Chapter Text
The farm isn’t just a home—it’s a responsibility, a burden you never planned on shouldering alone.
You left this place once you were fresh out of high school, eager to escape the quiet, the isolation of the small town you grew up in. The city called to you, and you answered. New York City—the hustle, the noise, the lights. It was everything your small-town heart dreamed of. The world felt wide and full of possibility. You imagined yourself growing into the person you’d always wanted to be. A future in the city, away from the farm, away from the confines of the life that had always been so familiar, so small.
But then, one night after a bar-crawl with your friends marking the end of your Senior year, you got the call.
Your Ma had passed away. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare.
You dropped everything. That’s what you do when family calls. You go home. The city and all your plans felt so far away as you packed your bags and made the drive back to the farm. When you drove up the long driveway, the house sat there in the distance, almost looking the same, but so much different all at once. It felt wrong without your Ma's laugh echoing through the halls, her hum in the kitchen, her steady presence.
The funeral came and went in a blur of emotion, family, and loss. It was all a whirlwind, a blur of faces, of handshakes, and hushed condolences. But when the dust settled, the reality set in. Your Pa needed help. There was no denying it. He wasn’t the same man anymore—not without your Ma beside him.
So, you stayed. You told yourself it was temporary—just a few weeks, maybe a month at most. You’d help him get back on his feet, make sure everything was squared away, then go back to the city. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Mere months turned into two years. One look at your Pa—slow-moving, his back hunched a little more each day, his hands trembled a little more than they used to—and you knew.
You couldn’t leave him.
The farm, with all its heavy tasks and responsibilities, became yours. For a while, your Pa tried to help, tried to keep his old pace. But as time passed and his grief only grew, his strength had faded, and soon, the weight of the work was yours to bear alone. He couldn’t lift the hay bales like he used to, couldn’t herd the sheep the way he had before. And those trips to the farthest corner of the farm on horseback, checking the fences, making sure everything was secure? You reckoned he couldn’t even get on a saddle.
You didn’t mind at first. It was just the two of you now, and you loved this place, loved the land, loved what it represented, It was home. But there were moments—the quiet ones, when everything slowed down—that the weight of it all settled heavily on your shoulders. You weren’t a farmhand. You were a woman who had spent her whole upbringing dreaming of more. A different life. But now, you’re tied to this place. Tied to your Pa. And your Ma's laugh still lingers in the walls, thick and heavy like the humidity that Summer brings each morning.
You’re exhausted, frustrated—running on fumes. You can’t keep doing it all, but there’s no choice. The farm, the animals, the crops, the house... and Pa. You’re stretched thin, your bones aching under the weight of responsibilities that pile up faster than you can manage. The idea of doing it all alone feels like a cruel joke.
Something’s got to give.
The help-wanted flyers were your last-ditch effort. You spent the better half of the previous night making them yourself, attempting to make them each as uniform as possible.
‘FARMHAND WANTED.
DEPENDABLE WORKERS AND SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY.
CALL XXX-XXX-XXXX FOR DETAILS.’
If you didn’t find someone soon, you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it together. So, as the clock striked 8 AM the next morning, you climbed into Pa’s old pick-up, the engine coughing to life as you made your way into town.
You’d been born and raised here. The downtown—if it can even be called that—of Williston is small, everyone knows everyone, and most folks are working-class, middle-aged. The kind of people who offered a warm smile and a helping hand without a second thought. You’d grown up with their kindness, and now, as you hung those flyers in their storefront windows, you could feel the weight of their stares—half concern, half curiosity.
They all know your story by now. They’d watched you grow up, watched you leave, and then watched you come back after everything fell apart. You could feel the sympathy in their eyes, but they never let it show—there was a quiet understanding between you all. Their hospitality was something you could never take for granted.
But no amount of kind gestures could change the fact that you need help. And fast.
You pull into an empty parking space a block away from Main St, quickly hopping out and make your way through town, handing out flyers to shop owners and sticking them to cork boards. It’s routine. A simple task, but the weight of it all makes it feel heavier than it should. The town’s small enough that you’re familiar with most of the faces, and it feels like you’ve talked to half the town by the time the afternoon rolls around. You’re famished—your stomach growling louder than the engine of Pa’s truck as you finish your rounds.
