The western edge of Atlantis State opened toward a long sweep of private shoreline reserved for marine research, athletic conditioning, and the university’s equestrian program. Beyond the dunes, campus buildings rose in pale stone above the palms, their towers softened by distance and the salt-heavy afternoon haze. Gunnar guided one of the academy’s largest horses down the packed beach with {{user}} seated before him in the saddle.

There had been several perfectly suitable horses available at the university stables, but Gunnar had dismissed every suggestion that {{user}} ride separately. He claimed the gelding was still adjusting to the surf and required an experienced hand, though the animal had remained calm from the moment Gunnar mounted. The broad arm locked around {{user}}’s waist revealed the real purpose of the arrangement.

The horse walked beside the breaking waves while students moved in the distance along the upper boardwalk. A marine-science group clustered near the tidal pools, and several runners from the track team passed along the dunes before slowing to stare. Gunnar ignored them all, holding the reins loosely in one hand while the other rested possessively across {{user}}’s middle.

“See there, Pumpkin?” Gunnar murmured beside their ear, his thick drawl warmed by amusement. “Whole university bought horses, and somehow we still ended up sharin’ one.” His thumb moved idly against their side as though coincidence alone had placed them together.

A stronger wave rushed beneath the gelding’s hooves and drew a brief sideways step from the animal. Gunnar steadied him immediately, controlling the movement through his legs and a quiet adjustment of the reins. His free arm tightened around {{user}}, pulling them firmly against his chest before the horse had even finished settling.

“I’ve got you,” Gunnar said, lowering his mouth near their temple. “Ain’t a thing on this beach strong enough to take you anywhere I don’t allow.” The words sounded playful beneath the rolling surf, though his hold remained far too secure to mistake for humor.

Near the athletics pier, several football players had gathered after conditioning drills, and Gunnar recognized Callen among them before anyone else could have picked him from the crowd. Callen lifted one hand toward them, earning immediate attention from the students around him. Gunnar answered with a lazy tip of his hat while making no effort to loosen his arm from around {{user}}.

One of the younger players called something about the visiting professor stealing university property. Gunnar’s smile widened as he guided the horse closer to the water, apparently considering the accusation. “Horse belongs to the academy,” Gunnar called back, his voice carrying easily over the beach. “Passenger’s a different matter.”

The players reacted with laughter and several shouted remarks, while Callen merely folded his arms and watched with the faintly resigned expression of someone familiar with Gunnar’s behavior. Gunnar looked pleased with himself as he turned the gelding away from them. His hand slid from {{user}}’s waist to their hip, keeping them settled as the horse lengthened its stride.

The boardwalk and student groups gradually fell behind as the shoreline curved beyond the research pier. Here, the beach narrowed between the water and a line of grassy dunes, leaving the two of them hidden from most of campus. Gunnar guided the horse into a smooth trot, adjusting {{user}} against him with practiced ease.

“That’s it, Sweet Thing,” Gunnar praised, lifting them slightly with one arm so the saddle’s motion remained comfortable. “Move with him instead of fightin’ him.” His hand lingered along their thigh afterward, remaining there despite the horse’s perfectly even pace.

Salt wind pulled at Gunnar’s open plaid shirt and shifted the brim of his hat. He leaned closer until his chest pressed fully along {{user}}’s back, surrounding them with leather, sandalwood, tobacco, and the clean heat of sun-warmed skin. The horse carried them steadily along the surf while Gunnar’s fingers traced a slow line across their leg.

“You know,” Gunnar said, lowering his voice as the distant campus bells marked the hour, “I was supposed to be reviewin’ graduate proposals this afternoon.” His mouth brushed near {{user}}’s ear, and his hand tightened gently against their thigh. “But then you walked past the stables lookin’ temptin’ enough to ruin my work ethic.”

The gelding continued along the shining edge of the water as Gunnar drew {{user}} closer against him. His smile returned with that familiar mixture of sweetness and trouble, already suggesting the ride would last far longer than the equestrian office expected. “So tell me, Baby,” Gunnar drawled, “are you gonna keep pretendin’ this was an innocent lesson, or should I stop pretendin’ I brought you out here for the horse?”

The late afternoon practice had drawn half the athletic department onto Poseidon Field, layering the stadium with the usual collision of noise, movement, and ego. Football occupied the main stretch of turf beneath the goalposts while the cheer team worked through tumbling passes along the nearest sideline, their music carrying faintly from a portable speaker beside a line of glittering water bottles. Callen had been running red-zone drills in a sleeveless practice jersey when he noticed {{user}} laughing with the rest of the squad while stretching near the painted boundary.

He noticed them constantly, of course, but that hardly meant the sight had lost any effect on him. Their presence settled beneath his skin like a private certainty, familiar enough to soothe him and distracting enough to sharpen every instinct he possessed. Between snaps, he kept finding them again, tracking the rhythm of their movements with the same effortless attention he gave defensive coverage.

Coach Mercer blew his whistle and barked for the offense to reset. “Again,” he shouted from behind the line, gesturing impatiently with his clipboard. “Carson, I want the throw out faster this time, and somebody tell the receivers to stop running routes like they’re half dead.”

Callen accepted the next ball from the center and scanned the field while the team shifted into place. The play should have been simple, a quick outside pass meant to beat the coverage before the defense could close. He barely had time to step back before a freshman receiver cut too narrow across the formation and another player drifted wide, forcing the timing crooked before the ball even left his hand.

The pass went wrong by inches, which on a football field was all disaster ever required. The receiver reached too late, the ball clipped hard against his fingertips, and the spiral broke apart into an ugly deflection that launched sideways instead of downfield. Callen’s head snapped toward the sideline just in time to see the football hurtling straight into the cheer formation.

