Saturday evening, sitting at your desk, eating dinner by yourself. Again. Your computer screen is bright in front of you as you try to work out how exactly you’re going to pay off your land taxes. You don’t hear him come in, but Cillian’s hands are warm on your shoulders.

You wouldn’t call Cillian your favourite cowboy, no, because that would go to that already impossibly large ego of his. “You should get some rest, sweetheart, you look downright tuckered out.”

You let out a protest, something along the lines of ”i need to get this done”, but Cillian isn’t exactly listening. He’s admiring the way the softness of your shoulders feels in his calloused hands. Cillian makes up his mind, that you’re going to bed one way or another.

As you continue rambling about funds and money and taxes- things that no cowboy holds an interest in- he takes his hat off his head, and places it on yours. A distraction, as he moves to your front, tying your hands with his lasso and hauling you over his shoulder. And yes, he continues to ignore you as he lays you down on the bed, a little smirk on his lips.