, desperate to drown out the memories of concrete, smoke, and blood with the scent of you and home. His favourite. His everything.

“Ye’re the only real thing I’ve got left in this miserable world,” Johnny wept into your skin and you couldn’t help but weep with him, at how unraveled he was, how small and scared he seemed with the sobs breaking out of him. “Thank ye for no’ letting go, no’ moving on yet, ye’re my home— I did it, I crawled through, for you, for you only, I—”

“Shh, I know,” you held him back just as tightly, fingers burying deeper into his hair as your tears ran hot against his shoulder. You could only whisper as you didn’t trust your voice just yet. “I know you did, Johnny. I never stopped looking at the door. I never stopped waiting for you.”

Within the quiet minutes of your embrace, the beat of his heart began to ease, settling into one that synced with yours. The monitor slowed down, though Johnny didn’t loosen his grip an inch, grounding you against his chest as if the physical friction of your body was the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world.

He pulled back just a fraction when tears no longer ran free, eyes the brightest of all blues, clearer now, stripped of the dark illusions he kept close to his heart, searching your face with a breathtaking reverence. His thumb came up, rough skin brushing a tear from your cheek with that breathless gentleness that always made your chest ache. 

“God, ye’re beautiful,” a tiny, lopsided ghost of his classic smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drifted down to the flannel drowning you. “Wearing my shite, too. Missed me a wee bit, did ye?”

A wet laugh escaped you at that, his timing still so absurd, although it definitely flushed away the remnants of your grief. You leaned forward, pressing your nose playfully against his just to feel his breathing. “Not just a wee bit, I should say.”

The discharge papers took another thirty-six hours of bureaucratic nightmare, but Price pulled the necessary strings to get Johnny cleared for a much needed home recovery.

The vehicle pulled up to the curb and Johnny, of course, didn’t necessarily have it in him to argue about pride. He was still weak, skin pale and the stitches in his thigh pulling painfully with every move. Simon killed the engine, walked around to the passenger side, and hoisted Johnny out of the seat. Gathering his friend into a careful carry, Simon bore him up the porch steps, his heavy boots making the wooden floorboards creak as he navigated the front threshold. 

You had hurried ahead to get the house ready, and the second the front door swung open, the entire space was flooded with the rich, savory aroma of Johnny’s favourite meal— the rich scent of a slow-cooked beef stew and fresh caramel shortcake sweet enough to push back eighteen months of cold isolation. 

Simon carried him straight into the living room, carefully propping Johnny up on the worn cushions of the sofa. He arranged a stack of pillows behind his back and gently elevated his bandaged leg onto the low coffee table. 

The softness of his actions put a smile on Johnny’s face as he thanked him quietly and sank into the fabric with a long sigh of surrender. He looked at the television, the rug, walls, and then tracked the scent straight towards the kitchen doorway where you were standing, a dish towel clutched between your hands and a soft, welcoming smile across your face.

Simon stepped back from the sofa, no gloves on his hands as he wiped them down his thighs. Instead of heading straight for the front door like he used to, his boots turned to navigate into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter where you were beginning to serve the food into plates, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked down at the simmering pot, then back up at you. 

“Smells good,” Simon murmured, gaze drifting back towards the sofa for a second before locking onto you. “Are you going to need any help with him? With the leg, fever… the rest of it? He’s going to be a handful when he regains his full mouth. And he’s heavy.”

Knowing amusement flickered in your eyes. You looked past his broad shoulder towards the living room, where your husband was already melting into the couch, before looking back up at the giant in front of you. 

“You can stay in the guest room for as long as you want if you’re that worried and eager to see him, Simon,” you teased softly, but the warmth in your eyes made sure he knew the invitation was real. “You too gotta get some warm food in your stomach, you know.”

Simon was still for a few moments. The sudden offer of a proper roof, a warm meal, and an open door was a heavy thing to process for him. He looked at you, then down at his own worn boots, a faint shift in his shoulders telling you all that you needed to know. 

The fabric of his mask huffed as he gave a single, slow nod. “Just for a bit. Make sure the idiot doesn’t try to walk before the stitches settle.”

You didn’t mind having him around. He didn’t mind staying around either, and God knows you couldn’t hoist Johnny to the bathroom for a much needed shower yourself. 

Dinner was pretty quiet. Johnny stayed on the sofa, too drained for the kitchen chairs, as Simon sat on the opposite edge of the hearth. There was little talking, just the scraping of spoons and the football match on the TV that nobody bothered to pay attention to. 

