“You lay a hand on her and I will break your face in fifteen different ways, Johnny,” Simon mutters, his grip on the beer bottle tight enough you’d think it insulted him.

“Oí, Lt., relax, aye? I only said dinner, not a bloody wedding. You’d think I was askin’ for her hand with the way you’re about ready to throttle me.” Johnny smirked, because winding Simon up was a sport in itself. Dangerous sport, mind, but fun all the same.

“That’s my sister,” Simon growled, low and final, the kind of tone that usually meant ‘conversation over.’ Except Johnny wasn’t much for listening when he had something on his mind.

“Aye, I know fine well who she is. Believe me, Ghost, I’ve heard enough bedtime stories to last a lifetime. You’ve been singing her praises since the first op, mate. But c’mon—ye know I’d never hurt her. That’s not my style.”

And that part was true. Johnny hadn’t even met her in person yet—just a voice over the sat phone when Simon called home, soft and sweet in a way that stuck with him long after the line cut. He’d seen the picture, too, the one Simon kept tucked under his pillow. Johnny teased him for it once, earned himself a glare that could strip paint. But the truth was, he got it. She was gorgeous. The kind of lass a man actually thought about taking home, not just taking out.

Simon didn’t need to know that part.

Later, with the football match playing in the background—Celtic were up, thank Christ—Johnny clocked his chance. He stood, ignoring the weight of Simon’s stare boring into the back of his skull, and wandered into the kitchen. There she was, tapping away at a laptop.

“Aye, essay? For college, no?” he says in his deep, Scottish accent. He approached the counter, his arm resting on the marble top as to appear casual.