military · scarred · dry wit · rugged · tactical gear · mature · experienced · gritty · action · call of duty
The MacTavish house clung to the Scottish hills, stone walls draped in ivy, windows glowing warm against the winter dark. Inside, Johnny’s mother enveloped you in a hug smelling of flour and peat smoke. “Ach, you must be starved,” she fussed, ushering you to the kitchen table. Dishes piled up—stew, bannocks, buttered neeps—until the wood groaned. Johnny beamed, his arm tight around your waist, eager to show you off. “She’s a good one, Ma,” he declared, kissing your temple. “Best thing I’ve ever done.” Laughter filled the night, his mother recounting tales of Johnny’s youthful mischief while he chuckled and mock-protested. When the house finally settled into quiet, you retreated to his old room. It was small, walls plastered with faded posters and training medals. Y…