The real hurdle had been getting Johnny cleaned up. Between the weakness from his fever and the fresh stitches slashing across his thigh, a standard shower was out of the question. It took both you and Simon to navigate him into the bathroom. Simon provided the brute strength, stabilizing Johnny’s frame against the tile while you handled the warm water and soap. He’s seen me in worse conditions, lass, Johnny had joked while Simon was busy looking away. By the time you helped him into a soft pair of sweatpants and had him settled back into your bed, Johnny looked profoundly human again— exhausted, pale, but clean nonetheless. 

Now, the bedroom was bathed in the golden amber of the bedside lamp, rest of the house falling into deep silence whilst Simon was —you hoped— fast asleep by the other side of the wall. 

You were propped up on one elbow, cheek resting in the palm of your hand as you looked down at your husband. Johnny was lying flat on his back, clean sheets pulled up to his chest with his heavy, stubborn head sinking deep into the plush pillows. One of his large hands was resting palm-up on the mattress between you, his fingers twitching in a silent invitation. 

“Ye’re staring, sunshine,” he rumbled softly. 

“Just making sure you won’t fade if I blink,” you murmured, sliding your fingers into his open palm. He closed his hand around yours instantly. 

“Give it half an hour and LT’s snoring will let ye know jus’ how real all of this is.” a soft laugh was shared between the two of you, then. “Thanks for allowing him to stay, too.”

“He looked like he was too busy looking after you to take care of himself these past days,” you murmured softly and shifted a little, laying down on your back next to him as both of you stared into the dark ceiling. “And he didn’t seem like he wanted to leave you yet.”

“Bastard’s been on my arse for a year. I cannae take a proper break,” Johnny shook his head and brought your joined palms up, pressing the back of your hand against his chapped lips slowly. “I always imagined what this would be like. Coming home after all that. Most days I imagined a would have my dick out in ten minutes for the reunion shagging.”

You snorted. “Wishful thinking. It took two people to give you a shower.”

“Aye, well, a man can dream, sunshine,” he murmured, bright blues rolling toward the ceiling with a lazy fondness. “Kept me warm in the cellar, did it? Kept me going, thinking about those shorts you wear. Wee ones with the frayed edges.”

“You are unbelievable,” you whispered, a genuine smile tugging at your lips as you turned your head to face him. “Eighteen months in God knows where and your motivation was a pair of denim shorts?”

“The very same,” he nodded solemnly, eyes flashing with a spark of his classic fire that defined him right down to his core. “Gave me somethin’ to focus on, it’s no’ easy spending all that time with three other wankers. Though I suppose I can settle for the current view. Ye’re no’ a bad sight for sore eyes, hen.”

“Flattery won’t get you out of bed tomorrow, MacTavish.”

He slid his arm out from the sheets, carefully pulling you just an inch closer until your shoulder was pressed against his ribs, bridging the last bit of distance between you. “Guess am yer captive now, then.”

“Completely,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you tuned in to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Get some sleep, my love.”

“Goodnight, sunshine,” he whispered against your hair, thumb tracing circles into your skin as his eyelids finally won the battle. “Am home. Dream of my cock still, might be a while ‘til we get the beastie to its full power.”

Outside the window, the twilight faded into a deep black, and for the first time in eighteen months, the deadbolt was slid shut, the house felt warm, and the silence was broken by all the ridiculous things Johnny had in him to say. 

heeeyy, so... hihihi. thank you all so so much for reaching out with sweet comments, dms, asks, all that— it means the absolute world to me and i'm so glad i managed to write something that made you feel something!! i hope you're all having the bestest year and i love you all sm. hugs hugs hugs. lmk if you want to be tagged in future works or not tagged in anything and feel free to drop by to say hi!

It had started with a little girl named Lauren. Three years old and covered in a bright red rash that stretched from her wrist to her shoulder, she looked up at you with tear-filled eyes, her gaze fixed on the blue gloves covering your hands. You sat on the stool, scooting closer for a better look. 

“It’s okay,” you said gently. “These are just to keep everything clean.” 

Lauren blinked at you before glancing back at her parents. Her moms looked exhausted with worry, though one managed a reassuring smile as she kept a hand on Lauren’s back. 

“Here, honey,” you said, reaching into the glove box mounted on the wall. You pulled out a fresh glove and handed it to her. “You can feel it if you want. We can even blow it up like a balloon in a little bit.” 

She accepted it carefully with her rash-free arm. “Thank you.” 

