Ruin Me Right
Ruin Me Right
The quiet life didn’t come naturally to Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. It was something he wrestled into submission, like disarming a live wire with nothing but grit and a prayer. But here he was—state-side, tucked into the folds of a sleepy town where nothing exploded except the late-summer blooms in neighborly gardens. The town didn’t know him as a sergeant, a ghost-chaser, a ghost-maker. They just knew him as John. Ex-military, kept to himself, owned a dog too smart for its own good.
He liked it that way. Clean. Quiet. Predictable.
Until he started seeing her.
First it was the farmer’s market. She was in front of him in line, arguing cheerfully with the old woman running the heirloom tomato stand. Then the gas station, crouched beside her truck, sleeves rolled up, trying to wrangle a leaky valve with grease-stained fingers. Then again at the hardware store. Then again. And again. Like a damn pattern.
He didn’t speak. Just watched. Curiosity crept in like smoke through cracks. There was something about her—the way she carried herself. Like she’d built her own armor and dared the world to test it.
One Saturday, walking his dog near the edge of the neighborhood, he spotted her again. In her yard this time. Knee-deep in a DIY project that looked like it might be a raised garden bed or a crime scene—he couldn’t quite tell. Music drifted from a small Bluetooth speaker, some old rock song that made him smile. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, cursing when a plank slipped sideways.
Still, he didn’t approach. Just observed. Like he was studying a living piece of art too vivid to touch.
Then came the bar.
It was a local spot. Wood-paneled, too many neon signs, and a bartender with a crooked smile and memory like an elephant. Soap sat at the far end of the bar, nursing something dark and bitter, when she walked in. Loose jeans, tank top, a wild braid sliding over one shoulder like it had a mind of its own. She greeted the barkeep with that same effortless ease, and Soap heard it.
"Give me something strong, Mick. I wanna forget I ever knew what a shared checking account looked like."
Mick chuckled. "That bad, huh? How’s the paperwork goin'?"
She gave a tight, polite smile. "It’s going. Let’s not talk about it. Just gimme the firewater."
Soap’s grip tightened slightly around his glass. He didn’t know her. Not really. But hearing that? Felt like someone cracked a window open in the middle of winter.
She wasn’t just a face. She was weathering something.
And now, for the first time... he wanted to be more than just a shadow watching her from the quiet.
He wanted to know her name.
But he didn’t rush in. Johnny MacTavish was many things—reckless wasn’t one of them when it came to something that mattered. So instead, he leaned into what he knew: observation and charm.
He started asking around. Subtle. Casual. A comment to Mick about the woman with the braid and the storm in her smile. A shared laugh with the old vendor at the market. A quiet word to the woman who owned the flower shop where she’d bought a bundle of wild lavender. No one suspected his interest ran deeper than neighborly curiosity.
What he gathered was simple: she’d been here a while, came after her marriage cracked down the middle. She was rebuilding—a life, a home, maybe herself. Fiercely independent. Kept to herself but was kind when engaged. Carried herself like someone who’d had to stitch up her own wounds too many times.
Every detail pulled him in deeper.
He still hadn’t spoken to her.
But he would.
Soon.
It was a crisp Saturday morning, the farmer’s market buzzing with weekend chatter and the scent of fresh bread. He was browsing without purpose when he heard her voice—sharp, animated, and unmistakably familiar.
"Margie, I swear on my last roll of duct tape, if you try to charge me five bucks for three zucchinis again, I’m gonna make you eat 'em raw."
Soap’s head turned. She was at the tomato stand, facing off with the elderly vendor who wore a wicked grin that betrayed no real offense. It sounded like an argument, but something in the cadence—playful, almost sing-song—made him hesitate.
Still, instinct kicked in. He stepped closer, voice low and firm. "Everything alright here, miss?"
She turned to him slowly, one brow arched in clear amusement. Her eyes—God, those eyes—scanned him from boots to brows. "Well now, aren’t you gallant," she drawled. "You always jump into strangers’ vegetable disputes, or am I just special?"
Soap’s mouth twitched into a crooked grin. "Hard to stand by while someone's nearly assaulted over squash."
