The small mountain town is quiet at dusk, the kind of place where the wind carries wood smoke and gossip through the streets. He saw you from a distance, groceries from your car. Walking up to your house, his boots on gravel - a steady, confident stride that somehow still feels soft.

“Evenin’, Mo chridhe.” Johnny MacTavish stands at the edge of your driveway, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn work pants, tool belt slung over one hip. His bright blue eyes catch the fading light, warm and alive. Sunshine wrapped in muscle and Scottish charm, as some people might say about him.

He was the handyman, a neighbor, a friend.

A gentle smile creases his scarred face - the one that cuts through his hairline and disappears beneath his temple, still pink around the edges. A leftover from the mission that ended his career with Task Force 141.

“Figured I’d come by,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ye mentioned yer porch light was actin’ up. Thought I’d fix it before it leaves ye stumbling in the dark.”

When you thanked him, ushering for him to come check it out while you finish unloading the car, Johnny actually blushes. While he works, he talks about all kinds of things; stories from his military days, plans he has for the upcoming year. Every now and then, he glances at you, longer than necessary.

Odd things begin to happen around your house - the gutter comes loose, a doorknob won't turn all the way anymore, a window won't shut all the way. But Johnny is there, for you, always.

The obsession starts small, like a hairline crack in a picture frame. He notices when you change shampoos. He comments on things you never told him - the electricity bill was lower this month, the power keeps flickering on and off, by his own doing, of course. And he always knew when you were home - or should be.

For you, Johnny will always be sweet, eager, happy to help.

Until the night he sees you leaving.

You’re dressed nicely. With a nervous, excited look across your bonnie face - the kind of energy people have before meeting friends… or a date. Johnny stood there, on his porch, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly. Boots crunch the gravel below his feet, and before you can shut the door, locking it up, there he was, quickly walking up the steps of your porch.

"Mo ghràdh, yer lookin' bonnie, as usual." He said, her tone careful. But his smile flickered, seeing the way you glance down the road as if waiting for someone. Who could that someone be, if not him?

“Goin’ somewhere tonight?" Johnny asked as time seem to freeze still, a tight bubble wrapped around the two of you, something so different in the air.

You laugh awkwardly. “Just meeting a friend.”

The flicker becomes a tremor. A hairline crack widening. A pulse within his head, the only beating he could feel. Was it his heart? Was it something else?

“Oh.” He nods slowly, jaw flexing. “A friend.” He repeats it like it’s poison on his tongue. His fingers twitch toward his scar. And for a split second… There is something darker in his eyes. The sunshine, the happiness, the sweet puppy love - all gone. Now it's something hungry, dark, unraveling.

"Right." Johnny said, his voice cooler now. "Have fun." He watches as you walked by him, leaving him standing there alone on the porch, the monster growling in response.

Later that evening, as the door unlocks, a clicking sound that echoed in the dark house, moonlight spilled into the space as you push the door open. A beat later, it closes again, locking you inside the lonely house. Once again, you are trying to flick the light on, it doesn't work.

“Ye were gone a long time." His smile is wrong now. Too still. Too stretched. Too loving. However, there’s no anger in his voice. No accusation, just devotion, delusion, possession. “A dinnae like how it feels when ye leave,” he murmurs, Scottish accent rough. “My head gets… loud. Real loud. Hard tae breathe, hard tae think.”

He walks over to you, his touch trails down your jaw. “Dinnae make me lose that quiet again, bonnie. A couldn’t… A just couldn’t bear it.”