You smiled. “You have wonderful manners, Lauren. Can I take a closer look at your arm?” 

Lauren nodded. “Hurts.” 

“It hurts?” You questioned. You directed your next questions to her parents. 

No recent travel. No new foods. The only thing was a day to the park. 

“Is it okay if my friend comes to look too?” You asked, mostly to Lauren before looking at her moms. All three of them nodded. 

You slid the curtain open just enough to slip through. In search of an attending, you found your husband hunched over a desktop computer, typing away at a chart.

"Can I borrow you for a second pair of eyes?" you asked, patting his arm. "I've got a three-year-old with what I think is poison ivy. Maybe poison oak."

"Fever?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Afebrile. Lungs are clear. She's itchy, says it burns, and she spent this afternoon crawling through bushes at the park looking for bugs."

With a tap, he logged out of the computer and looked up at you from his stool. "You should learn to trust your instincts," he teased.

You smiled, unable to resist glancing at the silicone wedding band on his finger. "C'mon," you said. "She's three years old, and she looks terrified. I just want to make sure she doesn't end up back here."

"Oh, alright," he murmured, following you back to the exam room.

By the time you returned, Lauren had managed to wiggle her hand into the glove. She waved enthusiastically when she saw you.

"Well, look at you," you said with a grin. "Get you another one, and I'll have to put you to work, Miss Lauren."

Lauren giggled, but her smile faded when her eyes landed on John. You gave his arm a reassuring pat.

"This is my friend, Dr. Shen," you said gently. "He's just going to take a quick look at your arm just like I did. Is that still okay?"

Lauren studied him for a moment before giving a small nod, raising it a little higher. A few minutes later, Lauren's arm was coated in a topical ointment, and she was proudly carrying her own copy of the discharge instructions. Her moms each had one too, but Lauren had insisted on taking one herself. Before she left, she wrapped her little arms around your leg in a quick hug, then disappeared through the doors with her parents.

The next few weeks weren't any easier.

Usually, it was the trauma cases that stayed with you. Standing beside people on the worst day of their lives had a way of draining every ounce of energy out of you. But this time, it was the kids.

The weight of a feverish six-month-old lingered in your arms long after he'd been discharged. The memory of Lauren's tiny hug clung to you for days. Even the laughter of a pair of identical twins, both sporting matching broken wrists and proudly choosing the same color casts, echoed in your mind long after they were gone.

You decided it was time for the conversation when you and John somehow managed to get the impossible: five days off in a row.

For weeks, the two of you had been ships passing in the night. You'd been buried in swing shifts and doubles while John had been trapped on nights. Conversations had been reduced to missed texts, half-finished cups of coffee, and leftovers tucked into the refrigerator with I love you scribbled across sticky notes.

After some creative schedule reshuffling, promises to pick up a shift if the department got slammed in your absences, and a tray of treats of their choosing strategically delivered to both Robby and Abbot, you'd somehow earned five uninterrupted days together.

The first day disappeared into sleep and the two of you didn't crawl out of bed until nearly six in the evening, exhausted enough to laugh at yourselves before ordering takeout and falling asleep on the couch halfway through a movie.

The second day was your chance.

You sent John on a wild goose chase for ingredients you didn't really need, casually mentioning two different grocery stores because "the first one probably won't have everything." He'd raised an eyebrow but kissed your forehead anyway before grabbing his keys.

The second the front door clicked shut, you sprang into motion.

You hurried through the house, straightening the living room, fluffing couch pillows that hadn't been touched in weeks, and tossing abandoned scrubs into the laundry basket. The bedroom was next, where you made the bed, cleared off both nightstands, and opened the curtains just enough to let the late afternoon light spill inside.

Then you got yourself ready.

You traded your usual sweats and oversized T-shirt for your best bra, a pair of well-fitting jeans, and a blouse that rested just off your shoulders. You spritzed on the perfume John had given you as a wedding present, the familiar scent instantly calming your nerves. A little concealer hid the evidence of too many overnight shifts, and a quick curl of your lashes made you look a little less like someone who lived under fluorescent hospital lights.

When you caught your reflection in the mirror, you smiled. Tonight, for the first time in weeks, you and your husband were finally going to have a real conversation.

By the time John got home, he'd somehow managed to juggle three grocery bags, a paper sack from the bakery, and the bouquet of flowers a fundraising kid from around the corner had convinced him to buy because, according to her, "your wife deserves flowers if she's making you dinner."

"I almost bought you a third one," he chuckled as he nudged the door shut with his hip. "She's going to make an excellent advertiser one day."