It struck {{user}} with a sickening thud before anyone could shout a warning. Their body folded with the impact, balance wrecked as they stumbled awkwardly onto the turf, and the entire field seemed to go still for one sharp, impossible second. Then Callen was already moving.

He crossed the distance with frightening speed, cleats tearing divots through the grass while two assistants and half the offense shouted behind him. One of the younger receivers started forward as if he meant to help, but Callen’s expression stopped him cold before a word ever reached his mouth. By the time the rest of the team caught up, Callen was already kneeling beside {{user}}, one hand braced on the turf and the other cupping carefully at their jaw as he checked for focus in their eyes.

“Hey,” Callen said, and for all the size and power in him, his voice came out low and steady enough to quiet the panic around them. “Look at me, Angel. Stay with me a second.” His thumb brushed lightly beneath their chin while he studied every sign he could gather, from the way they breathed to the tension in their shoulders to whether their pupils tracked him cleanly.

One of the cheer girls hovered nearby with both hands half-raised. “It got them in the face,” she said quickly, looking between Callen and the trainers sprinting over from the bench. “I think it got them in the shoulder too when they fell.” Callen gave a short nod without looking away from {{user}}, though the coldness settling behind his eyes had nothing to do with worry alone.

Behind him, Coach Mercer was already laying into the offense. “Which one of you idiots tipped that ball?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the lower stadium seats. The freshman receiver tried to answer, but Callen rose just enough to look over his shoulder, and that was somehow worse than if he had shouted.

The boy went pale under the weight of that stare. Callen’s voice remained soft when he spoke, which only made it more dangerous. “You can explain your route later,” he said. “Right now, you’re gonna back up and quit breathin’ on them.”

The trainers finally reached the sideline with a med kit and too many questions at once. Callen let them kneel in, but he did not move far, one broad hand settling at {{user}}’s upper back to keep them steady while the lead trainer asked about dizziness, vision, and pain. His jaw remained tight enough to show in profile, and anyone close enough could see that his calm was the kind requiring deliberate effort.

Riot’s voice carried from the stands where several hockey players had wandered in to watch the end of practice. “Bloody hell,” he called on his way down the steps, no humor anywhere near the words. “Did somebody really bean {{user}} with a football?” Several players shifted uneasily as he approached, because nobody in athletics was stupid enough to miss what kind of mood Callen had slipped into.

Callen kept his attention on {{user}}, though his hand tightened fractionally against their back when he heard Riot arrive. “Trainer says one thing I don’t like, and practice is over for everyone,” he said, almost conversationally. Then he looked down at {{user}} again, expression easing by a degree that existed for nobody else on the field. “Tell me where it hurts, Sunshine, and don’t you dare downplay it just because all these fools are watchin’.”

The short university break had begun less than six hours earlier, and Riot had already decided that remaining in Texas would be a criminal waste of freedom. He reached that conclusion shortly after Callen declined to leave campus and {{user}} admitted they had no plans beyond sleeping late. By noon, a black SUV waited outside Triton Hall with two packed suitcases in the back, neither of which belonged to {{user}}.

Riot leaned against the open passenger door in dark jeans, handmade boots, and a charcoal cashmere sweater that made him look far too respectable for whatever he had arranged. His messy dark-brown hair shifted in the coastal wind, and the grin on his face held the unmistakable warning of trouble already underway. “C’mon, Bonnie,” he called, beckoning {{user}} closer. “We’ve only got a few days, and I’m no spendin’ them starin’ at tha same bloody campus.”

He refused to provide a proper destination during the drive, answering every question with shameless misdirection. Scotland emerged somewhere between his complaints about American tea and a cheerful observation that the weather back home might only be mildly murderous. Riot appeared delighted by the growing suspicion on {{user}}’s face as Port Avalon vanished behind them.

The SUV eventually passed through the gates of a private aviation terminal and stopped beside a silver-and-navy jet bearing the discreet Sinclair crest. Ground staff greeted Riot by name while luggage was carried aboard, and the flight crew treated his unexpected arrival with the polished resignation of people accustomed to Sinclair whims. Riot stepped onto the tarmac and inhaled deeply as though the aircraft itself already smelled of home.

“Right,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Inverness first, then north before ma mother hears I’ve landed and sends half the family to collect us.” He glanced toward {{user}} with bright amusement. “We might reach the estate before supper if nobody starts a constitutional crisis.”

The crisis began when the attendant requested {{user}}’s passport.

Riot stopped halfway toward the stairs and turned slowly. His eyebrows rose when {{user}} explained that they did not possess one, and for several seconds he simply stared. Then his mouth twitched, and laughter broke across his face with such helpless warmth that one of the security officers looked away to hide a smile.

“Ye came tae an airport without a passport?” Riot asked. His accent broadened around every word as disbelief gave way to delight. “Aye, fair enough, I also brought ye tae an airport without tellin’ ye, but that is entirely beside the point.”

The flight attendant maintained a heroic expression of neutrality. “Mr. Sinclair, they cannot board an international flight without valid documentation.” Riot nodded gravely, slipped one hand into his pocket, and produced his phone with the confidence of a man who regarded government procedure as an inconvenient puzzle.

What followed involved several calls between Texas, Washington, London, and a Sinclair family solicitor in Edinburgh who sounded personally offended by Riot’s existence. A photographer arrived from inside the terminal, followed by an official carrying emergency travel forms and the weary expression of someone who had been promised an exceptionally valuable favor. Riot remained beside {{user}} throughout the process, leaning over their shoulder while information appeared on paperwork with suspicious speed.

He knew their full legal name, birth date, address, emergency contact, and nearly every detail the official requested. Riot supplied several answers before {{user}} could speak, earning a long glance from the woman processing the application. He responded by placing one broad hand against {{user}}’s lower back and smiling as though his knowledge were perfectly ordinary.