You head into the local bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop, the comforting smell of fried food and coffee hanging in the air. The place is familiar, cozy—its booths all torn leather, worn but inviting. Al—or Crazy Al, as most call him—the owner, gives you a warm smile when you walk in, his graying hair poking out from beneath his old baseball cap. He’s been here longer than anyone can remember.
“Ya look like ya could use a milkshake,” he says, already putting scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender.
You nod, grateful for the small kindness. Al gestures toward one of the metal bar stools in front of him, you sit and his eyes narrow a little when he notices the exhaustion written across your face.
“What’s got’ya all wound up, kid?” he asks, pouring the milkshake in a mug and handing it to you
You eye the mug with momentary confusion before you choose to ignore his choice of cups. You take a deep breath, the weight of the day hitting you all over again. “It’s the farm,” you say, swirling the straw in the thick milkshake, not sure where to start. “Pa’s slowing down. I’m running everything from the crops, to the cows, to the house. I can’t keep up.”
Al nods, his expression softening in sympathy as he leans back against the counter. “That’s a helluva load for one person. Yer doin’ right by yer Pa, though, kid. Ya know that?”
You smile faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done, but it’s just not enough anymore. So I’m trying to find someone to help—a guy, young and strong, you know? I just can’t do it all by myself.”
You slide one of the flyers across the counter to Al, asking him to keep an eye out. “If you see anyone, just... send them my way? I’m desperate, at this point.”
He takes the flyer, his gaze flickering to the paper before meeting your eyes again. “Funny ya mention that,” Al says, scratching his chin. “There’s a new guy who popped up not a day ago. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but he was askin’ around for work. Thought he looked a little outta place for this town, but...”
You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”
“Just dun’ seem like he belonged, I guess. Looks like he went to Iraq or wherever they’re fightin’ these days.” He shrugs. “But hey, if ya need someone, ya might want to track ‘em down. If I see ‘em again, I’ll send him yer way.”
You nod, feeling a spark of hope. “You’re a Godsend, Al.”
About a week later, it’s a humid Wednesday morning in the heart of August. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, even when the sun’s hiding behind a blanket of clouds. A slight fog lingers in the air, and the scent of sweet grass drifts through the open windows, carried by a lazy breeze. The sun’s rays begin to break through the mist, casting long fingers of light across the fields and trees in the distance.
You finish cleaning up after breakfast, the dishes clinking softly in the sink. Pa’s moved from the dining table to sit in his ratty old armchair in the corner, eyes half-lidded as the local weatherman drones on about tomorrow’s rainstorm. It’s a quiet, familiar morning—the kind you’ve gotten used to in the last couple of years. Your hair’s tied up, a few loose strands sticking to your sun-kissed skin as you wipe down the counter, sweat beading lightly on your neck.
Then you hear it—boots on the porch.
Your body tenses instinctively, the old reflex kicking in. You consider grabbing the shotgun atop the door frame, but a second later, you shake the thought off. It’s overkill, and you’ve got enough sense to know it.
You open the door, not expecting much, probably some girl scouts, or worse, another annoying sales rep. from out of town.
You grasp the handle, pulling open the door, “Look, whatever you're selling, I ain’t buying. I got enough shit to pay fo-”
Standing there is a man, 6 '2 if you had to guess, built like a damn ox, all sharp angles and hard muscle, hair a cropped mohawk that looks like it belongs on someone ten times tougher than him. His eyes are so blue they nearly blind you, but they seem to hold a storm behind them, like he’s seen some shit. But what really gets you is that smirk. It makes you want to both slap and kiss him at the same time.
And then he opens his mouth, and…
Definitely not American. Not even close.
You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stepped into some strange dream. You’ve always been more open-minded than most of the people in town, but hearing that thick accent in the middle of your quiet, rural world makes everything suddenly feel a little too strange. Now you get what Al was talking about when he mentioned, “Not from around here.”
He’s dressed in a dark blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to reveal a white wife beater underneath, the fabric stretched tight over his chest. A neat, tiny gold cross between each pec, as if to say ‘Hey! Look at my man-tits!’ His denim jeans are worn, the brown scuffs on the knees looking like he’s been praying in dirt. And those forearms… Thick and muscular, veins running like rivers beneath his skin- stop it.