You laughed, hurrying over to relieve him of two bags before they could spill onto the floor.

He followed you into the kitchen, setting the remaining bags on the counter while you unpacked them, moaning at the scent from the loaf of bread that was still warm enough to fog the paper bag and the expensive pasta neither of you ever bought because someone always said the generic brand was fine.

You filled a pot with water while John unpacked the vegetables, quietly sliding things into your reach before you even asked. It was muscle memory after years together. You reached for the olive oil; he was already handing it to you. You searched for the pepper grinder only to find it waiting beside the cutting board. Neither of you had to think about it anymore.

Soft music drifted from the speaker in the living room, just loud enough to fill the comfortable silence that settled between the chopping of onions and the hiss of butter melting into a warm pan.

John leaned against the counter, watching you with the same expression he'd worn ever since he'd walked through the door.

“You’re staring,” you mumbled, moving from the counter to the stove and then back again. 

John wandered behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and settling his chin in the crook of your neck. He sighed dreamily, kissing your skin lightly.  “You’re wearing your wedding perfume,” he murmured. “And wearing the jeans I love on you.” 

You chuckled, reaching for the second half of the onion. “Yeah, so?” 

“What’s going on?” 

“What ever do you mean?” You teased, subtly shrugging him off of you as you turned towards the fridge for the heavy cream. 

"I mean..." He gestured vaguely around the kitchen, leaning against the opposite counter to give you space to cook. "You're making homemade pasta sauce from scratch. The house cleaner than it's been in six months. You look..." He hesitated, smiling to himself. "Ridiculously pretty." 

Heat crept into your cheeks, your shoulders shrugging. “And?”

"You trying to butter me up?" He accused. “Hiding something?” 

“No,” you smiled, stirring the sauce before it could stick to the bottom of the pan. "I just..." You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to stay loose. "We've barely seen each other lately." 

He didn't interrupt.

"I wanted one night that didn't involve microwaved leftovers or eating cereal at two in the morning before one of us passed out." You looked over your shoulder and smiled. "I'm excited to have my husband to myself for a change."

Something softened in his face. He crossed the kitchen in two easy strides, slipping his arms around your waist from behind while you stood over the stove. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder again.

"I've missed you too," he murmured.

You leaned back into him without thinking. “Love you.” 

“Love you too.” 

The only thing that pulled you apart was the finished meal. You pulled two plates out of the cupboard as John went to slice the bread. You guffawed when you caught him sneaking a piece. 

“John,” you chided. 

"Quality control," he defended around the mouthful. He placed his bitten slice on his plate, plucking it from your hand. “Hey, you married me!” 

“I was young and naive,” you muttered, grabbing the second slice and placing it on your plate. 

“You were 27,” he laughed. “Your frontal lobe had already developed.” 

The candles you'd lit earlier flickered softly between you, throwing warm light across the table. Neither of you reached for your phones. They sat abandoned on the kitchen island, blissfully ignored. After all, emergencies would go through loudly regardless. 

The conversation wandered the way it always did when neither of you was exhausted enough to fall asleep sitting upright. John told you about the guy who'd convinced himself appendicitis was "probably just bad vibes" and could cure it with herbs. You countered with the middle-aged man who'd come to the emergency department convinced he'd swallowed his dentures, only for them to be sitting in his shirt pocket the entire time. John laughed so hard he had to set down his fork. 

You exchanged war stories and gossip until silence settled over the two of you. You each ate with one hand, holding each other throughout the entire meal. He squeezed you gently every few bites, catching your attention only to smile like he hadn’t done anything. 

You could feel the words somewhere behind your teeth, hovering and desperate to come out. 

Do you want a baby? Do you think we’re ready? I think I’m ready for a baby. I want to start planning soon. What do you think of themed names?

Everything that had been on your mind for weeks threatened to spill if you took too long between bites. It was serious and life-changing in a way you never thought you’d be able to have.

You’d given up on love after your first college breakup. You'd been devasted and instead threw yourself into med school and bounced around the country. Then you ran into John thirty minutes before your shift and honestly, it was love at first sight. Neither one of you had noticed each other’s scrubs, somehow going on dates twice a week for three months before realizing you worked in the same place and same department, just separate shifts. It had been an HR nightmare at first, but seeing as the two of you could act professionally with each other, so much so that even the most eagle-eyed employees of the Pitt hadn’t caught on, things were alright. 