"Zucchini," she corrected, turning back to Margie with a wink. "Don’t worry, Margie. This knight’s got a code."
Margie cackled and shuffled off to haggle with another regular.
Soap stayed. "Didn’t mean to step on toes. Thought it was more serious."
"Mm," she hummed, folding her arms. "And what would you have done if it was? Headbutted an old lady with a walker?"
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Depends. She packin' a second zucchini?"
She snorted, the corner of her mouth tugging up despite herself. "You always this charming, or is it market day magic?"
"Just observant," he replied, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Been seein' you around. Thought it was time I introduced myself."
Her expression flickered, interest blooming like dawn behind guarded eyes. "That so? Well, you’ve got my attention, Mr…?"
"MacTavish," he said, offering a hand. "Johnny."
She took it. Firm grip. Warm.
"Ashley," she replied. "But everyone calls me Ash."
Their hands lingered a second too long before they pulled away.
"Nice to meet you, Ash," he said, voice roughened just enough to sound sincere.
"Likewise, Johnny," she answered, turning back to her bag of overpriced produce. "Next time you jump in to save a lady, make sure she actually needs saving."
He smiled, eyes already following her as she walked away.
He would. Every damn time.
The next time he saw her, she was in the plumbing aisle of the hardware store, surrounded by lengths of PEX tubing, fittings, and a cart that looked like it had been filled in a blind panic.
She was muttering to herself, holding a brass crimp ring in one hand and a connector in the other, eyes flicking between the two like they were plotting against her.
Soap leaned casually against the end of the aisle, watching.
"Y’know," he called out, voice warm with teasing amusement, "most folks like to ease into plumbing disasters. You look like you're gearing up to re-pipe a submarine."
She turned fast—startled at first, then narrowed her eyes. "Oh, it's you again. The vegetable vigilante."
"Guilty," he said, stepping closer, hands in his jacket pockets. "Judging by the warzone in your cart, I’m guessin’ this wasn’t part of your weekend plans."
She let out a breath and rolled her eyes. "Bathroom sink exploded. Pipes bubbled like they were possessed, then burst like a damn horror movie."
"Shut off the valve?"
"Course I did. I'm not completely helpless. Cleaned it up, cursed a lot, made coffee, and now I'm here." She held up the parts in her hands. "Thinking of switching to PEX. PVC is dead to me."
He gave a low, impressed whistle. "Bold move. Not a fan of primer and glue, huh?"
"Not a fan of surprise geysers and flooded tile floors."
He grinned. "Well, if you need a hand—or moral support—I happen to be very good with pipe."
Her brows lifted, smirking. "That supposed to be innuendo, or are you actually offering?"
He leaned in just slightly. "Can it be both?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "You're dangerous, Johnny."
"Only in all the best ways."
And for a moment, the aisle felt a little warmer. Closer. Charged.
She dropped the crimp ring into the cart. "Well then, Mr. MacTavish, you’re welcome to stick around. But if you’re gonna flirt, make yourself useful and help me find a shut-off valve that won’t leak when the house so much as sneezes."
He reached for the shelf without hesitation. "Aye aye, Cap’n. Let’s fix some broken things."
And just like that, the mission changed.
Two hours later, Soap stood in Ash’s bathroom, sleeves rolled to his elbows, crouched under the sink with a wrench in one hand and PEX tubing in the other. The place still smelled faintly like damp tile and citrus cleaner. Towels were piled near the door. Tools were scattered around them in organized chaos, a rhythm between them starting to hum.
Ash sat cross-legged just outside the door, sipping iced coffee and watching him with thinly veiled amusement.
"You know," she said, tilting her head, "for a guy who flirted his way into my plumbing emergency, you’re surprisingly competent."
His voice came muffled from beneath the sink. "That sounds suspiciously like a compliment."
"Maybe it is. Maybe I’m trying to get you to come back and fix the shower next."
He chuckled, low and deep. "You tryin' to seduce me with water pressure, Ash?"
She grinned. "Is it working?"
