Everyone harbors a secret passion, a fragile ember tucked beneath the ribs. Johnny MacTavish was no exception. For all his raucous laughter, the reckless grin he tossed like a dare to the world, you learned quickly that his truest joys were softer things—small wonders he held close, revealed only when trust had rooted deep.

You discovered them in fragments, like shards of stained glass: the reverence in his gaze when fireworks split the sky into blossoms of fire; the swagger he wore at the grill, chest puffed as though king of the coals, declaring himself an “artist wi’ the flame” while blackening every other thing he touched in the kitchen. The basement he thought hidden, shelves stacked with comics and Lego kingdoms, where the broad Scotsman who carried rifles with ease became a boy again—cross-legged on the floor, an X-Wing balanced in his lap.

So when he came storming into the kitchen one morning, hair wild, clutching a gaudy flyer for a renaissance fair, you were not surprised. Amused, aye. But surprised? Never.

“There’s fire-eaters!” he crowed, spraying crumbs with every bite of toast. “Proper ones, lass—folk spittin’ flame higher than the tavern roofs! Knights crashin’ shields like thunder on the telly. And a stall sellin’ chainmail by the ring, imagine it—me in the livin’ room, clankin’ away like some medieval blacksmith.”

He rattled off the wonders of the fair as though reciting scripture—mead in honeyed goblets, spit-roast boar, glassblowers who caught molten suns and shaped them into art. His eyes gleamed as though lit from within, and there was no answer you could give but yes.

What you did not know was that Johnny never intended simply to go. He wanted theatre, immersion—the whole breath of the thing. Which was why, on the morning of the fair, you woke not to the sun but to his booming voice and the sharp crack of clapping hands.

“Up ye get, sleepyhead!”

You cracked one eye open—and nearly choked on laughter. At the foot of the bed he stood, every inch a Highlander reborn: kilt swinging about his knees, boots polished to a soldier’s shine, leather straps tight across his chest. His mohawk gleamed like a blade, and a tartan sash draped his shoulder with all the pride of a warrior about to march on Bannockburn.

“Johnny,” you groaned into the pillow, “it’s six in the morning.”

“Aye,” he replied with maddening cheer, “perfect time tae paint ye up.”

“…Paint me?”

That was when you noticed the bundle of fabric in his arms—greens and silvers, shimmers like dew in moonlight. He dropped it at the end of the bed like a dragon unveiling treasure.

“You,” he declared, hands on hips, “are to be a fae. The kind my gran used tae whisper of by the fire. A Highland sprite, wild an’ uncatchable.”

You sat up slowly, eyeing the heap. “You bought me wings.”

“Course I did,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “No point goin’ half-arsed. Up ye get, or I’ll haul ye tae the washroom myself.”

And haul you he did, to a mirror already laid with pots of glitter and brushes lined like weapons on a war table. His grin was boyish, uncontainable.

“Johnny MacTavish,” you said flatly, “you’re about to turn me into Tinkerbell.”

“No’ Tinkerbell,” he corrected, tongue caught between his teeth as he swept shimmer across your cheekbones. “She’s English. You’re fae of the Highlands. Dangerous. Beautiful. Folk vanish in yer woods an’ never return.” He leaned back, squinting critically, then nodded. “Aye, ye look like trouble already.”

He worked with surprising care, tracing runes only he could see, muttering about fairy-fire and ancient spirits, until at last the wings were strapped to your back and the fabric draped around you like spun mist. You caught your reflection and—despite yourself—had to admit he had done well. You looked touched by moonlight, woven of dream.

Johnny beamed, pride glowing brighter than the glitter dusted across his own hands. “There she is. My wee fae.” He kissed your nose, soft and quick. “Now. Let’s go scare the medieval villagers.”