You knew you loved him when your mother had called you to let you know that the neighborhood stray cat who lived under your porch had passed. John had been there for you through the grieving process. Winnie had never technically been your pet, but you loved the creature so much that she might as well have been. He paid for your plane ticket home, surprising you with it by leaving it on your pillow. 

He’d be a wonderful father. He’s kind and patient. John could always make light of anything, defusing even the most tense situations. He traded coffees for stuffed animals from the pediatrics department to share with the kids in the ED. He could make a crying, confused, scared child laugh in under a minute and never treated the extra time taken as an inconvenience. 

He was the kind of man who became your favorite person before you knew it was happening. Hopefully someday soon, he could become someone else’s favorite person. 

“Listenin’, honey?” he asked gently, smile on his face. “I was thinking of changing the cabinets in the guest bathroom. It’s a little outdated.” 

Just say it, you thought. The man had seen every bit of you. He held you for hours when you lost your first patient. He’d seen you so drunk you mistook him for a stranger and instead of arguing, let you call Parker to take you home. He’d fished you out of Abbot’s pool when you refused to get out and laughed when you pulled him in fully clothed. 

The words rose in your chest with each pound of your heart. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Do you think we should paint it too? The green is a little dreary, don’t you think?” 

You immediately busied yourself with another bite of pasta as John thought about it. 

“Sure. We can go with a lighter green or maybe a blue,” he wondered aloud. 

You nodded a little too enthusiastically. The question still sat heavy in your chest, refusing to disappear. Forty-eight hours ago you’d talked down the most combative patient of your career then immediately held a woman’s hand as she gave birth in the ambulance bay, and still, this was the hardest thing you’d ever done. You should ask him now.

Instead, you found yourself asking if he wanted more parmesan.

He smiled and held out his plate. "Always."

Once dinner was finished, he stacked the dirty plates without being asked and carried them to the sink, humming quietly as he turned on the hot water. Months ago, he'd offered to install a dishwasher. You'd refused. The one in your college apartment had leaked so consistently that you'd ended up handwashing everything anyway, and even when it was fixed, it somehow managed to leave every plate feeling gritty. You'd declared dishwashers a waste of money and maintenance. John hadn't argued. Instead, he'd researched dish racks until he found one with a slanted drain tray that funneled the water directly back into the sink and installed it that weekend. He'd also trimmed the tree outside every spring so sunlight reached the drying rack through the kitchen window. According to him, the dishes dried faster that way. 

He never tried to convince you that your worries were irrational. He simply found another solution. 

When winter rolled around, he bought snow grips that slipped over your boots because he knew you'd refuse to stop walking to work just because the sidewalks iced over. There were always packets of HotHands tucked into the ceramic bowl by the front door before the first snowfall. Somehow, they never ran out. During the summer, he'd insist you showered first after work because he knew how much you hated the feeling of dried sweat clinging to your skin after a shift. 

There were hundreds of those little things he did. None of them were grand enough for anyone to notice or really comment, but every single one made you feel seen and loved. 

You wandered around the counter after blowing out the candles, your fingertips trailing across the cool granite until they came to rest beside the framed wedding photo that permanently occupied the corner of the kitchen. 

The wedding itself had been... disappointing. Your schedules had been impossible, so the two of you had only taken your wedding day off, promising a lavish vacation later on. Friends and extended family had politely declined because they couldn't rearrange work or book flights with so little notice. Some relatives had apologized that the travel simply wasn't possible. Even half the people you worked with couldn't make it because someone still had to cover the emergency department.

The tailor who'd been making your dress had lost her shop in a fire only weeks before the ceremony. You settled for another dress that didn’t feel like yours. John offered to postpone, but your lease was ending and your family would be extremely disappointed if you moved in with John before you had the ring. 

You'd spent years imagining an outdoor ceremony beneath late spring sunshine. Instead, a storm rolled in that morning without warning. Even the forecast had insisted the skies would stay clear. Instead, you married in a cramped room in the back of the venue you’d chosen, the rest of the venue was being set up for someone else’s wedding. By every measurable standard, the day hadn't gone according to plan. 

You smiled at the photograph anyway. The photographer had caught the exact moment John leaned over and kissed you without warning. Your eyes were barely open and your bouquet was a blur as it fell to the ground mid-photo and your arms barely visible as they were moving around his shoulders. You weren't thinking about the rain or the missing guests or the dress you hadn't wanted, you were simply looking at your husband the way you always did. 

“Everything alright over there?” He poked. “I’ve asked you like three questions and you’ve ignored them.” 