Soap slid further beneath the sink, shirt riding up to reveal a lean, defined torso cut from stone. Ash’s eyes caught on the trail of dark hair vanishing beneath the waistband of his jeans. Her mouth went dry before she masked it behind a sip of coffee.
He didn’t miss it. "You alright out there?"
"Peachy," she said, voice a touch higher than intended.
"Must be the heat," he murmured, knowingly. "This town doesn’t usually get this warm in the spring."
She rolled her eyes, flustered but not backing down. "If you're fishing for compliments, you're gonna have to do more than flash your abs, Johnny."
He twisted the wrench with a grin. "Wasn’t fishing. Just working. Can’t help it if the uniform rides up."
Ash smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "You do realize most plumbers don’t look like they belong on a calendar, right?"
He slid out from beneath the sink just enough to meet her gaze, sweat dampening the edges of his hairline. "And here I thought I was already your Miss June."
She blinked, laughed, shook her head. "You’re shameless."
"I prefer effective."
Their eyes locked for a moment too long. The playful tension thickened, ripe and buzzing like static before a storm.
Then he reached up, tightened the last connection, and twisted the valve.
No leak. No burst. Just smooth silence.
He stood and offered her his hand. "Go on then. Turn it on."
She hesitated, then moved to the faucet. The water flowed clean, steady.
She turned back, a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. "Color me impressed."
He leaned in just a bit closer. "Then how about you color me invited back?"
Ash’s smile was slow, delicious. "Fix the shower without flooding the house, and I might just make you dinner."
Soap gave a short nod, eyes gleaming. "Deal. But fair warning—I'm handy with more than just pipes."
She laughed, full and wicked. "Yeah? We’ll see if your dinner manners match your plumbing game."
As he gathered his tools, Soap couldn’t help the way his chest warmed—not just from the flirtation, but the way she looked at him now.
Like he was more than just a moment.
Like he might be worth the risk.
And God help him… he wanted to be.
Dinner came two nights later.
Ash didn’t do frozen patties or pre-packed buns. She grilled thick, seasoned steaks—medium rare, perfectly charred at the edges—on a rusted old grill she swore worked better than anything fancy. She’d roasted red potatoes, grilled onions, sliced ripe tomatoes, and even whipped up some sort of aioli that Soap couldn’t pronounce but absolutely devoured.
They sat on the back porch, plates balanced on their knees, the hum of cicadas in the trees and the soft flicker of citronella candles casting gold across her porch rails.
Soap let out a low groan after the first bite. "You said dinner, not bloody sorcery. This steak’s better than sex."
Ash quirked a brow. "Bold assumption."
He gave her a sly smile over the rim of his beer. "Fair enough. Jury's still out. But this? Damn close."
She snorted into her drink, pleased despite herself. "Glad to see you’re easy to impress."
"Not easy, Ash. Just honest. And hungry."
They ate, they laughed, they drank—cheap beers and rich conversation. The tension was still there, but now it was tempered with something warmer. More real.
Soap leaned back in his chair, sipping his second bottle. "So," he started casually, eyes scanning her face, "you always this handy? DIY, plumbing, steaks that belong in a five-star joint... seems like you’ve been building your own empire out here."
Ash raised an eyebrow, catching the shift in tone. "You fishing for my resume or just buttering me up for dessert?"
"Little of both," he said, grinning. Then, softer: "Mostly curious. You've got a way about you. Fierce, smart. Independent as hell. Just makes a man wonder what kind of fire forged that steel."
She went quiet for a beat. Not defensive. Just weighing his words.
"You offering answers of your own? Or just hoping I spill for free?"
Soap held up both hands in mock surrender. "I’ll trade. Story for story. You go first, I’ll match you."
Ash tilted her head, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. "Alright then. You wanna know why I’m rebuilding everything from the ground up? Because the last man I trusted with the blueprint tried to burn the house down on his way out."
Soap didn’t flinch. Just nodded once. "Messy divorce?"
"More like a tactical retreat. But yeah. The man didn’t like it when I stopped making myself smaller to fit his comfort zone."
"His loss," Soap said simply. No pity, just truth.
Ash looked at him for a long moment, then nudged his foot with hers under the table. "Alright, your turn. What’s a soldier like you doing playing handyman in small-town nowhere?"
