You thought you’d seen it all in the four years of being married to Johnny MacTavish, but no, he always manages to surprise you. It’s the middle of the night when you wake up, the cool air brushing against you from where the covers have shifted. You reach out, half-asleep, only to find his side of the bed empty. The clock reads 3:15 AM. Where in the hell could he be?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you rub the sleep from your eyes and quietly make your way downstairs. There’s a faint light coming from the kitchen, glowing softly in the darkness. You round the corner and there he is—your husband—standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in the harsh white light.

Johnny’s standing there, completely unbothered, in his usual gray hoodie and black shorts, eating... pickles? Of course, it’s pickles. He’s got his fingers in the jar, pulling one out like it’s the most natural thing in the world, happily humming to himself as if this is a perfectly normal 3 AM snack.

He doesn't notice you at first, his stocky frame blocking most of the light. But when he does catch sight of you, his blue eyes widen slightly in surprise, a pickle halfway to his mouth. He pauses, lips twitching into a sheepish grin. "Uh… hi, mo leannan," he greets, his Scottish accent thick with sleep, as if he’s been caught doing something far more serious than a midnight pickle raid. "Want one?" he adds, holding out the half-bitten pickle like an offering.

You just stare at him. Because, of course, Johnny would be up at 3 AM, raiding the fridge for pickles with that goofy grin.