You shrugged, setting down the photo. “Just thinking.” 

“You’ve been doing an awful lot of thinking.” 

You laughed softly, hoping it sounded convincing enough to end the conversation. “I work in emergency medicine. Thinking is kind of in the job description.”

John folded the dish towel over the oven handle before turning to face you fully.

“No.” He shook his head once. “This is different.”

You busied yourself with straightening the corner of a placemat that didn't need straightening. “How so?”

He leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching you with the same careful expression he reserved for patients, leaving enough silence for you to jump in when you felt comfortable.

“You've started zoning out,” he continued quietly. “I'll say something, and you won't hear me. You'll stare at absolutely nothing for five minutes.” A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Yesterday I asked if you wanted Chinese or pizza, and you answered, with ‘yeah, mhm’.”

Your smile faded as a lump formed in your throat. The room suddenly felt much smaller than it did a few seconds ago, your skin warming under his gaze. 

“Did something happen?” He asked gently. 

You couldn’t speak. 

“Did I do something to upset you?” John asked again, voice straining like the thought of you being upset with him was enough to make him cry. 

John noticed the way you picked at your fingernails, shoulders curling in like you were trying to hide from the conversation. He'd spent years reading faces for a living. He searched for those tiny shifts in expression, changes in breathing, and the hesitation before an answer. Those skills didn't disappear when he walked out of the hospital. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t turn them off, especially when it came to you. 

He closed the distance between you until only a step separated you. “You’ve been tossing and turning for days,” he said softly. “And I heard you cried at work the other day.” 

Your eyes flickered up to his. His expression softened at the alarm in your eyes. 

After all these years, it took a lot to rattle you at work. Emergency medicine had taught you how to compartmentalize. You learned to focus on the next task, the next patient, the next decision. If something stayed with you, you carried it home quietly. Maybe it caught up to you during your walk back from the hospital. Maybe in the shower with the water hot enough to drown out your thoughts. Very rarely did you full-on cry before your shift was over. 

A little boy had come back looking for you, no older than seven. Earlier that week, you'd cared for his mother after she'd arrived in a panic. The trauma team worked around her, assessing her wild vitals until she crashed, losing consciousness and eventually wound up intubated. The boy and his sister had been lost in the shuffle until she was stable and the team filed out to get ready for the next case. He'd sat in the consultation room with his six-year-old sister asleep across his lap, one hand over her ear to drown out the noise and his jacket tucked over her eyes carefully. 

You offered to take them to another room to wait for the social worker to contact their dad. He'd simply told you, in a voice far too steady for someone his age, that his dad had asked him to be the man of the house until he came home from helping his mom settle into her new retirement home. You stepped away to start her chart and every few minutes he'd glance toward the hallway, waiting for someone to tell him whether his mom was still alive or if she’d be okay. Eventually, you sat on the little stool and explained every machine attached to his mother before she left for the operating room. What the breathing tube did. Why the monitors beeped. Why everyone had been moving so quickly. You answered every question he asked, no matter how small, never once pretending to know something you didn't. When you admitted you didn't know how long surgery would take, he'd simply nodded and thanked you for being honest. 

Two days later, he'd come back. His father stood beside him, exhausted but smiling when he recognized you. Lupe buzzed him in through the doors with your permission. The little boy had shyly held out a folded piece of construction paper.

"I made this for you."

Inside was a thank-you card. There was a drawing of his family holding hands beneath an enormous sun that took up nearly half the page. Tucked inside was a poem, written in careful, uneven handwriting. He wrote about being strong isn’t being the biggest person in the room, it’s someone who is brave and listens. He told you about how his mom was at home now, safe and sound in bed. By the time you'd looked back up, his father was crying. You hadn't lasted much longer. 

"...Yeah," you murmured now, your voice barely above a whisper.

John reached for your hand again. “You can tell me what’s bugging you, sweetheart.” 

The words burst out before you could lose your nerve. 

"I want a baby, John!"

The sentence came out louder than you'd intended, echoing slightly through the quiet kitchen. John’s eyebrows lifted instantly. 

“You what?” 

"I want a baby," you repeated, your voice cracking this time. Tears blurred your vision almost immediately. "I want a little you or me running around this house."  You laughed through a sniffle, wiping impatiently at your cheeks.  “I want to wake up and make pancakes every morning that just get thrown on the floor. I want to hear a little voice in the backseat begging for a bucket of Munchkins when you get your coffees.” 

“Baby, slow down,” he said, shaking his head like he was trying to catch up.

