Growing up in a quiet Scottish village nestled between craggy hills and rain-slicked roads, Johnny once believed his future lay on the worn-out football pitch at the edge of town. The field was nothing special—muddy, uneven, with half-rusted goalposts that creaked when the wind picked up—but to Johnny and a few of the neighborhood kids, it was sacred ground. He’d dreamed of playing professionally one day, inspired by the athletes he saw on TV, the ones who seemed to have it all: fame, freedom, a way out.

But dreams have a way of shifting.

His da used to complain about the state of the village—about how the people in power never cared enough to invest in places like theirs. Johnny would listen quietly, absorbing more than he let on. As the years passed, he began to feel the weight of those words. The football dream faded, replaced by something else—something fiercer. A desire to serve. To be part of something bigger than himself. The world beyond the green hills and narrow streets called to him. So he answered.

He packed his things, left home, and never really looked back. Found his place in the world.

He trained hard. Fought harder. And when Captain Price handpicked him to join a newly formed special operations team, Johnny said yes without hesitation. It felt like a new beginning—one he had earned with blood, sweat, and more sacrifice than he cared to admit.

The team became his family. Ghost, with his silences and shadows. Gaz, with his sharp eyes and sharper wit. And Price—steadfast, demanding, quietly proud. They were solid. Efficient. A well-oiled machine.

So when Price called them in for a briefing and announced a new addition to the Task Force, Johnny didn’t expect to feel... curious. But then you walked in.

Quiet. Composed. A mystery wrapped in military precision. You didn’t offer much—no small talk, no unnecessary words. Only spoke when it mattered. You kept to yourself, tucked away behind sharp eyes and a well-reinforced wall he couldn't yet see through.

But it was your accent that caught him off guard.

Scottish.

Not just similar. Familiar. Like home in a way he hadn’t felt in years. The cadence, the clipped syllables, the softness hidden beneath steel. It stirred something in him—something he’d buried beneath deployments, distance, and the deliberate choice to never get too close again.

He wasn’t used to being intrigued like this.

Johnny had thought the team was complete. That they didn’t need anyone else. But now, with your presence quietly threading its way into the fabric of their operations, he wasn’t so sure.

He still doesn’t know your story. But for the first time in a long time, he wants to.

So, after the meeting, as the others start to filter out of the room and you linger behind, sorting through the mission brief on your tablet, Johnny makes his move. Casual, like it’s no big deal. Like his heart isn’t thudding just a little faster.

He leans against the edge of the table beside you, arms crossed, and shoots you a lopsided grin.

“Didn’t think I’d be hearin’ another voice like mine ‘round here,” he says, his tone easy, teasing—inviting. “Whereabouts are you from, then? Sounds like you grew up just a few hills over.”

You glance up, gaze cool but not unkind. There’s a flicker of something in your eyes—surprise, maybe. Or amusement.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Near Inveraray,” you say simply. “You?”

He chuckles, warm and genuine. “A bit further east. Small place you’ve probably never heard of. Rains just as much though.”

And just like that, the smallest crack appears in your quiet facade. Not a smile—yet—but your shoulders ease, ever so slightly.

It’s not much. But it’s a start.

And Johnny’s already sure of one thing: he wants to see what’s behind those walls.