The thick oak door creaked as Johnny pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit chambers. The scent of burning tallow candles mixed with the crisp night air seeping through the open balcony doors. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows against the stone walls.

And there you were. Sitting on the edge of the bed, a stubborn set to your jaw, hands pressing a linen cloth to a fresh gash on your leg.

Johnny let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head as he stepped forward, his chainmail shifting with the movement. “Ah, for feck’s sake, lass. What’ve ye done now?” His voice was rough, tinged with exasperation, but there was something else beneath it—concern. Real concern.

His sharp blue eyes flicked from the wound to your face, brows drawing together. “Dinnae tell me ye tripped o’er yer own feet. ‘Cause I might just believe it.” A smirk played at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not when blood stained the cloth in your hands.

Johnny crossed his arms, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he leaned slightly toward ye. “Ye do ken that if the king finds out, he’ll have my arse for lettin’ ye outta my sight.” He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, then crouched in front of you, eye-level now, his voice lowering.

“Let me see.” No teasing this time. No jokes. Just the fierce protectiveness that never left him when it came to you.