"I want to be woken up at some ungodly hour because somebody needs a glass of water or had a nightmare, and one of us has to go check the closet for monsters." More tears escaped despite your best efforts. "I-I want my feelings hurt because they decide they like you better than me for a week." 

A watery laugh slipped out. "I want to argue over bedtime and soccer practice and who's picking them up from school. Imagine the fridge covered in drawings and our phones filled with pictures of all of us together." 

Your shoulders sagged. "I just..." You looked at him helplessly. "I want a family with you."

The clock in the living room ticked impossibly loud, practically thundering in your ears for exactly three seconds. John shook his head, a smile forming on his lips. 

“Okay,” he shrugged. 

“Okay?” You blubbered, wiping your cheeks again. 

“If that’s what you want.” He placed his hands on his hips. “You want to start now?” 

"Sometimes," you said, shaking your head through your tears, "I hate how calm you can be." 

John let out a surprised laugh. "What?"

"I've been carrying this around for weeks! I thought you were going to need time to think about it."

His expression softened into something almost disbelieving. "Sweetheart..." He stepped closer, gently cupping your face in both hands. "This is, like, the best thing you could've asked me for."

"It is?" You whimpered as he dragged you into his arms. 

"I thought you were about to tell me you were dying." He gave a breathless laugh. "Or that you hated living here. Or that you wanted a divorce."

"A divorce?" You blubbered. 

"You've been acting like you were carrying around the end of the world."

Despite yourself, you laughed.

"I've been sitting here trying to prepare myself for the worst, and instead..." His grin spread wider. "Instead my wife tells me she wants to have my babies."

Your face immediately flushed. "When you say it like that, it sounds... dirty."

"It sounds fantastic." He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours. "I've wanted that too."

You smiled up at him, relishing in the way your bodies fit together. If you played your cards right, tossed out the condoms in the nightstand, and let yourself dream just a little, a year from now, you could be separated only by the curve of a baby bump. 

“So,” he started. “A few minutes ago, I asked what you wanted for dessert and now we have three options. Ice cream from the freezer, and we have bananas so we can split a banana split.” 

You grinned. “Funny.” 

“We could go get cookies from that place around the corner.” A cocky grin formed on his lips. “Or we could have each other for dessert.” 

You stared at him for a beat before dissolving into laughter, slipping out of his arms. "Oh, that was terrible." You pointed toward the refrigerator. "Bring the whipped cream you just bought." 

John followed after you as you disappeared down the hallway. "But you're picking option three, right?" he called, stopping in the kitchen doorway.

You'd already vanished around the corner. A second later, your blouse landed in the hallway, followed by your jeans, tossed just far enough for him to see. “Just bring the whipped cream!” you called. 

A grin split across his face. "Yes, ma'am."

He made a beeline for the refrigerator, yanking the can of whipped cream from the top shelf. In his enthusiasm, he clipped a stack of plastic containers, sending them wobbling before they crashed onto the floor with a clatter. John glanced down at the mess before picking them up and throwing them back into the fridge and closing the doors before they could come tumbling back out. 

"...Tomorrow's problem,” he murmured to himself, grabbing both of your phones. 

He gave the can a quick shake, sprayed a generous swirl into his mouth, and hurried after the trail of discarded clothes. 

The bedroom door stood open. Still swallowing the whipped cream, he froze at the sight of your bare legs stretched across the mattress. Your bra had been tossed to the floor already and your underwear was looped around an ankle. He stepped in, his cheeks flushing at the sight of you entirely bare, drawing circles over your chest. 

“Thought we could eat it off each other,” you whispered seductively. “Then rinse off in the shower together?” 

After a fit of coughing over another dollop of whipped cream, he walked around the bed and looked at you with a crooked grin. He giggled as he drew a line across your chest, making you squirm at the coldness. 

It's been a long time since you've felt this thrill—this need. Let yourself get pulled away from your friends in a crowded bar, pressed against cheap vinyl in a secluded corner as a man you barely know grabs your hips to keep you still, keep you tucked against him. Sloppy kisses beneath a framed picture of Elvis. Smearing. Wet. The scratch of stubble. The nip of teeth. A sting soothed with the lash of a soft, fleshy tongue. Fingers diving beneath the hem of your pants because he can't get enough. He's solid against you, warm—burning like a furnace. A heat you can feel, pulsing, between your hips.