Soap’s smile faded into something softer. "Needed air. London’s too loud. War’s louder. Spent years with death in my rearview. Thought I’d see what peace looked like… turns out it wears flannel and fixes sinks."
Ash’s lips curved. "You don’t seem like the peace and quiet type."
"Neither do you."
They clinked their bottles together.
"To tactical retreats," she said.
"And surprise reinforcements," he added.
They drank. And beneath the stars, something unspoken settled between them.
Not a question.
A promise.
They lingered long after the food was gone, the plates set aside and the beers replaced with slower sips and quieter moments. The fireflies came out, dancing in the edges of the yard like tiny sparks trying to set the night on fire.
Ash leaned back on her palms, eyes tilted toward the stars, the edges of her voice a little looser now. "You ever think about what it costs to walk away from something? Not just the freedom you gain... but everything you give up in the process?"
Soap watched her, the soft glow of the porch light catching in the sapphire of her eyes. "Aye. Every bloody day."
He’d started gathering more of her story the last few days, quiet words exchanged with locals, each one painting a clearer picture. Her ex had been a man who thought love was a paycheck. Who demanded perfection but gave none in return. When Ash had stopped contorting herself into the shape he demanded, he turned cruel—legally, financially, emotionally. She’d survived by grit alone. Was still surviving. Rebuilding everything he'd tried to strip away.
Now here she was. Scarred, smart, and still somehow... shining.
He shifted closer, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "You know... you didn’t have to cook for me."
She glanced at him, a sly smile on her lips. "You saying you didn’t want the steak?"
He smirked. "I’m saying I would’ve come just to see you smile like that."
Ash let out a soft, breathy laugh. "You lay it on thick."
"Only when I mean it."
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It buzzed—alive, magnetic. He leaned his forearms on his thighs, head tipping slightly toward her.
"You’re rebuilding somethin’ beautiful here, Ash. With your own hands. Your own fire. That takes guts."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "I got tired of waiting for someone to save me. Figured it was time I learned how to do it myself."
Soap’s voice dropped. "Doesn’t mean you have to do it alone."
Their eyes locked. No teasing now. No banter.
He moved a fraction closer. She didn’t pull away.
Their knees brushed.
Her breath caught in her throat as he raised a hand slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.
"If I kiss you now," he murmured, his voice rough, "you won’t forget it."
Ash’s lips parted, eyes searching his. "Maybe that’s why you shouldn’t."
But neither of them moved. The air was thick with wanting, the kind that coils low in the belly and waits to strike. The kind that begs.
He hovered, close enough to taste her breath, to count every beat of her pulse beneath her skin.
Then he smiled. Slow. Wicked. Tender.
And leaned back.
Ash blinked, caught between relief and something sharper.
"Not tonight," Soap said, standing and offering his hand to help her up. "But soon."
She took it, rising with him.
"You always this patient?"
"Only when it’s worth it."
And with the night at their backs, the tension between them wound tighter—not snapped, not broken—just waiting.
Waiting to burn.
But when Soap left that night, and the porch light clicked off behind him, the quiet didn’t comfort her—it closed in.
Ash sat alone for a long time, the echo of his nearness lingering in the shadows. Her breath shallow. Her throat tight.
The memories came then, uninvited and ruthless.
Every fight. Every cold silence. Every time she’d asked—begged—for more. For affection. For attention. For anything beyond the empty echo of a paycheck thrown on the counter and a nod that said, Be grateful.
She had tried. God, she had tried. Made herself smaller, quieter, prettier, more agreeable. Held her tongue when she wanted to scream. Bit back tears while smiling for company. Told herself if she just did one more thing—made one more perfect dinner, planned one more weekend getaway—he’d finally see her.
He didn’t.
And when she walked away? He vowed to make her pay.
He did. Every court date. Every financial dagger. Every slanderous whisper he seeded around town. Like she had been the villain. Like trying to survive him had been betrayal.
Anger roared in her chest like wildfire, twisting through her ribs. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the injustice. The rebuilding. The starting over from the rubble he’d left behind.
Her fists clenched.