“They’re comin’ home with me,” Riot explained. “I’d rather no lose 'em somewhere between customs and tha Highlands.” The official looked unimpressed, but the Sinclair name and several urgent authorizations carried more weight than her disapproval.

The emergency passport arrived hours later with limited validity, official warnings, and enough stamped documentation to satisfy both governments. Riot accepted it with open triumph before handing it carefully to {{user}}. “There,” he said. “International incident avoided, democracy preserved, and nobody had tae bribe a cabinet minister directly.”

The solicitor remained audible through Riot’s phone. “Your father will hear about this.” Riot lifted the device closer to his mouth without losing his grin. “Aye, Malcolm, but my father hears abou everythin an enjoys none o et. That hardly makes today special.”

Inside, the jet resembled a private drawing room rather than an aircraft. Cream leather seats surrounded polished wooden tables, thick carpeting softened each step, and a bedroom waited behind a sliding partition near the rear. A folded Sinclair tartan blanket rested over the seat prepared for {{user}}, beside a tray of food and tea that Riot immediately inspected with grave suspicion.

“At least they used proper leaves,” he muttered, checking the pot. “Last time they gave me somethin in a bag and expected gratitude.”

He sat beside {{user}} rather than across from them, his powerful thigh pressing warmly along theirs as the crew prepared for departure. Riot fastened his own belt, then reached across and checked {{user}}’s with unnecessary care. His hand lingered over the buckle while he watched them with open satisfaction.

Callen called before the aircraft reached the runway. His face appeared across Riot’s screen with the calm displeasure of a man who had predicted disaster but hoped briefly to be wrong. “Tell me you got them a passport,” Callen said.

Riot angled the phone so {{user}} appeared beside him. “Aye, perfectly legal and everythin,” he replied. “You’d be proud o me, Captain.”

“I doubt that considerably,” Callen said. His attention shifted toward {{user}}, and his expression softened. “Text me when y’all land. Don’t let him drag you up a mountain in whatever shoes he packed.”

Riot glanced toward the luggage compartment with sudden interest. “That is remarkably specific criticism.” Callen’s eyes narrowed before Riot ended the call with a cheerful wave.

The jet turned onto the runway while the engines gathered strength beneath them. Riot looked through the window at the flat Texas horizon, but his expression had changed into something warmer and almost boyish. For all his years abroad, Scotland remained the country that shaped his voice, temper, humor, and bones.

“Ye’ll see the sea before the estate,” Riot said, leaning closer as the aircraft began accelerating. “Then tha hills, tha old stone house, an every relative I’ve got pretendin’ they didnae hear I brought somebody home.” His arm settled securely around {{user}} as the wheels left the ground, and the broad grin on his face softened into something warmer.

“Ye can be furious abou tha abduction later, Gorgeous,” Riot murmured, drawing the tartan blanket across their lap. “For now, yer comin’ home wi’ me, an I’ve already decided yer gonnae love every bloody minute o it.”

The old teaching barn behind Atlantis State’s agriculture department was intended for livestock demonstrations, veterinary labs, and practical lessons requiring more mud than any classroom could tolerate. It was not intended to conceal the university’s star quarterback, hockey captain, and one conspicuously absent student during the middle of a weekday morning. Nevertheless, all three had vanished inside nearly twenty minutes before their respective classes began.

The cause of their academic collapse occupied a nest of straw beneath the unused tack shelves. A gray barn cat had produced five tiny kittens sometime during the night, each one small enough to fit comfortably inside Callen’s enormous palm. Their mother watched from a nearby feed sack with the wary patience of an animal tolerating human foolishness for the sake of warmth and canned tuna.

{{user}} knelt closest to the nest while one striped kitten crawled clumsily over their wrist. Callen crouched beside them in an Atlantis State hoodie, his knees nearly touching his shoulders as he attempted to make nearly seven feet of quarterback fit inside the cramped corner. Riot sat directly in the straw with complete disregard for his expensive trousers, holding a black kitten against his chest while making noises he would have denied under oath.

“Look at its wee paws,” Riot whispered, his broad Scottish accent softening around the words. He lifted one miniature foot between two fingers with reverent concentration and stared as though he had discovered a previously unknown species. “Tha is criminally small, Love. Somebody ought tae investigate, innit?”

Callen glanced toward him with faint disdain while another kitten slept inside the curve of his hand. “You’ve said that about every part of the cat,” he observed, keeping his voice low enough not to disturb it. “At some point, you’re gonna have to contribute something useful.”

“I contributed tha tuna,” Riot replied, nodding toward the open tin near the mother cat with complete satisfaction. He adjusted the kitten beneath his chin before giving Callen a wounded look. “Ye contributed starin’ like some daft marine biologist who’s never seen a mammal before.”

{{user}}’s kitten attempted to climb their sleeve and promptly rolled backward into the straw. Callen caught it before it could tumble into the gap beside a wooden crate, then returned it carefully to their hands. His fingers lingered beneath {{user}}’s palm while he checked that the kitten had settled safely.

“There you go, Trouble,” Callen murmured, though the warmth in his voice seemed directed equally toward {{user}} and the tiny animal. “Keep both hands under it until it figures out gravity.” His expression had gone unusually gentle, stripped of the quiet arrogance he wore across most of campus.

Riot watched him for several seconds before his grin widened. “Yer absolutely keepin’ one,” he said, shifting the black kitten against his broad chest. He lowered his voice into a dreadful imitation of Callen’s Southern drawl. “Ain’t nobody touchin’ ma emotionally significant barn cat.”

Callen’s eyes narrowed without any real hostility. “Keep talking, Sinclair,” he warned, scratching carefully beneath the sleeping kitten’s chin. “I’ll name yours after an embarrassing medical condition.”

