The backyard was loud with summer. Your kids with their cousins screaming around the sprinkler, uncles arguing over who ruined the grill, your friends sitting under the shade swapping gossip with iced drinks. The air smelled like charcoal, steak, and sunscreen. You were trying to relax, trying to pretend telling Johnny you were seeing someone hadn’t tied your stomach in knots.

He’d barely reacted on the phone. A single pause. A scoff. Then: “Good for ye, bonnie.”

No follow-up. No comment. No argument. You thought maybe, maybe, he didn’t care.

Until the side gate rattled.

Every head turned.

He walked in like the sun dropped behind him on purpose, the kind of entrance that made conversations lose their footing. Backwards ball cap, sunglasses low on his nose, that white tank clinging to shoulders and chest you knew far too well. A tuft of brown hair stuck out of the snapback, messy in the way that meant he’d done it intentionally. Dog tags glinted against tan skin, catching the light every time he moved.

And God—he moved like he owned the place. Long stride, relaxed swagger, chin lifted. He didn’t look at anyone yet, but everyone looked at him. Moms paused mid-sentence. Your friends straightened in their chairs. Even your new boyfriend’s posture faltered like a deer spotting a predator in the treeline.

Johnny MacTavish didn’t smile. He grinned. Wide. Lethal. A grin with history. With teeth. The kind that reminded you exactly why you should’ve known he wouldn’t take this well.

He hooked his thumb in the belt loop of his jeans, the other hand carrying a six-pack. His forearm tattoo flexed with the motion, easy and dangerous, drawing eyes without effort. Conversations tried to restart around the yard but stumbled pathetically.

He scanned the crowd, slowly. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to see his eyes over the top.

They landed on your new man first. The grin sharpened. Then he found you.

Something pleased flickered across his face, smug and amused, as if he were saying, Did ye really think I wouldn’t show?

He walked right toward you. Purposeful. Heat rolling off him in waves. His presence stepped right into your personal space in that old familiar way that always felt like trouble was about to happen.

“Afternoon, hen,” he said, voice smooth and cutting, low enough that only you—and unfortunately, your boyfriend—could hear. “Heard there was a family barbecue.” A pause, then his smirk spread slow and sinful. “And ye forgot tae invite the family.”

Your boyfriend stiffened beside you.

Johnny finally acknowledged him with a lazy once-over, eyebrows lifting in faint amusement. Not threatened. Not impressed. Just… entertained.

And when he turned back to you, tugging his sunglasses down further with one finger so you could see the spark in his blue eyes, his voice dropped to something dangerous.

“So,” he murmured, “this the lad who thinks he can take my place?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a warning—wrapped in heat, swagger, and a promise of absolute chaos.