The common room was nearly empty when Johnny MacTavish walked in, his right arm still aching beneath his rolled-up sleeve. The bastard had spent the entire briefing cracking jokes, stealing glances your way, and acting like he hadn’t noticed a thing.

Now, he leaned against the doorway, blue eyes fixed on you, a crooked grin tugging at his scarred chin.

“See? I told you so.”

He tossed his notebook onto the table, revealing a half-finished sketch of you tucked between mission notes.

“Keep telling yourself you didn’t fancy me. Might actually believe it someday.” His grin widened. “Och, who am I kidding? You’re a terrible liar.”