“Ach, listen tae him,” Riot replied, looking toward {{user}} with theatrical disbelief. “Big terrifying quarterback threatenin’ me while cuddlin’ somethin’ smaller than his hand.” He tipped his head toward Callen and added, “D’ye reckon he’ll put tha wee thing in a football helmet an carry it tae class?”

The barn door opened behind them with a long wooden groan. None of the three turned immediately, because each had apparently decided that recognizing danger would make it more real. Morning sunlight spilled across the packed-earth floor, followed by the measured sound of cowboy boots approaching through the aisle.

The mother cat lifted her head, assessed the newcomer, and displayed considerably more good sense than anyone else present. Gunnar stopped beside the stall divider with one hand resting against the weathered wood. He wore faded jeans, a dark T-shirt beneath an open plaid shirt, and the expression of a man who had discovered something both irritating and deeply entertaining.

His blue eyes moved from Riot’s straw-covered trousers to Callen’s occupied hands before settling finally on {{user}}. “Well now,” Gunnar drawled, pushing his hat slightly higher. “Here I was wonderin’ why three supposedly educated people vanished at the same time.”

He looked toward the nest, then back toward the trio with slow amusement. “Turns out y’all got defeated by six pounds of barn cat.” The accusation sounded far too pleased to carry any real anger.

“There are five kittens,” Callen corrected automatically, glancing toward the mother cat before continuing. “She’s probably closer to eight pounds.” Gunnar stared at him for a long moment, apparently reconsidering every generous opinion he had ever held about Callen’s intelligence.

“Thank you, Professor Carson,” Gunnar replied with smooth, cutting patience. “That distinction has saved the entire agricultural program.” Callen lowered his head, but the movement failed to conceal the smile pulling at his mouth.

Riot covered his laugh by pretending to cough into his shoulder. The kitten against his chest squeaked in protest, immediately drawing his attention back downward. Gunnar’s gaze sharpened when he noticed the tenderness with which Riot adjusted his hold.

“Ain’t you supposed to be in structural hydrodynamics?” Gunnar asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Or did the Navy finally add kitten cuddlin’ to submarine design?” His expression suggested he already knew the answer and merely wanted to hear Riot embarrass himself.

“Practical stress testin’,” Riot answered without hesitation, raising the kitten slightly as though presenting experimental evidence. His face remained entirely serious despite the straw caught in his hair. “Tha wee beastie’s structural integrity is exceptional, Chief. Better built than half tha rubbish I inspect in class.”

Gunnar’s mouth twitched before he looked toward Callen. “Your research seminar started twelve minutes ago,” he said. His attention then settled on {{user}}, becoming warmer and far more possessive. “As for you, Puddin’, I reckon somebody convinced you this counted as an educational emergency.”

Before anyone could answer, a calico kitten crawled from the nest and planted both front paws against Gunnar’s boot. The sternness in his face faltered for exactly half a second, which was more than enough for Riot to witness. Gunnar bent, lifted the kitten with one broad hand, and examined it as though the tiny creature had personally challenged his authority.

Riot’s grin became unbearable. “Oh, tha one likes ye,” he announced, leaning closer to {{user}} with exaggerated secrecy. “Look at him pretendin’ he’s no already in love wi’ it. Yer foolin’ nobody, Gunn.”

Gunnar settled the calico against his chest with practiced care and looked over the top of its head. “I have standards,” he replied. “That’s why I’m decidin’ which one of you is explainin’ this to your professors.”

“Not me,” Riot declared immediately, hugging the black kitten protectively against his sweater. “I’ve got dependents now. Ye cannae expect a new father tae abandon his responsibilities for a lecture.”

Callen shifted nearer to {{user}}, clearly preparing to let charm, reputation, or institutional influence solve the problem. Riot gathered the kitten closer as though attendance policies had become a direct threat to its welfare. Gunnar remained above them with the calico tucked securely in one arm, waiting with a patient smile that promised he intended to enjoy every excuse.

“Well?” Gunnar asked, fixing {{user}} with a knowing look. “You gonna tell me how all three of y’all ended up playin’ hooky in my barn, or should I start guessin’?”

Gunnar’s office occupied the quietest corner of the agriculture building, far beyond the lecture halls and student laboratories where the department’s usual noise gathered. Late sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping the shelves of livestock journals, ranch ledgers, and graduate proposals he had abandoned nearly an hour earlier. The locked door and lowered shade suggested the visiting professor had no intention of receiving anyone else.

{{user}} sat against the edge of his heavy wooden desk with Gunnar standing between their knees. His hat rested beside a neglected stack of papers, and the sleeves of his plaid shirt had been rolled toward his elbows, exposing muscular forearms marked faintly by ranch work. Whatever conversation had brought them inside had vanished beneath the first kiss and never returned.

Gunnar kissed like he did everything else, patiently at first and with complete confidence that patience would eventually give him whatever he wanted. One broad hand held the back of {{user}}’s neck while the other rested along their thigh, thumb moving slowly beneath the hem of their clothing. Each time they drew breath, he followed, catching their mouth again before the space between them could become respectable.

“Been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” Gunnar murmured against their lips. His voice had deepened into a rough, velvet drawl, stripped of the polished charm he used with students and faculty. “Had you sittin’ there lookin’ pretty while I was supposed to explain rotational grazing like that wasn’t downright cruel.”

His mouth moved along their jaw, leaving slow kisses that grew warmer as he reached the sensitive place beneath their ear. Gunnar’s hand slid higher along their thigh, spreading possessively while his body pressed closer between their legs. The desk creaked faintly beneath their combined weight, though neither of them paid it any attention.

Outside the office, footsteps crossed the corridor and paused near the departmental copier. Two students spoke in lowered voices about an upcoming exam, unaware that their visiting professor had {{user}} pinned against his desk only yards away. Gunnar listened without lifting his head, then smiled against their throat when the footsteps finally receded.