You force your focus back up to his face, and it’s just as distracting. Soft stubble accented by the sharp slope of his nose. He stands tall, looking at you like he’s waiting for something—oh. He spoke, and now you were supposed to respond. That is how conversations work.
You’re not the type to generally stare at people, but something about him, something in the way he carries himself. You try not to notice how his broad shoulders fill the doorway like he’s daring you to le- STOP.
He shifts on his feet, a hint of uncertainty behind that cocky grin. You can tell he’s not as sure of himself as he’s trying to appear. Maybe that’s the only thing stopping you from slamming the door in his face.
Still, you don’t trust him. Why would a guy like that want a job on a farm in the middle of nowhere? He looks like he could be doing much more important things—literally anywhere else—but he’s here. Standing on your porch with your flyer slightly crumpled in his big hands.
“What can I do for you?” You try to sound cool, collected, but your tone comes out a little sharper than you meant.
He tilts his head, the smirk never wavering. “I hear ye're lookin’ for a hand.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Aye,” he answers, his accent thick and heavy, rolling the words in a way that makes the air feel hotter than it already is.
He steps a little closer, just enough to make you take a half step back. “Name’s Johnny-” he stretches his hand out, “Mactavish. I’m lookin’ for work. Could use somethin’ steady.”
You study him for a second, arms crossed, and wonder if you should even entertain this. A man like him could be trouble. Hell, a man like him is trouble. You take his hand in yours, giving it a solid shake.
“Do you know anything about farms?” with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, you don't bother to hide the skepticism in your voice.
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done my share o’ heavy liftin’. Hard work don’t scare me.”
“Alright,” you hum, stepping back and letting the door swing open a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink, but don’t think you’re on the job yet. I’m just…” you pause, “Interviewing, I guess.”
He gives you another smirk,more amused than cocky as he steps past you. “Yes ma’am.”
You step aside, letting him in, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he fills the space. It’s not just his size—though, yeah, the man is big—it’s his presence. Something about him shifts the air, like he’s the sun and everything around him are just mere planets, susceptible to his magnetic pull. The house, your home, suddenly feels a little too small.
His smile fades, just slightly, as he takes it all in. Maybe it’s the warmth of the place, the scent of coffee lingering from breakfast, the old family photos lining the walls. Or maybe it’s just the quiet—different from whatever he’s used to.
“The hell is this?”
Pa’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and confused. He’s already halfway up from his chair, eyes narrowed, hands braced on the armrests like he’s about to stand but isn’t quite sure if it’s worth the effort. His gaze flicks between you and the very large, very unfamiliar man now standing in his house.
You sigh, already anticipating the reaction. “Pa, relax,” you say, walking over to him, ready to placate. “I was just looking for some help around the farm.”
Pa squints at the stranger like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s real or just a heat stroke-induced hallucination. “Help? With what?”
“With everything, Pa.” You lower your voice to a whisper-shout, rubbing your temple. “You can’t keep up the way you used to, and neither can I. We need someone else.”
Pa grumbles something under his breath before scoffing. “And how exactly do ya plan to pay ‘em, huh? We can’t afford that.”
You set your jaw firm. “I’ll make it work, I promise”
That makes him pause. He knows that tone. Knows it the same way he knew your mother’s, unyielding and steady, like a tree standing firm against the wind. Your roots bury deep in the ground you walk on, just like her. There’s no use arguing when you get like this, and he’s too tired to fight a battle he knows he’ll lose.
Still, his lips press into a thin line, his weathered hands gripping the armrests of his recliner before he exhales, slow and resigned. “Stubborn like your mother, I tell ya.”
The words land heavier than you’d like. You huff out a breath, shoving it down before it can settle too deep—before your guest gets too curious. You don’t need a stranger poking around and popping stitches.
So instead, you turn away from Pa as he sits back down, still muttering under his breath, and quickly clear the dining table of a few lingering cups from breakfast. The kitchen’s only a few steps away, the open floor plan letting you move freely. You rinse out a glass and fill it with cool, sweet tea, condensation already forming on the outside as the humid air clings to it. It’s an old habit, a simple kindness—making sure guests have something to drink.
