Bound by the Tide // John MacTavish x Reader

Dangerous Waters

He takes a step forward, just one, but it feels like the entire world shifts with him.

You step back instinctively, a defensive motion born of years of battle, but the act feels wrong, like retreating from an incoming wave when every part of you craves the crash. Your heel catches on the corner of the rug, your balance faltering, and you stop yourself with a sharp intake of breath.

He doesn't stop.

Not another step, not yet, but he looms closer now, his presence filling the room like a tide rising steadily. You're face to face, close enough to feel the whisper of his breath against your skin, warm and maddeningly steady.

"Ye dinnae want to step back," he murmurs, low and quiet, like the rumble of thunder before a storm.

Your breath hitches again, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm as your gaze locks onto his.

"You don't know what I want," you snap, but the words are weaker than you'd like. They tremble at the edges, giving away the truth you wish you could hide.

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes searching yours, sharp and piercing in a way that makes you feel seen, laid bare. "Dinnae I?"

The air between you feels too thin, charged with a tension that grips your chest and makes it impossible to look away.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, your words laced with frustration and something you don't want to name. "Why did you do it?"

His jaw tightens, his expression flickering between regret and something frailer. "Because I didnae have a choice," he says finally, the weight of his words pressing into the space between you. "No' if I wanted to keep ye alive."

Your laugh is sharp and bitter. "And handing me over to the Navy was your grand idea of keeping me alive?"

He exhales, his hand running through his hair in a gesture that speaks of restless guilt. "I couldnae fight 'em then," he says, voice tight. "Not wi' me crew, me ship, everythin' hangin' in the balance. But I never, never, meant to leave ye there. No' for good."

You open your mouth to retort, to throw his excuses back in his face, but he cuts you off, stepping closer again until the space between you is a breath, a whisper.

"I couldnae sleep," he says, the words spilling out like a confession dragged from his soul. "No' 'til I got ye back. Every hour, every mile across the sea, I thought of nothin' else."

You falter, your anger cracking.

"I dinnae ken what it is about ye," he continues, his gaze locked on yours, unflinching. "But ye've consumed me. Ever since I dragged ye from the wreckage o' yer ship, ye've been in me head. I cannae shake ye, Gods know I've tried."

Your heart pounds in your chest, each word sinking into you. You should be furious. You should shove him away, curse him, tell him he has no right to speak to you like this.

But you don't move.

"An' I hate it," he says, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. "Hate that ye've done this to me. Every time I shut me eyes, it's yer face I see. I cannae step on this deck without lookin' for ye, an' even when ye're not there, I feel ye. Like a ghost. Like a damn curse."

His hand moves, not to touch you, but to hover near your arm, a motion that feels like both a question and an apology.

"I could tell ye I hate ye," he murmurs, "but it'd be a lie."

"I hate myself for what I did," he expresses, his eyes burning into yours. "And ye have every right to be angry, to want me dead. Ye could put a blade to me throat, take me apart piece by piece, and I wouldnae stop you."