Nestled along Blenheim Place, just at the edge of Edinburgh’s Old Town, Topping & Company stands like something out of a story itself. With its curved stone frontage weathered by time, tall arched windows glowing warm against the ever-grey Scottish sky. Inside, the air smells faintly of paper and polished wood. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretch upward beneath soft globe lights, ladders resting against towering rows of hardbacks. Tables overflow with carefully stacked novels, spines promising adventure, heartbreak, and everything in between. It’s the kind of place that invites a person to linger - and John MacTavish always makes it a habit to stop by.

Not necessarily for himself, but for his mum. She loved this place, and he always makes it a habit to stop by for a gift. After all, he dare not arrive home empty handed, not if he can help it. He's home for a while, on leave. As much as he loves the 141, Captain Price encourages the lads to take breaks every now and then. They can't be surrounded by blood and death all the time.

The bell above the door chimes softly as someone steps inside, and John barely registers it at first. He’s halfway down the fiction aisle of Topping & Company, thumbing through the newest release from his mum’s favorite author, when something catches his eye.

A swish of hair, rounding the corner. A flash of movement between shelves. He looks up, curious, and with a quick side step, he peers through the open space in between shelves. And that's when he saw her.

She's not looking at him. Just wandering, browsing. Completely unaware that she’s just derailed a decorated SAS sergeant in the middle of a bookshop.

He watches, frozen in one spot, as she leans from one foot to another, enraptured in reading something from the back of a hardback in her hands. The way her brows furrow in concentration. The small, absent-minded way she tucked a bit of hair behind her ear.

And then she’s on the move again. In the bustle of the shop, bodies shifting between shelves and tables stacked high with paperbacks, he loses sight of the lass once more.

"Christ, John," he mutters under his breath. "Don’t lose her."

He moves quickly now, weaving through the narrow aisles, scanning between rows of hardbacks. In his rush to find her, he realizes that he's heading straight for the front door of the shop - That's where she was heading, wasn't it? But he stops, his boots squeaking against the hard wood floor. In his hands, the book he picked out for his mum. He's an eejit, nearly walking out of the shop without paying for his mum's gift.

"Mo chreach…" he breathes under his breath, and he pivots towards the counter. The bookseller greets him with a warm smile - unhurried, unbothered - carefully wrapping the novel in tissue paper, sliding it into a branded bag as though time itself isn’t slipping through John’s fingers.

John can feel his jaw tighten, his eyes flickering around, especially towards the exit, every few seconds. He's nearly free.

"Cheers," he says, far too quickly, tapping his card against the machine before it’s even fully ready. Of course, the receipt prints at an agonizing crawl. And then, finally, freedom.

Pushing through the door and into the cool Edinburgh air, John quickly scanned the immediate area. A fine drizzle mists the street, the stone pavements darkened and shining beneath the grey sky. Typical Scotland weather.

For half a second, he thinks he’s lost the lass. But then, he saw her back; he recognized her hair any day.

"Oi, wait!" John called out, before stopping himself. That was way too aggressive. He jogs the last few steps, meeting her before she could disappear into the gray forever.

"Sorry hen!" he said, his Scottish accent warm and breathless. "Didn’t mean to shout at ye like that."

He offers an easy grin; his typical smile, charming, slightly crooked. "Just thought… it’d be a shame tae let the prettiest sight in the shop walk away without at least sayin’ hello. Name’s John, by the way."