When you turn back, you see that Johnny’s wandered toward the wall, where a small collection of family photos are hung in mismatched frames. He’s standing still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his head tilted slightly, studying them. Studying you.
Your stomach twists when you realize which one he’s looking at.
It’s old, a little faded in its frame, but still clear—you, small and bright-eyed, cloaked in your Ma's too-big dress and classy jewelry, drowning in fabric and pearls as you grin at the camera. Your Ma's crouched beside you, laughing, her arms wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. The slight shadow of your Pa holding the camera, capturing a moment frozen in time.
You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of last night's baseball game replaying from the tv. Dave Winfield hit his 400th home run last night against the Twins. Johnny’s attention was pulled back to you. His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable before he schools his face.
You don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, you hold up the glass and gesture toward the dining table. “Sit.”
He does, pulling out one of the side chairs and settling into it with an easy, almost lazy confidence. You set the glass in front of him and take the seat at the head of the table, watching him as he wraps his fingers around the sweating drink.
And for the first time since he showed up, he’s quiet.
You realize, rather suddenly, that you’re not actually sure what to ask him. You’ve never interviewed anyone before—never had to. The farm’s always been run by family.
You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your chair, trying not to feel small under his gaze. He’s watching you—not in a way that feels threatening, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of yourself. Of the way your fingers tap against the tabletop, of the bead of sweat still clinging to your collarbone from the August heat.
You square your shoulders and push past it. “So,” you start, “what kind of experience do you have with hard labor?”
He leans back a little, forearms flexing just enough to be distracting. “Done my fair share,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.
You arch a brow. “Like?”
His lips twitch, just slightly, like he can tell you’re trying to keep up the tough act. “Military.”
That gives you pause. Military. You study him again, looking past his too-relaxed posture. Yeah, you can see it now—in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he takes in a room like he’s cataloging exits.
“What branch?” you ask.
“UK Special Forces.”
That surprises you, but you keep your face neutral. You wondered what brought him here, of all places. Obviously he wasn’t American, he sounds like Groundskeeper Willie, for Christ's sake. Your fingers tap against the table once before you ask, “What’d you do?”
He hesitates. It’s slight, barely there, but you catch it. His jaw tenses for just a fraction of a second before he exhales through his nose. “Served where I was needed.”
You tilt your head. “Iraq?”
His eyes flicker—not with surprise, but with something else. A shadow. It’s gone just as quickly as it appears, buried under that same easy smirk. “Among other places.”
You don’t push. You just nod, sensing that it’s not something he wants to talk about all that much.
You’re fine with that. Everyone’s got their wounds.
You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden tabletop. “How much can you lift?”
Johnny takes his time answering, reaching for the glass of sweet tea. He swirls it absently, watching the condensation bead and trail down the sides before taking a slow sip. “Depends,” he finally says, setting it down with a soft thud.“What’re we talkin’? Hay bales? Fence posts? You?”
Your lips press together in a flat line. You refuse to bite. “Let’s stick to hay bales.”
His grin is slow and amused, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Can handle hay bales no problem.”
You roll your eyes and shift topics before he can drag this out. “Ever ridden horses?”
He stretches slightly, rolling his broad shoulders before settling back into the chair. “Aye, a few times,” he says, tipping his head. “No’ often, but I ken how.”
You nod, working through his accent in your head, but ultimately satisfied enough with that. “Ever herded sheep?”
His brow quirks, and he tilts his head just slightly, giving you a look. “Aren’t there dogs for tha’?”
You let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking your head as you lean forward to rest your elbows on the table. “Yeah, there are. But Dixie’s old now and too nice for her own good. Sleeps with the sheep more than she herds them. Think she likes being part of the flock.”
Johnny’s expression shifts just a fraction—nose wrinkling, jaw tensing like he’s biting back a reaction. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, he mutters, “No’ really fond o’ dogs.”
Your fingers tap against the table once before you hum, neither surprised nor bothered. “That’s fine. Dixie’ll leave you alone if you don’t want to interact with her, she’s a sweet girl though.”
Johnny exhales through his nose and nods, shifting in his chair. He leans back, resting one arm over the backrest like he owns the damn thing, settling into an easy, almost lazy posture. You, on the other hand, are still sitting straight, trying to keep some sense of control in this conversation. You move toward the standard questions—his work ethic, reliability, how soon he can start. Hopefully ASAP.