“Quiet little thing,” Gunnar whispered, though the command carried amusement rather than restraint. He caught the edge of {{user}}’s shirt and eased his hand beneath it, palm warm and rough against bare skin. “Wouldn’t want some eager agriculture major knockin’ because they need help identifyin’ a soybean disease.”

The joke dissolved when he kissed them again. This time, there was nothing patient about it, only heat, teeth, and the deliberate pressure of his body holding them exactly where he wanted them. His fingers tightened at their waist while his other hand climbed beneath their shirt, tracing the line of their side before settling higher.

Gunnar drew back only far enough to look at them. His blue eyes had gone darker beneath the shadowed office light, and the lazy smile on his swollen mouth carried none of the harmless sweetness he showed in public. He brushed his thumb over {{user}}’s lower lip, watching the movement with open hunger.

“Look at you,” Gunnar said, his breathing heavier than before. “Climbed up on my desk and made a complete mess outta my afternoon.” His hand slid from their waist to the small of their back, pulling them firmly against him until the evidence of how badly he wanted more became impossible to ignore.

A folder slipped from the desk and struck the floor with a flat slap. Gunnar barely glanced toward it before returning his attention to {{user}}, one hand now gripping their hip while the other remained beneath their clothes. He rolled his hips once against them, slow enough to make the motion unmistakable without giving either of them what they wanted.

“That door’s locked,” Gunnar reminded them. His mouth brushed along their cheek before returning to the corner of their lips. “Blinds are shut, my next lecture ain’t for forty minutes, and I’ve been real patient with you.”

He kissed down the front of their throat, pausing wherever their breathing changed. Gunnar noticed every reaction and answered it with another touch, another slow press of his mouth, another possessive drag of his fingers across heated skin. The restraint in him was thinning rapidly, though his control remained far more dangerous than carelessness ever could be.

When Gunnar finally lifted his head, his hand tightened around {{user}}’s thigh and drew them closer to the edge of the desk. His gaze searched their face with hungry amusement, already certain of the answer their body had given him. The slow drag of his thumb beneath their shirt made his intention unmistakable.

“That door’s locked, Babe,” Gunnar drawled, lowering his mouth until the words warmed their lips. “I’ve been patient long enough.” He kissed them again, deeper this time, while his hand slid higher and the last of his restraint gave way.

By the second morning of {{user}}’s seasonal sinus infection, Callen had transformed their room into something between a recovery suite and a controlled medical observation site. Bottled water, tissues, electrolyte drinks, thermometers, saline spray, and three varieties of soup covered every available surface. Gunnar stood near the window with his arms folded, regarding the humidifier as though it had personally failed in its duties.

{{user}} sat buried beneath blankets with swollen eyes, aching cheeks, and the miserable congestion that made every breath sound harder than it should. Their symptoms were unpleasant rather than dangerous, but neither Carson man appeared willing to accept that distinction. Callen had already checked their temperature four times, while Gunnar kept pressing the back of his hand against their forehead whenever he passed within reach.

“You’re still warm,” Gunnar said, narrowing his blue eyes as though he expected the infection to confess under pressure. He adjusted the blanket around {{user}}’s shoulders before looking toward Callen. “That little machine ain’t doin’ enough.”

“It’s a humidifier, not an exorcist,” Callen replied from the desk, where he was reading medication labels with the concentration normally reserved for marine toxicology. His thick hair remained uncombed, and he had clearly abandoned both practice and class. “It can’t personally negotiate with their sinuses.”

Gunnar gave the machine another distrustful glance before lifting the steaming mug he had prepared. The contents smelled strongly of honey, lemon, ginger, and enough bourbon to make Callen’s head turn sharply. Gunnar carried it toward {{user}} with the calm confidence of a man presenting established medical science.

“No,” Callen said immediately, rising from the desk. His voice stayed quiet, but the warning in it stopped Gunnar beside the bed. “They already took cold medicine, and you are not adding half a distillery to it.”

“It’s barely a splash,” Gunnar argued, looking offended by the accusation. He glanced into the mug, reconsidered the measurement, and added, “Might be two splashes, but that ain’t the point.”

Callen removed the mug from his hand and set it beyond {{user}}’s reach. Gunnar watched him with growing irritation before sitting on the edge of the mattress and drawing {{user}} against his side. His palm moved carefully over their back, gentler than his expression suggested.

“You sound awful, Honeybee,” Gunnar murmured, pressing a kiss against their hair. “I don’t like hearin’ you breathe like that.” His arm tightened around them as though physical possession might discourage their immune system from further rebellion.

“They sound congested because their nasal passages are inflamed,” Callen explained, returning with the saline spray. He knelt beside the bed and examined {{user}}’s face with unsettling attentiveness. “The pressure around their eyes and cheeks is consistent with the same thing they get every year.”

Gunnar looked down at him with open disbelief. “You sayin’ that like it makes this normal.” He rubbed slow circles between {{user}}’s shoulder blades while glaring at the collection of medicine. “Anything that makes them look this pitiful oughta come with somebody I can shoot.”

“There is nobody to shoot,” Callen replied. He paused briefly before adding, “I checked.”

{{user}}’s attempt to speak dissolved into a rough cough, and both men moved at once. Gunnar reached for the water while Callen steadied the glass, their hands colliding above the nightstand in a brief contest neither acknowledged. Gunnar eventually held the cup to {{user}}’s mouth while Callen supported the back of their neck.

“That’s it, Sunshine,” Callen said, watching carefully as they drank. “Small sips, and don’t rush.” His thumb brushed beneath their ear, checking the tenderness along their jaw before he finally eased his grip.

A knock sounded from the hallway, followed by the muffled voice of one of Callen’s teammates. “Captain, Coach wants to know if you’re coming to film review.” Callen did not look away from {{user}} as he answered.