But then she thought of Johnny.
He hadn’t asked anything of her. No pressure. No games. Just offers. Quiet ones. Hands willing to help. Ears willing to listen. Eyes that didn’t expect—they saw.
It made something inside her tremble. Something that had lain quiet and guarded for too long.
She blew out a breath and leaned her head against the porch post, letting the wood ground her.
Who the hell is this man?
The next morning, she made it a point to ask around.
Not outright. Not desperate. Just curious.
At the flower shop, she asked if the new guy down on Meadow Street came in often. He did—once a week. Always bought the same thing. Lavender. Quiet and polite, tipped well.
At the coffee shop, she overheard a waitress giggle to a coworker that he always ordered his drink black and left extra for the high schoolers saving tips for college.
At the gas station, the clerk said he helped an old man change a flat in the middle of a thunderstorm last month. Didn’t even leave his name.
Johnny MacTavish didn’t take up space. He filled it. Gently. Steadily. Like someone who didn’t need to be loud to be seen.
Ash leaned on her truck that evening, fingers curled around a bottle of iced tea, and watched the sunset.
Maybe it was time she started gathering her own intel.
Because the more she learned… the more she realized Johnny wasn’t just a flirt with a toolbox.
He might just be everything her ex wasn’t.
Ash wasn’t impulsive—not anymore. She used to be, back when hope was easier to gamble. But this time, when she pulled into Johnny’s driveway with her heart doing a full-blown drum solo in her chest, it wasn’t recklessness. It was intention.
She’d baked the cookies herself—Toll House, from scratch, no shortcuts. Still warm in the Tupperware container nestled in her passenger seat. Next to them sat a bottle of Highland single malt scotch, aged fifteen years, the kind of liquor that whispered respect instead of shouting status.
She'd called it a thank-you gesture in her mind all the way there. But she knew better.
This was her planting a flag.
The house was quiet, modest, but neat. Like him. The porch light was off, but his truck sat in the drive. Her boots crunched on gravel as she walked up, nerves twisting tighter with every step. What if he wasn’t home? What if he was… busy? What if she was misreading everything?
She squared her shoulders and knocked.
A pause. Then footsteps.
The door swung open, and there he was—Johnny. Shirtless, towel slung around his neck, hair damp like he’d just come from the shower. A brow arched the second he saw her.
"Ash?"
She cleared her throat, lifting the container slightly. "Uh… hope I’m not interrupting anything. Just… brought you some cookies. And—"
She held up the bottle. "A bribe. Scottish-grade. As thanks for the plumbing save."
His expression shifted—softened. Something warm and unreadable in his eyes. He stepped aside without hesitation.
"You come bearing baked goods and whisky. How could I ever turn you away?"
She laughed nervously, stepping inside. The space smelled like cedar soap and clean linen. Cozy. Unexpected.
He took the cookies from her hands and set them on the counter, fingers brushing hers just enough to make her skin tighten with heat.
"These homemade?"
"Of course," she said. "If I was gonna butter you up, I figured I should go all in."
He smirked. "You nervous, Ash?"
"A little."
He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd—just enough to tilt the gravity of the room toward him.
"Good. Means it matters."
She met his gaze, steadier now. "I’ve been learning about you."
His brow ticked up. "Yeah? Should I be worried?"
"Maybe," she teased. Then softer, "No. You’ve got a reputation, MacTavish. Helping folks. Showing up. Quietly. Consistently."
He looked down for a second, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
"Didn’t figure I was being watched."
"Neither did I," she said, almost a whisper. "But here we are."
The silence stretched, full and charged.
He picked up the scotch bottle, weighing it thoughtfully. "You know, I’ve got two glasses and a porch swing that’s got your name on it."
Ash smiled. Stepped closer.
"Then pour, soldier. Let’s talk intel."
And maybe, just maybe, truth.
He poured the scotch into two short tumblers—no ice, just the raw amber fire of it. They stepped out onto the porch together, the swing creaking gently beneath their weight as they settled in side by side.
The night wrapped around them like a warm cloak. Crickets sang in the distance, and the stars blinked overhead, soft and scattered.
