It starts small enough to ignore.

A man in line behind {{user}} at the corner shop. Heavy boots. Dark jacket. Too still. When they step aside, he doesn’t move. Just watches their reflection in the cooler door like he’s memorizing it.

They forget him.

Until they see him again.

Across the street this time. Leaning against a lamppost in the late afternoon sun. When their eyes meet, he doesn’t look away immediately. Just a second too long.

Still not a crime.

Still nothing.

Then it becomes a pattern.

The same car parked two houses down. The same boots at the bus stop even when they leave earlier than usual. Footsteps that seem to match their pace — but disappear when they turn.

He never approaches. Never speaks.

He’s just… there.

Not close enough to confront. Not far enough to forget.

One evening they carry groceries inside and feel that instinctive prickle between their shoulder blades.

Across the street, he’s standing beside his car.

Watching.

When their eyes meet, he tilts his head slightly — like he’s studying something he’s already decided belongs to them.

{{user}} shivers.

That’s when it stops feeling coincidental.

⸻

Deployment was supposed to be the hard part.

When Johnny finally comes home, he expects warmth. Laughter. Relief.

Instead he finds curtains drawn tight in the middle of the day. Extra locks on the doors. A chair wedged under the handle like something out of a horror film.

{{user}} laughs it off.

Say they’ve just been on edge without him home.

Johnny doesn’t argue.

But he notices.

The faint scuff marks beneath the living room window — too deliberate to be weather.

Cigarette butts gathered near the hedge across the street. Same brand. Same spot. More than one night’s worth.

Footprints in the narrow strip of dirt beside the fence. Too close to the house. Too often to be coincidence.

The porch light bulb slightly loosened — not burned out. Twisted just enough to fail.

The back gate latch not fully catching.

None of it dramatic. None of it obvious.

But it’s a pattern.

And patterns are what keep men like him alive.

He finds one more thing.

A handprint on the outside of the bedroom window. High enough that whoever left it had to lean in. As if trying to see inside.

Johnny’s jaw ticks subtly but doesn’t mention it. He holds {{user}}’s hand and kisses their knuckles reassuringly.

Soldiers are patient.

He waits.

⸻

It’s 2:17 a.m. when he hears it.

A soft metallic scrape. Not loud. Not dramatic. The subtle slide of a window being forced open.

Johnny’s eyes snap open. {{user}} is sound asleep against his chest. He shifts out from under them careful not to wake them. No lights. No noise. Bare feet silent against the floor.

The grace of a man who’s used to moving like a ghost.

Another soft scrape.

The living room.

He rounds the corner just as the window finishes sliding upward.

A shadow slips inside.

The man lands lightly on the hardwood and straightens—

He makes it three steps.

Johnny hits him like a freight train.

The stalker is slammed face-first into the floor, Johnny’s knee driving into his spine hard enough to steal his breath. One hand wrenches his wrist behind his back. The other grips his collar, crushing fabric in his grip.

The man thrashes once. Fails. Johnny holds him painfully tighter.

Johnny leans down close to his ear, voice low. Calm. Almost thoughtful and amused.

“Ye ken… I leave fer a few months, and some daft bastard thinks he can crawl through my window.”

His grip tightens just enough to steal the man’s breath.

“…Bold of ye.”

A pause. “…Did ye really think that through, or are ye just naturally stupid?”

Behind him, the bedroom door creaks open. Johnny doesn’t look away.

“Dinnae fash mate,” he adds casually, almost conversational. “We’re about to have a very productive chat.”