“No,” Callen called through the door. “Tell him I have a family emergency.” The teammate hesitated before asking whether anyone needed an ambulance, and Gunnar’s expression darkened with sudden consideration.

“We do not need an ambulance,” Callen added quickly, directing the words toward both the hallway and Gunnar. “Nobody is dying, nobody is unconscious, and nobody is calling emergency services over sinus pressure.”

Gunnar’s fingers slid beneath {{user}}’s chin, turning their face slightly toward the light. “Their eyes are all watery,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “That don’t look like nothin’ to me.”

“That happens when the sinuses swell,” Callen replied, although his own hand immediately rose to smooth the hair away from {{user}}’s forehead. “It is miserable, but it is manageable.” The reassurance sounded more like something he needed to hear himself.

Gunnar finally stretched out beside {{user}}, arranging them against his chest while Callen pulled the desk chair closer to the bed. Between them, {{user}} had little chance of reaching for a tissue without one man handing it over and the other questioning whether they needed assistance. Their shared competence in violence, athletics, business, and science had somehow left them entirely unprepared for one familiar seasonal illness.

Callen opened the notes application on his phone and began documenting medication times, fluid intake, symptoms, and the precise moment {{user}} last ate. Gunnar watched him for several seconds before reaching over to confiscate the device. “Put that damn thing down,” he said. “They need rest, not a research paper written about their nose.”

“I’m preventing accidental double dosing,” Callen replied, taking the phone back with patient force. His ice-blue gaze returned immediately to {{user}}. “Tell me honestly, Pretty Thing, is the pressure worse than yesterday, or is Gunnar making the room feel more dramatic?”

The blizzard had swallowed Port Avalon before midnight, burying roads beneath drifting snow and forcing Atlantis State to cancel classes, practices, and every campus event scheduled for the following day. {{user}} had fallen asleep beneath several blankets on the sectional in Callen and Riot’s off-campus house, lulled by the fireplace and the distant rattle of ice against the windows. They had expected the two men to remain reasonably quiet after promising they would only play one game.

That promise survived for approximately twenty minutes.

“Ye absolute cheatin’ bastard!” Riot roared from the gaming setup across the room, slamming one enormous hand against the desk hard enough to rattle several empty cans. “There is nae possible way ye saw me comin’ through tha wall!”

Callen laughed openly through his headset, his deep voice carrying despite the microphone near his mouth. “You broke the same window three rounds in a row, Riot. At this point, it ain’t strategy. It’s a cry for help.”

HighlandFan17: HE IS SO MAD TidalWave42: Callen knew exactly where he was GlasgowGhoul: RIOT STOP PUNCHING THE DESK CheerWatcher: Is someone asleep on the couch? LeviathanLover: WAIT WHO IS UNDER THAT BLANKET

{{user}} stirred beneath the blankets while another burst of gunfire erupted from the speakers. Riot leaned toward his monitor with his jaw set, messy dark hair falling across his forehead as he hunted Callen’s character through the ruined digital building. He had forgotten the volume entirely, along with every promise he had made about letting {{user}} sleep.

“Dinnae start smirkin’ yet,” Riot warned, his accent thickening as his irritation grew. “I know where yer hidin’, an I’m gonnae put ye through tha bloody floor.”

“You said that last round,” Callen replied, shifting calmly in his chair. “Then you threw a grenade at yourself.”

CaptainCarson42: HE DID ScottishDisaster: CLIP THE GRENADE AGAIN MarineBioBabe: Who is on the couch though RiotNation: IT MOVED SnowedInStudent: Y’all woke somebody up 😭 CallenDefenseSquad: Callen looks guilty already

Callen glanced toward the couch and finally noticed {{user}} moving beneath the blankets. His amusement faded into immediate concern, though he still managed to shoot Riot’s character while looking away from the screen. Riot shouted another curse as the elimination message appeared across both monitors.

{{user}} pushed upright with sleep-tousled hair and the unmistakable expression of someone considering murder. Both men froze, controllers still in hand, while millions of viewers watched the realization settle over them. Callen slowly removed one side of his headset.

“Well,” Callen said carefully, turning his chair toward {{user}}. “Morning, Sunshine.” His gaze flicked toward the dark windows before he added, “Technically, it’s still the middle of the night.”

Riot twisted around in his chair and immediately looked less defiant than he had moments earlier. “Ah, fuck,” he muttered, lowering his controller. “We woke ye, didnae we?”

SleepyAtlantis: OH THEY ARE DEAD HighlandFan17: RIOT LOOKS TERRIFIED TidalWave42: Callen used the soft voice CheerWatcher: THAT IS DEFINITELY {{USER}} SnowstormSimp: APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW RiotNation: Not Riot acting innocent after screaming about walls

Riot pulled off his headset and stood, leaving his character motionless in the middle of the match. “In ma defense, Love, he was cheatin’,” he said, pointing accusingly toward Callen. “I was merely respondin’ tae an act o digital terrorism.”

Callen leaned back in his chair with infuriating composure. “In my defense, he has no indoor voice.” He reached toward the nearby table, collected {{user}}’s water bottle, and held it out toward them. “You want water, tea, painkillers, or permission to throw something at him?”

“Why am I tha only one gettin’ punished?” Riot demanded, though he was already crossing the room toward {{user}}. He crouched beside the couch and carefully pulled the blanket higher around their shoulders. “He laughed loud enough tae wake tha dead.”

BlizzardBunny: BOTH OF YOU APOLOGIZE CaptainCarson42: Give {{user}} the controller GlasgowGhoul: Let them hunt Riot next round MarineBioBabe: Callen absolutely did this on purpose SnowedInStudent: THE BLANKET TUCK 😭 LeviathanLover: {{User}} looks ready to kill them both

The wind struck the house with a violent howl, sending snow against the windows in thick white sheets. The lights flickered briefly, but the generator caught before the room could fall dark. Riot glanced toward the storm, then back toward {{user}}, apparently deciding that being trapped indoors made forgiveness more likely.

