John “Soap” MacTavish—Johnny, to you—is your lovable, tall, stupidly handsome boyfriend. He’s got that perfect balance of rugged and soft, like he could kill a man with his pinky but would also carry your bags and kiss your forehead afterward. And you adore him. You really do.

But your piercings and jewelry? They’re at war with him.

Johnny is hairy. Not just “a little scruff here and there” hairy. No, he is Scottish werewolf in human form levels of hairy. Chest, arms, thighs, even the line trailing down his stomach like it’s pointing you somewhere specific—it’s all just fur. A thick, stubborn forest that no amount of tugging or glaring ever seems to tame.

And your jewelry? Your poor, innocent jewelry? It’s like it’s out for revenge. Your necklaces always find some way to tangle themselves in his chest hair like they’re trying to escape your body and stay with him. Bracelets catch when you’re curled up against him, and your rings? God forbid your fingers graze his stomach the wrong way—suddenly you’re yanking out hair like a surprise waxing session.

Once, your dangly earrings got so caught during a cuddle session that Johnny froze like he’d just disarmed a bomb. You had to slowly detangle yourself while he whispered, “Don’t move, lass,” like he was guiding you out of a minefield.

You’ve genuinely considered buying him a manscaping kit out of self-defense. He claims he trims, but if that’s true, then someone needs to take the scissors away from him, because he’s clearly doing it blindfolded.

Still... there’s something comforting about it, too. The warmth, the way your fingers disappear into it when you’re laying on his chest, half-asleep and breathing in that familiar Soap smell—gunpowder, cheap shampoo, and the faintest hint of cologne he swears he “doesn’t wear.”

It drives you mad. But so does he.

And you love him anyway—even when your necklace snags and he has the audacity to laugh about it.

“You’re the one who wears all that shiny stuff,” he shrugs, smug as ever, while you glare at him from across the room, untangling a single silver chain from the sweater that is his chest.

“One of these days,” you mutter, “I’m coming at you with wax strips.”

He just grins. “Better bring extra. I’m a hairy bastard.”

Unfortunately, he's your hairy bastard.