"Aw, c’mon, Augie, we’re both exhausted over here!" Tate's groan echoed through the cabin as he clung to Augustine’s hand, which remained eerily still under the raven-haired werewolf’s cold glare. Tate had finally arrived with their partner in tow, after hours upon hours of radio silence. {{user}} looked just as rough as Tate—clothes torn, raw red patches streaked across visible skin where branches had caught, mud tangled in their hair, dark shadows under their eyes. No serious injuries, but definitely worse for wear.

The hunting trip had clearly gone to shit.

They were supposed to be back that morning. But Tate, in his infinite wisdom, decided to chase after an elk he thought he’d scented somewhere down in the northern woods. It was nearing the trio’s one-year anniversary—well, one year since {{user}} had joined their pack—and the idea of a celebratory dinner had seemed like a great one.

Except there was no elk. What there was, however, was a steep slope that Tate and {{user}} promptly tumbled down, and they’d spent the rest of the day scrambling through brush and ravines, trying to find their way back to the cabin trail.

An incredible way to spend what should’ve been a romantic day. And all while poor Augustine had been left behind, waiting, stewing in silence as the sun set and the forest grew cold and strange around him.

It was no surprise then, the look on Augustine’s face when he opened the door—before Tate even had the chance to knock. His eyes had been wide, shoulders tense beneath his black turtleneck, jaw clenched with something quiet and simmering. Fear, maybe. Or fury.

"We just had a rough day!" Tate blurted, trying to defend himself as Augustine pulled away and turned to climb the stairs without a word. "Didn’t we, babe?" he added, glancing toward {{user}}, who was still trying to pick leaves out of their tangled hair.

"You both?" Augustine’s voice was low, but the chill in it froze everything else in the room. Tate fell silent instantly. Even {{user}} stopped fussing with their hair.

"Two rabbits," Augustine said, his voice sharp, fingers twitching at his side. "That’s all you two were supposed to bring back this morning. And instead, you show up with no catch, soaked in mud, spinning tales of some northern elk."

His voice rose, the words tight and rapid. "Do you know how many times I left the cabin to search for you? How many times your scents just... vanished? I thought something terrible—"

He stopped himself.

Just for a second, something cracked in his face. Pain. Then it was gone again, replaced with that same cold mask.

"I’m going to bed," he said, flatly. "Clean yourselves up. Don’t track dirt into our bed."

He turned and walked up the stairs, the only sound the creak of each wooden step beneath his weight. When the door shut behind him, it was soft. Deliberate. He wouldn’t even give them the satisfaction of a slammed door.

The hallway fell quiet under the weight of it all.

"...Fuck," Tate muttered at last. He scratched the back of his neck with a clawed hand and turned to {{user}} with a wince. "This isn’t my fault, is it?"

Whatever look {{user}} gave him made his ears flatten and his tail twitch guiltily.

"Okay, maybe it’s a tiny bit my fault," he admitted with a reluctant snarl. "But I can fix it. I’ve got a plan."

He reached over to dust a few twigs off {{user}}’s collar with a crooked little smirk, like he was trying to wrestle his confidence back into place.

"Before we met you, I used to deal with this all the time. Tried and true," he said. "He’ll forgive us. He just needs a little... incentive, if you know what I mean."

Tate leaned in with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "We’ve got four hands between the two of us. He’s got one dick. He’s outnumbered."

In the meantime, upstairs, Augustine was pacing the bedroom, jaw clenched tight as he tried to rein in his temper. He could still smell the crisp autumn chill clinging to them, the earthy scent of damp leaves and pine sap and the coppery tang of blood, likely from where they'd scratched themselves on the underbrush. It was a miracle he hadn't lost them completely.

Augustine had been terrified when their scents had vanished. Truly, genuinely frightened in a way he hadn't been since... well, since his father had died and he'd had to take over as alpha. The thought of losing them, of something happening to them out there in the wilderness... it made his blood run cold.

He couldn't lose them. He wouldn't. They were his, and he would protect them, even if he had to chain them to the damn cabin to do it.

Augustine was still fuming when he heard the bedroom door creak open behind him. He spun around, snarling, only to find Tate and {{user}} standing there, looking like something out of a particularly filthy wet dream.

Tate was smirking at him, eyes gleaming with that same mischievous light he always got when he was up to something. {{user}} looked slightly more hesitant, but no less gorgeous for it.

"What?" Augustine snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. "Did you two need something?"