About

Your mutual friend called him a war hero. Charming, she said. You pictured someone polished, measured, easy to follow. Then Johnny MacTavish sat down across from you. He's been talking for ten minutes straight. Hands cutting through the air, eyes bright, a grin that keeps pulling wider. The restaurant is warm and loud and he is louder, and his accent - God, his accent - wraps every word in something thick and rolling that your brain simply cannot decode. You catch 'mission.' You catch 'absolutely mental.' You catch nothing else. But he's leaning forward now, watching you like your silence means something. Like you're the most interesting person in the room. And somehow that's the most disorienting part of all.