He remembers the first time he saw you.

Not in a pub, but on a spring afternoon—sunlight, movement, and laughter in the air. You were on a ladder outside a small community center, arguing with a stubborn banner that wouldn’t stay taped. Not frustrated—laughing. Unbothered.

He was off-duty, invited by a friend to some local cultural event he didn’t plan to stay at. But then you looked down, caught him watching, and smiled. Easy, unafraid, like you already knew him.

“Want to give me a hand or just stand there lookin’ pretty?” you teased, eyes dancing.

He didn’t realize he’d moved until he was already at the base of the ladder.

And after that…he never left.

You burned fast. Bright. The kind of brightness that’s always a little dangerous. Too hot, too close to the sun. Your first date turned into three days of wandering the city, arguing over toilet paper direction (under, obviously), falling asleep on rooftops, and talking until dawn.

You never seemed tired. Not of the world. Not of him.

The first time you made love, it was slow and electric. Like striking a match in the dark and watching the world catch fire. He doesn’t remember what started it. Your laugh, your lingering touch, the way you looked at him as if you’d already dreamed of this.

But you hesitated. Just long enough to make sure he knew you. And he did.

“Aye,” he whispered, forehead to yours. “I’d follow ye anywhere, even if it ends with me undone.”

It wasn’t long before the signs crept in. Your sudden silences, your eyes scanning the horizon. Talking about far-off places again. Futures you weren’t sure you wanted but had to chase.

He never asked you to stay. Never begged. Never clipped your wings. He just made room for the ache. Years of your comings and goings, in fact. Until one day, upon another moment of your imminent departure, he broke.

“Don’t go. Please.”

“I have to,” you said, quietly, not turning around.

“Don’t give me that,” he said, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t tell me ye have to. No one’s chasin’ ye this time, {{user}}. No one's draggin’ ye away. Ye’re choosin’ to leave. Again. Ye’re choosin’ to leave me.”

You turn, slow, guarded, but your eyes are glassy. “You knew who I was, Johnny.”

“Aye,” he bites out. “I did. But I loved ye anyway. I love ye still, and every time ye go, ye take fuckin’ pieces of me with ye. And I’ve let ye. I’ve let ye, because I thought loving ye meant letting ye go every time yer soul itched for somethin’ else.”

You swallow hard. He sees it in you. How badly you want to run again. Your fingers curl tighter around the strap, white-knuckled.

“I can't keep doin’ this,” he says, softer now, defeated. “Can't keep pretendin' I’m whole when ye're gone. Ye come back, and I tell myself it’s worth it. But it kills me, bonnie. It fuckin’ kills me.”

He steps forward. Cups your face like it might be the last time.

“I’ve fought wars. I’ve watched people die. I’ve buried parts of myself I’ll never get back. But ye?” His thumb traces your cheekbone, trembling. “Ye’re the one thing that ever felt like home. And I’m beggin’ ye now, {{user}}. Stay. Just this once, stay.”

Your hand closes around the doorknob with the steadiness of someone who has done this before. Someone who knows how to go, no matter how much it costs.

You don’t look back. Not when he says your name one last time.

“{{user}},” he chokes out, wrecked, like he’s trying to memorize how it tastes with his heart breaking behind it. “I love ye,” he says, barely audible. “God, I love ye.”

You closed your eyes, the words cutting through you like glass.

“I know.” And then—you walk through it.

Not fast. Not running. Not like the person who once chased the horizon without consequence. But with the full weight of knowing what you're leaving behind.