He answers everything with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s no stranger to hard labor, though he keeps the details vague, like he doesn’t see the point in spelling things out to you
Eventually, you sit back, rubbing your hands over your thighs before resting them in your lap. “Look,” you start, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. I can’t pay much. It’s a lot of work for a little money.” You’re already bracing yourself for rejection.
Johnny’s quiet for a moment, like he’s really thinking it over. His fingers tap lightly against the table’s edge before he shifts, rolling his shoulders once more before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ll work withou’ pay,” he says finally. “So long as I get a place tae sleep. An’ meals.”
That throws you a little. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your worn jeans as you study him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. But he doesn’t look like a man trying to con you—just someone who’s already made up his mind.
He watches you right back, head tilted slightly, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll argue.
You think on it. It’d be more cost-effective to add a couple extra eggs or greens to each meal rather than shell out cash on the daily. You don’t particularly like the idea of someone working for free, but if he’s willing, if it helps keep the farm running.
You nod, exhaling through your nose. “That can work.” This time you extend your hand first, across the table and palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Johnny glances down at your hand, then back up at you. Slowly, he reaches out, his grip firm and his hand dwarves yours. Working hands, warm, rough with calluses. The shake lingers just a second longer than necessary before he lets go, settling back into his seat with an easy smile.
“Guess I’m yours then, boss.”
You spend the next few hours showing Johnny around the property, riding side by side on horseback. Before you even get 5 minutes out of the barn, you realize—for all his confidence—he’s not the best at riding. His posture is stiff, his grip on the reins just a little too tight, and when the horse starts to trot, it becomes painfully obvious—he can’t post to save his life.
You bite back a smile, watching as he bounces awkwardly in the saddle, his jaw tight with concentration. Yeah. That’d be a lesson for tomorrow.
For now, though, you make things easier on both of you. You have Johnny dismount the horse and put her back in her stall. He does so with a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment, and you gesture for him to get on behind you on Shimmer—your brown beauty with a white patch on her forehead. She’s steady, calm, used to being ridden double.
He hesitates for only a second before swinging himself up behind you, settling in close. Closer than you’d realized he’d be.
It makes sense, he takes up a lot of space compared to you. Granted, Shimmer is a horse for your size, not his. His chest is flush against your back, warm and solid, and suddenly, you’re very aware of just how big he is. His arms rest lightly on either side of you, long enough for his hands gripping the saddle’s pommel as he adjusts.
You swallow hard, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. Focus.
“You good back there?” Your voice is steady, but barely.
Johnny shifts slightly, just enough that his chest presses firmer against you. “Aye,” he says, low and smooth. “Though, I cannae say I mind the view from back here.”
You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on guiding Shimmer forward instead of the warmth of him against your spine.
Tomorrow, you’ll teach him how to properly ride a horse.
You guide Shimmer across the acres, Johnny still seated behind you, his chest a steady presence against your back. You don’t bother overwhelming him with too much about the animals—there’d be time for that later. For now, you focus on the land itself, pointing out the ins and outs of the property. The best routes to take. The spots where the fence needs checking. Where the land dips and swells, where the ground gets soft after rain. What to avoid.
To your surprise, he doesn’t just nod along like he’s only half-listening—he absorbs everything.
You’d expected some level of attention, but Johnny takes it to another level. He’s perceptive, and alarmingly so. He never asks you to repeat yourself, doesn’t need clarification. His responses are short but sharp, repeating directions back to you with precision, like he’s filing everything away for later.
It shocks you a little. Most people take weeks to learn the best ways around the farm, to memorize which fence posts need reinforcing, which pasture belongs to which animal.
Johnny’s picking it up in hours.
You exhale, eyes scanning the land ahead as you consider it. Must be the military. You don’t know much about what exactly the UK has their Army doing, but you imagine remembering terrain was part of the job. Mapping escape routes, tracking paths, knowing where to move and when. James Bond shit.
It’s a little unnerving, if you’re being honest. But at the same time, it’s... reassuring. If he can learn this fast, maybe he’ll actually be useful around here.