Ash took her first sip and hissed lightly through her teeth. "That burns."
"Aye," Soap said with a grin. "All the best truths do."
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn’t awkward but comfortable, like their bones had already memorized each other’s presence.
Ash tilted her head. "So what’s your story, Johnny? I mean the real one. The one behind the tools and smirks and polite ‘yes ma’ams.’"
He let out a low breath, swirling the scotch in his glass. "I used to be very good at hurting people. Sometimes for a reason. Sometimes… just because that was the job. It changes you, being good at that."
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
"When I left," he continued, "I thought I’d shed it all. Turns out, you don’t walk away from ghosts. You carry 'em. Learn to make room. Keep 'em quiet."
Ash sipped again. "You sleep at night?"
He looked at her then, something raw flickering behind his calm. "Some nights. Others I just wait for the sun."
She nodded, gaze on the horizon. "I get that."
"Yeah?"
"You rebuild your life and hope the next one fits better. Hope it doesn’t cut you in the same places."
Soap turned to her, his voice low and even. "And is this life starting to fit yet?"
Ash hesitated. Then looked at him fully.
"It’s getting there."
He smiled, something soft tugging at the corners. "Glad I get to be part of the blueprint."
They sat like that, sipping scotch, the swing rocking gently beneath them. His knee brushed hers and didn’t move. She didn’t pull away.
"You make a habit of charming your way into women’s homes via faulty plumbing?" she teased.
"Only when fate insists."
Ash let her head fall back in a laugh that melted into a sigh. "Damn fate."
"Damn fate," he echoed.
She turned to him then, closer now. Not quite touching, but the space between them was tight and full of something that hummed.
"You gonna kiss me tonight, MacTavish?"
He leaned in, breath mingling with hers. "Not unless you want me to."
Ash’s fingers ghosted down the side of his hand, lacing between his.
"That’s the first thing I’ve wanted in a long time."
His lips brushed hers, featherlight. A promise, not a possession.
And when they pulled apart, it wasn’t final.
It was just the beginning.
Weeks passed.
Ash’s divorce was finalized with a thud of a judge’s gavel and the cold shuffle of paperwork. No fanfare. No victory lap. But there was relief. A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding finally released from her chest. It didn’t erase the pain—but it lightened the load.
Through it all, Johnny stayed. Quiet. Steady. Present. Never once did he push. Never once did he expect.
He just showed up.
Sometimes it was small things—dropping off a tool he “happened” to have when she mentioned needing one, showing up at the market to lift heavy things with a shrug and a smirk. Sometimes it was just his company. A warm presence leaning against the fence while she weeded the garden. A voice beside her on the porch as twilight fell, trading stories and silences.
Flirting became as natural as breathing. Teasing touches on the arm. Glances that lingered. Jokes traded like secrets. And every kiss? Deeper. Slower. More certain.
What started as a brush of lips on the porch turned into kisses in the hallway, her back against the wall and his hands pressed to either side of her head. Laughter shared over dinner that dissolved into slow, heated breaths in the kitchen when she leaned in close to grab a plate and didn’t pull away.
He’d touch her like she was something sacred—palms on her hips, fingers brushing the curve of her spine, lips at her temple as if asking permission every time. She’d answer with her own kind of prayer—hands in his hair, soft gasps against his throat, the tremble of want sparking beneath her skin.
And still—he waited.
Even when she melted against him. Even when her body begged to forget everything but him.
He waited.
Until the night she didn’t want to wait anymore.
They were lying on her couch, her head on his chest, his fingers drawing idle patterns on her arm. The TV murmured something forgettable in the background, but all she could hear was his heartbeat.
Ash tilted her head up to look at him, her voice a whisper in the low light.
"I want this."
He looked at her, really looked—searching her face for uncertainty, for hesitation.
She met his gaze without flinching. "I want you."
And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t a promise.
It was surrender.
And it burned.
They didn’t rush. They moved like dusk swallowing daylight—slow, inevitable, golden at the edges. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only breath, skin, and the fragile, sacred ache of finally letting go.
He kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime—his hands mapping her with reverence, not urgency. Her cheeks. Her jaw. The hollow of her throat. Every inch of her held like a prayer answered. His mouth was soft, then firm, then teasing—all hunger wrapped in restraint.
Her shirt slipped over her head. His fingers trembled just slightly as they traced the curve of her waist, the line of her ribs. Like he was memorizing her shape in case this was a dream. She watched his face, eyes dark and awed, lips parted as if stunned by the simple act of being allowed to touch.
She cupped his face and kissed him deep—pressed herself against him with a shudder that said this is real. I am ready.
He lifted her like she weighed nothing, carried her with a soldier’s ease and a lover’s care. Down the hallway. Into the bedroom. The sheets were cool, but their bodies burned hotter than any fire.
Clothes fell away in pieces, scattered across the floor like old fears finally shed.
Johnny wasn’t gentle out of caution—he was gentle because she was sacred. Because every kiss against her shoulder, every stroke down her spine, was reverence carved into motion. Her body was his altar, and he worshipped it with lips and hands and breathless devotion.
Ash responded with equal intensity. Her fingers gripped his back like lifelines, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him into her heat. Gasps bloomed into moans—low, guttural, the kind that came from someplace deep and wounded and starved. Her body welcomed him like it had been waiting only for him, and Johnny answered every plea with fire.
Every touch ignited her. Every sound she made—every whimper, every sharp inhale—only fed his hunger. When his fingers found her soaked and ready, he growled against her skin, pressing into her slowly, reverently. At the first thrust of his fingers, she arched, gasping his name like it meant something holy.
He added another, kissing down the line of her throat, nipping at her collarbone, his need clawing under his skin. Her nails scratched down his back as he stroked her with a rhythm that unspooled her inch by inch, waves of pleasure cresting faster, harder, hotter.
“C-close,” she choked, voice breaking.
He pressed his lips to her ear, voice thick and reverent. “Are ye now? Don’t hold back, bonnie. Let go for me.”
Ash shattered. Her cry cracked the room as her body locked around his hand, thighs trembling, slick heat flooding his fingers. She clung to him, gasping his name like a litany, every aftershock dragging her deeper into the haze.
Johnny didn’t move—he watched her, awestruck. The sight of her undone, breathless and glowing, seared itself into his bones. She collapsed back onto the sheets, dazed and divine, every inch of her shimmering in the aftermath.
Johnny wasn’t done with her. He growled low against her neck, one hand gripping her thigh as he hiked it high against his hip. His body trembled with restraint, every muscle taut with the need to be inside her—but he held, waiting, watching her. That look in his eyes was pure fire—primal, reverent, desperate for her word.
“Tell me, lass…” he rasped, voice thick and full of grit. “Ye ready? Because I won’t stop once I start. I need to feel you… all of you. Let me in, bonnie. Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”
Ash moaned, dragging him down by the nape of his neck, crushing her lips to his in a kiss that was all fire and desperation. Her heel dug into the curve of his ass, pulling him flush to her as she gasped against his mouth.
“Please, Johnny,” she breathed, wrecked and wanting. “Fill me. Ruin me. Make me come so hard I forget everything else. Just… take me.”
“Tell me, lass…” he rasped, voice thick and full of grit. “Ye ready? Because I won’t stop once I start. I need to feel you… all of you. Let me in, bonnie. Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”
They moved together, raw and hungry, wrapped in moonlight and the shadows of everything they’d survived. When he finally entered her, it was with a groan that rumbled from deep in his chest—one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip like it grounded him. Ash gasped, arching into him, her name falling from his lips like worship.
Their rhythm built slowly, relentlessly. Every thrust from him met with a roll of her hips, her nails dragging down his back, her voice a breathless echo in his ear. The air turned thick with heat and need, skin slick, breath ragged. He kissed her through every gasp, every shiver—chasing her pleasure like it was a mission etched into his soul.
When she began to fall apart beneath him, her cries trembling with the edge of release, he tightened his grip, teeth grazing her jaw.
"That's it, bonnie... let me feel it. Come on me, love, make me lose it."
She shattered again, a scream ripping through her throat as she clenched around him, her whole body tensing in a wave of exquisite surrender. That was all it took.