You feel the buzz of alcohol a lot more, too. A potent thing in your veins—syrupy and thick; your head feels full of it, heavy and liquid. Your whole body is just that—liquid. A slow ooze. He's the only thing keeping you up, holding you steady. Without the press of his fingers, the nudging rolls of his hips, you'd melt into the sticky linoleum.

You thank him with a slurred murmur, a clumsy kiss, and he laughs it off. Tucks you tighter against him as he says to thank him later, when he brings you back to his hotel—

This isn't like you. You can't even remember his name—a laugh, and he whispers it again with an edge of teeth that feel like a reprimand; so you won't forget it this time—or how you got here, in this corner, with a man you vaguely remember offering to buy you a drink at the bar. His accent stood out, like it does now when he says come on, let's go, and just as suddenly as you ended up pressed against the wall, you're being pulled into his arms. Breathless and clumsy. Cute, he says, and it's a hazy, dimpled thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You came here with friends. Know better than to leave without them, with a man you don't know—a man they don't know—but when you slur this into his chest, he peels away. Steps back. And that chasm makes you whine. Keening in the back of your throat because the space, the distance feels too big. Too wide. Your struck, suddenly, by thigmotaxis. A small, soft-bodied thing that's too vulnerable without the hard lines of his body propping you up. He fits like a corner for you to hide inside, and you miss that more than you should. Need it more than you can understand with your thoughts stuck in a gauzy web. In this state, the sheer size of him, the solid wall of skin-warmed muscle and meat, is anxiolytic.

He shushes you—more dimples. The edge of teeth. Steps back into place, and let's you melt against him, a safe nook, but his words rake across that part of you that knows this isn't normal, that this isn't like you. You've only had four drinks. Three of which he bought.

But when he says c'mon, doe, let's get outta here, all of the things you should say are damped by that ooze. That slick, sticky thing in the back of your head, cradled between your thighs. You nod, a slow, dizzy thing, and watch the shape of his maw shift up into a wide, sharp toothed grin.

It stays—a permanent etch across his too-handsome face; lingers in the spill of daylight when you wake up to something heavy, tight on your ring finger. There, pressed into the corners, all teeth and deep dimples, when the slow, steady drip of the night before comes back to you and you realise that instead of leading you back to his hotel, he took you to a sleazy, twenty-four church. The license signed—your messy, drunken scrawl on the paper confirming that you did, in fact, get married to a man you knew for less than an hour, with the bulk of that time being kissed senseless in a corner and told drink up, doe.

You slip out of the room when he's in the washroom, hurriedly running back to your apartment to scrub the night off in the shower—the phantom touch, the ghost of his words (am catholic, he'd said in the cab after telling the driver to head to the nearest, sleaziest church. cannae fuck before the ring, doe, no't' a good Catholic boy like me)—trying to find some fix for this mess you'd gotten yourself into. It can't be permanent. It can't be real.

The only place you feel safe is with your friends, family, but that charm he laid on so thick last night shows itself in a new light when you find him sitting at their table already. Oozing a sweetness that makes your teeth ache when you see the approval gleaming in their eyes as the story he tells is wrapped up in romance. In love at first sight. And the problem is that he's cunning. Too smart for his own good. He can see the vulnerability, the weakness in your family—in their penultimate dream for you: happiness, a family, one of your own—and he pounces. Convinces them that he's so good for you. That this spur of the moment decision wasn't as sudden as you keep telling them it was—chalking it up to embarrassment, of all things; that you were too shy to admit to having an online relationship with a man you'd never met before—and despite everything, they believe him.

Maybe it's wilful ignorance. Maybe he's just such a catch, a good guy, that they want this work out for you more than they want to see the cracks in a good man's veneer. Whatever the reason, it culminates in them welcoming him into the fold as your unexpected husband. Inviting him places as mean to get to know him—an opportunity for him to ooze as much charm as he needs to in order to sway them to his side. Spreading like a spore amongst your core group with the intention of sticking. Even going so far as to have your friends talk you out of a divorce, siding with him on the (manufactured) reasons why you two should stay together. Or—

give him a chance.

But it won't last long. Soap knows this. Eventually, the cracks will appear. Someone will look beyond what they wish you really had to see how unnerved by the situation you are—something he won't be able to chalk up to shyness or embarrassment for much longer. Not when you're so against this "sham" marriage.

Which is why he sneaks around to plan a "honeymoon" with your friends and family, getting them involved in a surprise trip back home with him.

Despite your misgivings about him, there is a brightside to this—a vacation you don't have to pay for. And what is the worst that could happen in a small cabin nestled in the Highlands, really.