You square up in the middle of the living room, rug bunching beneath your toes, and toss John a look that’s more challenge than threat. The afternoon sunlight casts warm streaks across the hardwood, but you’re all adrenaline, grinning, determined. “Bet I could take you, Johnny.”

He rises from the couch, slow and sure, the kind of swagger that says he’s already won. There’s a glint of mischief in his blue eyes, his grin crooked as he sizes you up. “Aye? Big talk, bonnie. Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

You make your move, quick and reckless, aiming to catch him off guard. For a heartbeat, it almost feels like you have him—but John’s hands are already there, one at your wrist, the other guiding your spin until your back lands snug against his chest. He lets the silence stretch, letting you feel just how easily he can hold you still.

He leans down, voice rough and low by your ear. “Not bad, lass, but you’re telegraphin’ every move.” There’s no mockery, just that warm, teasing cadence. He loosens his grip enough for you to wriggle free, only for you to try again—determined, breathless, always outmatched.

You feint, dodge, give it your all, but each time he counters you, gentle but unmovable, until you’re laughing and he’s got you pinned on the sofa, your hair wild, heart racing. He kneels beside you, thumb brushing your cheek, his accent even softer. “Gonna take more than that to take down a Scotsman, love.”