Johnny followed her over the edge with a broken moan, thrusts losing rhythm as he spilled into her, buried deep, holding her like she'd anchored him to the earth.
And still, he didn’t let go.
Even as their breathing slowed, even as the room turned still, he cradled her close, easing her trembling limbs beneath the covers. He kissed her temple, whispered something soft—inaudible, but warm.
Then he disappeared for a moment, only to return with a damp cloth, gently wiping the sweat and slick from her skin without a word. He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, tucked her against his chest, and only when she was fully settled did he speak again—his voice low, tender, teasing.
"You realize you’re stuck with me now, right? No goin’ back. I’ve been thoroughly ruined by you."
Ash gave a sleepy laugh, curling into him, her palm pressed to his heart.
"Guess we’re both ruined, then."
Johnny smiled, pulling her tighter.
And for the first time in years, she believed it.
The morning came gently.
Ash stirred beneath soft sheets, her limbs heavy with that delicious kind of ache—the kind that reminded her of every moment, every thrust, every whispered plea the night before. She didn’t want to open her eyes yet. Not when she was so perfectly wrapped in warmth.
Johnny’s body was a solid wall at her back, one arm draped around her waist, anchoring her in place. Their legs tangled beneath the covers, his steady breath fanning the back of her neck. She could feel his heartbeat against her spine, slow and steady, grounding.
His scent surrounded her—clean soap, worn cotton, and something distinctly him.
For once, she didn’t feel the tight coil of regret or shame clawing at her chest. There was no second-guessing. No fear. Just comfort.
And safety.
She let herself smile, slow and private.
Ash hadn’t known what it meant to feel wanted without being used. To be seen without being judged. Her ex had never made her feel like this—not even close. Every time before had come with weight, expectation, the hollow sting of giving more than she received.
But Johnny… he’d asked for nothing. He’d simply been there. And last night, he gave like he meant it. Like he needed her to know, down to her bones, that she was enough.
Her fingers found his forearm beneath the blanket, tracing lazy lines across his skin. Behind her, Johnny stirred.
“Mm… you’re trouble, you know that?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and affection.
Ash smiled wider, eyes still closed. “Took you long enough to catch on.”
He chuckled, nuzzling the back of her neck. “Aye, but now you’re here. In my bed. Can’t let you leave now.”
She turned slightly, just enough to peek at him over her shoulder.
“You planning on kidnapping me, MacTavish?”
He grinned, devilish and soft all at once. “Wouldn’t need to. I reckon you’re already half in love with me.”
Ash rolled her eyes, but her grin betrayed her.
“Maybe,” she whispered.
And for once, she didn’t need to hide how good it felt to say that out loud.
Johnny didn’t let her go that morning. Not when she stretched with a soft, satisfied sigh, wincing at the ache between her thighs with a grin on her lips. Not when she rolled into him, burying her face in his chest like it was the most natural place in the world.
He made them coffee. Cooked eggs while shirtless, hair a mess, grinning like a man who’d finally stopped running. He wasn’t rushing off to a base. There were no briefings, no guns to clean. No weight of command hanging over his shoulders. Just this. Her. A warm skillet and two mugs on a quiet morning.
Ash sat at his kitchen table in his T-shirt, watching him like she still didn’t quite believe this was real. And Johnny? He moved like a man who had made his choice.
He started fixing things around the house. Not for show. Not for praise. Just because he could. A creaky cabinet hinge. A stubborn back door lock. He even started sanding down the back porch railing.
Neighbors started calling him by name.
She caught him once in town helping the baker unload a delivery truck, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour, grinning as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
He bought her a toolbox—engraved her name into the handle. Called it a peace offering after stealing her favorite hammer.
Ash knew it then. Johnny wasn’t just sticking around. He was building something.
And with him, she didn’t just feel seen—she felt chosen.
He still kept the edge, the fire. The way he looked at her when she passed him a coffee in nothing but his shirt should’ve been illegal. But the war was no longer the center of his gravity.
She was.
And though neither said it yet, the foundation was already there—steady, strong, and ready to hold them both.