By the time the sun starts its slow descent, painting the sky in hazy streaks of orange and pink, you’ve spent the better part of the day word-vomiting everything Johnny needs to know about the property. He took it all in with that same sharp, unnerving focus, barely asking questions, barely missing a beat. You’d expected him to lose interest, to at least seem overwhelmed, but he never did. It’s strange.
It’s late afternoon. You bring him inside, leading him upstairs to the guest bedroom.
The layout of the house is simple. All the bedrooms are on the second floor. Pa’s bedroom is to the left of the stairs, along with a storage room and a couple of closets down the hall. He’s got his own ensuite bathroom, which is a luxury in a house this old. There’s a small common area at the top of the stairs, more of a nook than a real room, where an old desk and a shelf full of worn books sit untouched most days. To the right of the stairs and down the hall is your bedroom, and next to it, the guest room—now Johnny’s room. Directly across the hall is the bathroom, which, as of now, isn’t just your bathroom anymore.
It’s Johnny’s too, now. You just had to pray he would remember to put the seat down.
You pause outside the guest room, pushing the door open so he can step in. It’s simple—a sturdy bed, a nightstand, a decently sized dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable enough.
Johnny steps inside, tossing his bag onto the bed and glancing around. He gives a small nod, like he approves, before shooting a look over his shoulder.
"Cozy," he remarks, that damn accent making the word sound richer than it has any right to.
You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s next door,” you tell him, nodding toward it. “And we’ll be sharing the bathroom across the hall.”
Johnny quirks a brow at that, glancing toward the bathroom before his gaze slides back to you. His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but damn close.
“Hope ye dinnae take long showers, then,” he teases.
You huff, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t. I won’t be in your way. Hope you won’t be in mine.”
He chuckles, low and amused, before stretching his arms above his head, the hem of his wife beater riding up just enough to reveal a dark tuft of hair, tastefully accented by a vline and the bottom half of some abs. He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Well, as long as ye don’t mind m’walkin’ around in a towel, we’ll get along just fine.”
You blink. Once. Twice. He’s messing with you, but you wouldn’t mind a bit. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that. “I’ll let you get settled,” you say, tone flat. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Johnny watches you for a second, then grins—a lazy, wolfish thing that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.
“Yes ma’am,” he drawls. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and head back downstairs, exhaling as you step into the kitchen. Dinner. You’ll focus on dinner. For you, Pa—and now, Johnny.
Like it’s normal. Like you’re not dangerously aware of the Greek God now living just a door down from you.
The sun’s nearly set by the time dinner’s on the table, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The air is thick with the scent of home-cooked food—something rich, filling, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs after a long day’s work. You don’t cook fancy, but you cook damn well, and the proof is sitting right across from you.
Johnny practically groans after the first bite, dropping his fork against his plate and leaning back in his chair like he’s just had some religious experience.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” he mumbles, chewing through another mouthful, shaking his head in near disbelief. “This is th’ best thing I’ve eaten in—hell, I dunno how long.”
You scoff, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. “You act like I just served you the cure for cancer.”
Johnny just points his fork at you, eyes damn serious. “Might as well be.”
Pa huffs out a chuckle, though he’s still regarding Johnny with that wary, fatherly suspicion. He’s been watching him since he sat down, not quite unfriendly, but assessing. The kind of look that says ‘I don’t trust you yet, but I’m willing to tolerate you.’
“So,” Pa starts, setting his glass down, “what’s a young guy like yourself doin’ lookin’ for farm work? Dun’ seem like the kinda thing a soldier would go for.”
Johnny doesn’t falter. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Needed a change o’ pace,” he says. “Figured I’d try m’hand at something new.”
Pa isn’t impressed. “Ya ever worked on a farm before, boy?”
“No’ exactly, no.” Johnny pops another bite into his mouth. “But work’s work, aye? Ye put in effort, ye get results. Simple enough.”
Pa hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “... And where’d ya say your from, again?”
“Scotland.”
“Huh.” Pa leans back slightly, arms crossed. “Ya don’t say.”
Johnny just grins, sensing the old man’s suspicion and, by all accounts, enjoying it. But then he shifts gears, effortlessly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Caught some of tha’ baseball game ye had on this morning.,” he says, casually, like it’s just an offhand remark. “Did nae get tae see th’ end of it, though. Who won?”