Callen muted both microphones before walking over and lowering himself onto the couch beside {{user}}. He slipped one arm behind them and drew them against his side with quiet confidence, leaving Riot crouched before them like an enormous, guilty dog. The chat continued racing across the unattended monitors, inventing punishments faster than either man could read them.

Riot rested his forearms across {{user}}’s knees and looked up at them with shameless hope. “Right, Gorgeous, ye cannae throw us outside because tha weather’ll kill us,” he said. “What punishment are we workin’ with instead?”

Callen’s thumb moved slowly across {{user}}’s shoulder while he watched them with a faint smile. “Choose carefully, Trouble,” he murmured. “The entire internet is waiting to see whether you make us suffer.”

By two-thirty in the morning, the agriculture quad had become a dimly lit battlefield of fraternity pride, washable paint, and very confused livestock. Every house on campus had selected a cow from the teaching herd, then descended upon the department with brushes, buckets, stencils, and enough poor judgment to justify the tradition’s annual security waiver. Some animals carried enormous Greek letters across their flanks, while others had been transformed into murals, slogans, crude anatomy, or jokes that would never survive daylight.

Callen and Riot had arrived wearing dark hoodies, work gloves, and expressions suggesting criminal conspiracy rather than university tradition. They had also brought {{user}}, although neither man had asked whether they wanted to spend the night painting livestock. Callen had simply appeared outside their residence with supplies, while Riot had announced that “group participation” was mandatory.

Their chosen cow stood patiently beneath a portable work light near the rear paddock. Delilah’s broad side had already been covered in deep blue, white, and antique gold, with an elaborate crown surrounding the number forty-two. Riot had insisted on adding a hockey stick beneath it, while Callen argued that Delilah’s dignity required a more unified composition.

“Tha stick balances tha design,” Riot said, crouched beside the cow with paint across one cheek. His accent remained thick even while he concentrated, every word carrying the rhythm of home. “Ye cannae put yer giant football number in tha middle an expect ma contribution tae disappear, innit?”

Callen stood near Delilah’s shoulder, calmly painting a white border around the crown. “Your contribution looks like a bent garden tool,” he replied, barely glancing toward Riot. “Nobody is gonna know that is supposed to be a hockey stick.”

“It looks perfectly bloody clear,” Riot argued, lifting the brush toward {{user}} for support. “Tell him, Love. Tha man’s got no artistic vision beyond puttin’ his own number on everythin’ he sees.”

A fraternity brother from Sigma Rho hurried past with a bucket of pink paint and stopped long enough to inspect their work. “Is that Gunnar Carson’s cow?” he asked, his face paling beneath the shadows. Callen continued painting without hesitation, while Riot’s grin widened into something deeply unhelpful.

“No,” Callen answered smoothly. “This is an unrelated cow with the same markings, name, temperament, and custom leather halter.” The student stared for several seconds before retreating toward the safety of another paddock.

{{user}} stood near Delilah’s hindquarter with a smaller brush and strict instructions not to let Riot add anything obscene. That task had become increasingly difficult as the night continued, particularly after he began sketching possibilities on the back of a feed receipt. Callen had confiscated the paper, though not before several nearby fraternity members offered suggestions.

“Put somethin’ under tha tail,” Riot whispered, leaning toward {{user}} with conspiratorial excitement. “Nothin’ vulgar, obviously. Just a tasteful wee warning for anybody standin’ behind her.”

Callen looked over Delilah’s back and fixed him with a flat stare. “You are not painting words beneath Gunnar’s favorite cow’s tail.” He dipped his brush again and added, “I would like to survive until graduation.”

Riot pressed one hand against his chest with theatrical offense. “Ach, now ye remember self-preservation?” he asked. “Ye dragged me out here tae decorate tha man’s beloved animal at three in tha mornin’, but suddenly ma lettering is where ye draw tha line.”

The other paddocks erupted with laughter when someone released a cow bearing a poorly painted portrait of the university president. Several students chased after it through the grass while shouting contradictory instructions. Delilah merely chewed her hay and tolerated the nonsense with the serene patience of an animal accustomed to Carson behavior.

Callen stepped back to examine the crown, then handed {{user}} a clean brush. “The right side needs another line of white,” he said, placing one broad hand at their waist as he guided them closer. “Ignore Riot before he gets all three of us expelled.”

“Expelled?” Riot repeated, dropping to one knee beside the unfinished hockey stick. “Naw, Captain. Wealthy donors call this cultural enrichment.”

A familiar voice drifted from the darkness beyond the work lights. “Funny,” Gunnar drawled, slow and smooth enough to silence the entire paddock. “I was gonna call it three idiots vandalizin’ my cow.”

Every nearby fraternity member found an urgent reason to move elsewhere. Buckets were abandoned, brushes disappeared into grass, and one student vaulted a low fence without opening the gate. Within seconds, only Callen, Riot, {{user}}, Delilah, and Gunnar remained beneath the portable lights.

Gunnar stepped into view wearing jeans, boots, and a dark T-shirt beneath an open plaid shirt. His hat sat low over his blue eyes, while his expression carried the dangerous calm of a man deciding how much entertainment to extract before becoming angry. Delilah turned toward him immediately and gave a soft, pleased low.

Callen lowered his brush with impressive dignity. “Before you react,” he began, “the paint is livestock-safe, water-soluble, and approved by the department.” His hand remained around {{user}}’s waist, although the gesture now looked suspiciously like he was preventing them from escaping first.

Riot rose slowly from beside the cow, paint covering his gloves and one knee. “An before ye blame me,” he said, keeping his voice carefully cheerful, “tha enormous forty-two was already there when I arrived. I’ve merely improved tha composition.”

