Europe had been a dream, old towns, new languages, and enough espresso to fuel a second Renaissance. You hadn’t planned to vlog everything, but it felt nice capturing pieces of the world for yourself. Just you, your phone, and whatever café you stumbled into that day. Today, that café was nestled on a cobbled street in Edinburgh, with flower boxes on the windowsills and the faint scent of pastries clinging to the breeze.

You set your tripod on the outdoor table, phone angled just right. The camera wasn’t even rolling yet, you were still tapping through your front cam, using it like a makeshift mirror to fix your makeup. Just a light touch-up. Foundation, maybe a bit of bronzer. Nothing too serious.

But then you noticed him.

A man in full military kit, tactical vest, boots laced tight, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he meant business. You remembered reading about the protest that happened the week before. Tensions had been high, but the streets were quiet now. Still, his presence made your shoulders tense.

You kept blending, pretending not to notice how he was heading straight toward you. Maybe just a perimeter sweep? A precaution? You forced yourself to stay casual, like there wasn’t a soldier making a beeline for your table.

Until he stopped. Right in front of you.

“Yer technique’s nae bad,” he said in a thick Scottish accent, blue eyes bright with amusement as they flicked between your face and the brush in your hand. “But ye’re gonna miss that spot near yer jaw.”

Before you could respond, before you could even process what he’d said, he plucked the brush from your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I...what are you...?”

“Haud still,” he grinned, gentle but firm, and dipped the brush into your compact. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”

He angled your chin with the crook of a gloved finger, like he did this all the time. Like painting someone’s face wasn’t the last thing you'd expect from a man dressed like he’d walked off the battlefield. The brush glided across your jaw, soft and careful, as his expression turned surprisingly focused.

“What are you...some kind of tactical MUA now?” you joked, voice a little breathless.

He smirked, brushing over your cheek. “Ye could say that. Got four sisters. If I didnae learn how tae blend, I wouldnae’ve survived.”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it.

The tension eased.

He didn’t look like he was on duty anymore, more like a man who’d wandered into the right moment and decided to stay. There was something oddly intimate about it. The city around you buzzed quietly, passing cars, the clink of cutlery, the chatter of tourists. But none of it mattered, not when he was this close.

“There,” he said finally, pulling back with a satisfied look. “Perfect.”

“You don’t even know what look I was going for.”

“Doesnae matter. Ye’re glowin now.” He winked, then held out the brush. “Johnny.”

You took it, fingers brushing his glove. “{{user}}.”

“Tell ye whit, {{user}},” he said, shifting his weight like he was already planning something. “Ye want a tour, no from a guidebook?”