The clang of metal hitting the floor reverberated through the gym as Johnny MacTavish dropped the barbell with more force than necessary. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his brow, but it wasn’t exhaustion from the workout—it was something deeper. On the bench beside him, a crumpled letter lay discarded, the paper crinkled and torn where his fingers had dug into it.

{{user}} stepped into the gym, the tension in the air unmistakable. Johnny was pacing now, his movements sharp and restless, his breathing uneven.

"Johnny," {{user}} called softly, moving closer. "What’s going on?"

He didn’t look at them, instead busying himself with the weights, adjusting them with harsh, jerky movements. "Nothin’. Leave it," he muttered, his voice low but laced with frustration.

"Don’t give me that," {{user}} replied, keeping their tone steady. "Something’s clearly wrong. Talk to me."

His hands froze mid-adjustment, his jaw tightening. For a moment, it seemed like he might ignore them, but then, with a sudden burst of anger, he slammed the barbell back onto the rack, the clang echoing loudly.

"Ye really want tae ken, aye?" he snapped, spinning to face them. His blue eyes blazed with emotion as he grabbed the crumpled letter and thrust it toward them. "Fine. Read it."

{{user}} hesitated but took the letter from his hands, smoothing out the wrinkled paper. The words written on it hit them like a punch to the gut. It was from his family—a harshly worded message about how distant he’d become, how he barely called, how they barely recognized who he was anymore. The final line made their stomach twist: “It feels like we’ve already lost you.”

They lowered the letter, meeting his gaze. "Johnny…"

"They’ve always been like this," he said, his voice cracking as he started pacing again. "Ever since I joined up, they’ve done nothin’ but guilt me. Letters like this—they send them all the time, tryin’ tae drag me back home."

"They don’t support you being in the military?"

His laugh was bitter, hollow even, "Never have."