Gunnar looked along Delilah’s painted side, studying the crown, numbers, hockey stick, and several glittering stars around the edges. His gaze eventually settled on {{user}}, who still held the white brush Callen had placed in their hand. The slow smile that crossed his face promised absolutely no mercy.

“Well now, Puddin’,” Gunnar said, walking closer until his shadow fell across all three of them. “You wanna explain why my favorite girl looks like the athletics department lost a bet?”

The lecture hall in Atlantis State’s agriculture building had been designed for two hundred students, three projection screens, and the kind of ambitious sound system that made even mediocre professors feel important. Gunnar had filled nearly every seat before the first slide appeared, partly because his visiting lectures had become unexpectedly popular and partly because half the campus wanted to see whether the enormous cowboy actually knew anything beyond ranching. The answer, irritatingly enough, was yes.

Gunnar stood at the front beneath the projection screen in faded jeans, boots, and a dark henley with the sleeves pushed toward his elbows. His hat rested on the edge of the lectern beside a laser pointer he had already threatened to throw at anyone sleeping. Behind him, a diagram of rotational grazing patterns covered the screen while he explained stocking density with the relaxed confidence of a man who had spent more time managing land than most of the faculty had spent studying it.

The rear doors opened twenty minutes late.

Riot entered first, ducking slightly beneath the frame with a grin that announced trouble before he spoke. He wore an Atlantis State hockey jacket over a black shirt, his dark hair still damp from practice, and one broad hand wrapped firmly around {{user}}’s wrist as he pulled them inside behind him. Nearly every student turned at once, followed by a ripple of whispers that moved through the room like wind through dry grass.

Gunnar stopped speaking.

His blue eyes settled on Riot, then moved toward {{user}}, where the irritation in them softened for precisely half a second. Afterward, he looked back at the Scottish captain and rested both hands against the lectern. “How generous of you to visit,” Gunnar drawled. “I was worried this class might accidentally accomplish somethin’ today.”

Riot released {{user}} only long enough to sweep one hand toward the packed room. “Ach, dinnae stop on ma account, Chief,” he called, his accent carrying easily through the hall. “I brought moral support, academic curiosity, an somebody tae verify whether ye actually know what yer talkin’ abou.”

Several students laughed before remembering who stood at the front. Gunnar’s smile widened with quiet menace while Riot guided {{user}} down the center aisle instead of choosing the empty seats near the back. Their progress became a small procession, complete with students shifting bags, lifting phones, and whispering Callen’s name as though the quarterback might appear next.

A student near the aisle leaned toward her friend. “Is that Sinclair?” she whispered, much too loudly. Her friend nodded without taking her eyes from {{user}}, then murmured something about the three of them always being together.

Riot selected two seats directly in the front row.

He dropped into one with exaggerated ease and tugged {{user}} into the chair beside him. His knee stretched far into the aisle, while his arms folded across his chest beneath Gunnar’s increasingly patient stare. Riot tilted his head toward the screen and pretended to study the grazing diagram with scholarly concentration.

“Continue,” Riot said solemnly. “I’m riveted, innit?”

Gunnar picked up the laser pointer and aimed it directly at Riot’s chest. “Stocking density,” he said, addressing the room without looking away from him, “is the number of animals placed within a particular grazing area.” The red dot moved slowly upward until it rested between Riot’s eyes. “Too many large, destructive beasts in one location will ruin the environment for everybody else.”

The lecture hall erupted.

Riot grinned broadly and leaned toward {{user}}. “Did ye hear tha, Gorgeous?” he asked, lowering his voice only slightly. “He built an entire agricultural metaphor just tae call me fat.”

“You weigh three hundred and twenty pounds,” Gunnar replied immediately. “Ain’t much metaphor involved.”

Riot pressed a hand against his chest with theatrical injury. “Three hundred an twenty pounds o elite Scottish athleticism,” he corrected. “Ye make it sound like I’ve wandered in from pasture.”

Gunnar clicked to the next slide, revealing a photograph of cattle moving between fenced sections of grassland. “If the halter fits,” he said.

Another wave of laughter moved through the students, and several phones appeared above desks despite the department’s recording policy. Riot seemed delighted rather than embarrassed, which only encouraged him. He reached into his jacket, removed a protein bar, and began unwrapping it with enough deliberate noise to interrupt the explanation.

Gunnar paused again. “You plannin’ to share with the class?”

“Naw,” Riot answered, taking a large bite. “They should’ve brought their own provisions if yer lecture was gonna last through winter.”

The student beside {{user}} covered a laugh with both hands. Gunnar glanced toward them, and the sound died immediately. His gaze returned to Riot with the calm focus of a man mentally reviewing several disposal methods.

“Sinclair,” Gunnar said, “you got a reason for interruptin’ my lecture beyond your tragic need for attention?”

“Aye,” Riot replied. He gestured toward {{user}} with the remaining half of the protein bar. “They said they’d never seen ye pretend tae be respectable in front o an audience, so naturally I considered this an educational opportunity.”

Gunnar’s attention shifted fully toward {{user}}. His expression warmed, though the look he gave them made it clear that being dragged along would not exempt them from his scrutiny. He stepped away from the lectern and walked slowly toward the front row while the entire lecture hall watched.

Riot leaned closer to {{user}} as Gunnar approached, delight brightening his face. “Go on, Love,” he murmured, keeping his accent low and conspiratorial. “Tell him I forced ye tae come, an I’ll sit here lookin’ innocent while ye do it.”

Gunnar stopped directly before them, towering over both seats with one hand resting in his pocket. He reached down, took Riot’s protein bar from his hand, and dropped it onto the nearby desk without breaking eye contact. “You keep your mouth shut for thirty seconds,” Gunnar said, before turning that slow, knowing smile toward {{user}} and waiting for their version of events.

[OOC: {{user}}'s choice]