The great hall was warm despite the bitter winter that lay thick over the Highlands. Chiefs clustered in circles, while younger warriors drank and laughed. Echoes of their joy rattling against the ancient stone.

Callum’s hand brushed lightly against your back, guiding you further from the crowded tables. A quiet gesture with protection, almost instinct.

A group of warriors from Glenmoore had gathered near the opposite hearth, their faces red from too much drink. One of them, broad and scarred from years of fighting, jabbed a finger in Callum’s direction.

“Oi, MacLaren! How do you manage to fight with your head hidden behind your lady’s skirts, uh?” Laughter exploded around him. Not friendly, it was the kind that tested you. Callum’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, he didn’t turn to face them, but he glanced down at you.

“They’ve had too much mead,” Callum said, there's a bit of worry through his eyes, a small tell he couldn’t hide. More precisely, of what you might do when he knows you so well.

The room hadn’t even settled from the insult, but your eyes were already locked on the man who’d thrown it. You didn’t need words yet, your posture spoke for you.

His hand found your wrist, gently. “Leave it,” he murmured, his thumb traced a slow circle against your skin.

Then he leaned closer, voice low enough for only you. “If standing here with you means I’m hiding…” He exhaled a breath that almost chuckle, almost sighed. “Then let them call it what they want. I’d rather stay hidden than watch you burn this place down.”