That gets Pa’s attention. His eyebrows lift slightly, suspicion briefly forgotten. “Ya watch baseball?”
Johnny shrugs. “Not often, bu’ I like a good game when I see one. And from what I saw, th’ Angel’s were struggling there for a bit.”
Pa scoffs. “Struggling? Boy, they were getting their asses handed to ‘em. Pitcher was all over the damn place. If I’d been on the field, I’d have-”
And just like that, the two are off, talking baseball, going back and forth like they’ve known each other for years. You groan, pushing your food around on your plate as the conversation carries on, completely hijacked.
You should’ve known this would happen. Give two men a sport to bond over, and suddenly, they’re best friends.
You zone out for a while, chewing absentmindedly, half-listening as they talk about batting averages and pitching speeds. You don’t notice it at first—a gentle nudge against your ankle.
You flinch slightly, assuming Johnny just bumped you on accident. You shift your foot away under the table.
He follows with his own. Your brows furrow slightly, shooting a glance at him. He doesn’t even look at you, still chatting with Pa like nothing’s happening.
A moment later, another nudge—softer this time.
You realize he’s doing it on purpose.
You sit up straighter, stiffening as you move your foot again.
Johnny follows.
Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. What is he doing?
You flick your gaze toward him again, and finally, he meets your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at Pa, completely unfazed.
You resist the urge to kick him under the table, opting instead to glare daggers at him, your expression screaming ‘What in the absolute fuck are you doing?’
Johnny, the absolute menace, doesn’t react beyond the occasional brief glance in your direction, his smirk lingering like he’s enjoying this way too much.
Meanwhile, Pa’s none the wiser, still going on about how baseball’s gone soft over the years. And you’re stuck sitting there, silently fuming, trapped in a footsie war like you’re in grade school.
Dinner winds down, the conversation between Johnny and Pa finally tapering off. Johnny, mercifully, lets up with the footsie nonsense, though not before giving one last, slow brush of his ankle against yours—like a final, smug little victory lap. You pointedly ignore it, pretending not to notice, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.
Eventually, Pa calls it a night. He pushes back from the table with a tired groan, muttering about how he’s “too damn old to be up this late,” before shuffling off toward the stairs.
You listen to his slow, steady footsteps as he heads up to his room, waiting for the familiar click of his door shutting. And then—you’re alone.
Johnny lingers in the kitchen, standing near the island, hovering. He looks out of place for the first time since he showed up, like he’s not sure if he should offer to help or just let you do your thing. Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.
It’s awkward—unlike him.
You stack plates, rinsing them under the faucet, letting the warm water fill the quiet. But you can feel him watching you. Not in a weird way—just... observing. Like he’s waiting for something.
And you’re not about to let that something slide.
“So,” you say, voice casual as you scrub a dish, “what was with the footsie?”
Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, amused. “Thought ye’d never ask.”
You scoff, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “Seriously?”
His smirk is pure trouble. “Could nae help myself, lass,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the countertop. “Ye just looked so serious, sittin’ there all quiet, tryin’ not tae react.” His voice drops just a bit lower, teasing. “Was cute.”
Your heart stumbles in your chest, a traitorous little skip that pisses you off.
Because, genuinely, what the hell? Sure he’s probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and potentially your exact type to a T, but you’ve only known this man for a day. There’s no way you could be that desperate, no way you’re already feeling anything. Right?
The thought alone makes irritation creep up your spine. You shut the faucet off with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the dishes completely so you can fully face him.
“What are you playing at?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You fold your arms, leveling him with a look. “Are you actually here to work? Or are you just here to freeload an-”
Johnny pushes himself off the counter, not playing around. He stands up straight, tall, and present. And when he looks at you this time, there’s nothing cheeky about it.
“I’m here tae work,” he says, steady, certain. “Ye need help, and I can handle it. Tha’s why I’m here.”
His smile returns, but it’s softer this time. Honest. He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug, his voice dropping. “But you’re gorgeous, and there’s no denyin’ that. Just sayin’.”
Your brain stalls. Stops working entirely. There could very well be steam coming out of your scalp.
He moves beside you, completely unfazed, grabbing a towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world and starting to dry the dishes you had already washed. Meanwhile, you just stand there, staring where he was just standing, still feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin.
You’re in trouble.