A sharp beam of sunlight sliced through a high window in the barn’s ceiling, stabbing directly into Hawkins’ eyes. He groaned, shielding his face with a hand that felt like it weighed ten kilos. The scent of hay, warm earth, and faint morning dew drifted through the air, mingling with the subtle hum of agricultural drones working outside.

He stirred, then froze.

Hawkins wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t even in the hotel where he and his husband were meant to be staying.

“Orlando?” His voice was a dry croak.

A second groan came from his left. Hawkins turned his head with agonising slowness to find Radcliffe lying beside him on the barn floor, sharing one of the two thin white sheets they’d apparently managed to drag over themselves in the night. A few stray stalks of hay clung stubbornly to Radcliffe’s tousled hair.

Radcliffe blinked up at the ceiling, then turned his head toward Hawkins. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” Hawkins said, voice cracking with dryness. “We’re definitely not in our quarters.”

Radcliffe frowned, then winced. “Why are we in a barn?”

“And more importantly, why are we naked?” Hawkins asked.

They exchanged a look. Bleary and confused, it slowly dawned on them that neither of them remembered how they got there. Then, despite the headache pounding between his ears, Hawkins gave a crooked grin.

“Well,” he said, scooting just a little closer, “this isn’t exactly the romantic first morning of legal marriage I imagined.”

Radcliffe snorted softly, shifting under the sheet. “Still beats waking up hungover alone.”

Hawkins reached out and brushed a piece of straw from Radcliffe’s hair. “You realise this makes us officially part of the post-wedding disaster cliché.”

“I was hoping for breakfast in bed,” Radcliffe said, glancing around at the hay bales and drone systems overhead. “Instead, I got a barn with flying farmbots and no memory of how we got here.”

“You’ve got me, though,” Hawkins offered, leaning in for a slow, affectionate kiss. “For better or for worse. In a field or a five-star suite.”

“Careful,” Radcliffe murmured with a smile. “You’ll make me want to do something scandalous again. And we’ve clearly already done that.”

Another kiss, then a shared, amused sigh.

The barn around them was rustic and real with rough-hewn wooden beams, authentic, fragrant hay stacked in careful piles, and the distant sound of agricultural drones whirring quietly as they moved through the expansive fields beyond. The barn doors were half-open, letting in morning light and the scent of sun-warmed crops. No livestock, just crates of freshly harvested produce, large leafy vegetables, neatly sorted into clean containers. A wall-mounted terminal quietly ticked off climate data and harvest cycles.

They spotted their clothing all thrown haphazardly atop a haystack nearby, alongside their boots. With exaggerated care, they sat up and made their way over, wrapping the sheets around themselves like togas.

“I feel like I’m in an old holonovel,” Hawkins muttered, tugging on his trousers. “You know, the one with the confused time travellers and the random barn?”

“Please tell me we didn’t dance naked under moonlight last night,” Radcliffe said, pulling his shirt over his head.

“I hope we did,” Hawkins replied. “You’d look amazing in moonlight.”
Radcliffe raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Mister Hawkins-Radcliffe. Flattery will get you back into trouble.”

“Promise?”

They chuckled, exchanging one more kiss as they finally pulled on their boots.

Hawkins pulled on his jacket with a grimace, holding up his mud-streaked shirt between two fingers. “I think this one’s officially retired.”

Radcliffe shook out his own shirt and gave it a rueful look. “Looks like we crawled through a swamp.”

“Honestly, wouldn’t be surprised if we did.”

They chuckled as they shrugged on what was salvageable. Hawkins glanced over as Radcliffe adjusted his collar, the morning sun catching the side of his face.

“You know,” Hawkins said, softer now, “even covered in dirt, half-dressed, and in the middle of nowhere, you still make my heart do stupid things.”

Radcliffe looked up, a crooked smile forming. “That so?”

Hawkins stepped closer, brushing a bit of straw from Radcliffe’s shoulder. “Yeah. It’s maddening.”

Radcliffe leaned in, close enough to feel his breath. “Well, good. Because you’re stuck with me, remember?”

“Forever,” Hawkins murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to his husband’s lips.

Radcliffe pulled back slightly, grinning. “Let’s just try to make it through one morning without losing our shirts, literally.”

“No promises,” Hawkins said, laughing as he tucked his muddy shirt under his arm.

They finally stepped outside, blinking in the light. The scenery confirmed they were somewhere deep in Kovar’s farmland. Stretching across the valley were vast rows of automated crop fields, purple-stemmed grain, rust-coloured root vegetables, and tall flowering vines cultivated with extreme precision. Small drones zipped silently over the crops, scanning, fertilising, and harvesting as they went. The fields were too pristine for a conventional farm. It was clear that Federation tech supported the labour here, but it still felt grounded, organic.

In the distance stood a sleek farmhouse, shaped with soft, rounded architecture and reflective solar panels.

Just as they began tiptoeing toward it, hoping not to attract attention, a voice called out.
“Well, look who decided to rejoin the living.”

Taf approached, her hair tied back loosely, a smug grin on her face. She wore oversized pyjama pants and a Starfleet hoodie and carried two mugs of steaming raktajino. She held them out. “Caffeine. You’ll need it. You look like death warmed over.”

Radcliffe took his mug reverently. “You are an angel in pyjamas.”

Hawkins sipped his and groaned. “This might actually save my soul.”

“Doubt it,” Taf smirked. “Come on. You’re not the only ones with regrets.”

They followed her across a gravel path toward the farmhouse. Inside, the décor was minimal and comfortable, with sustainable wood finishes and glass walls overlooking the crops. Harper sat on a sofa, dark glasses shielding her eyes, a hydration flask in hand. On the other end, Parin was slouched in an armchair, an ice pack against his temple.

“If anyone so much as whispers the word hypospray,” Parin mumbled, one eye barely open, “I will declare myself medically unfit and beam off this farm.”

“You’re the doctor,” Radcliffe pointed out as he collapsed into a nearby seat, Hawkins landing heavily in his lap with a grunt.

“Exactly,” Parin groaned, rubbing his temple. “And right now, this doctor is in no condition to hold a tricorder straight, let alone dose anyone safely.”

“Not even a basic hangover cure?” Hawkins asked hopefully.

Parin let out a slow breath. “With my current motor skills? I’d probably give one of you a Vulcan nerve pinch by accident.”

Harper winced. “My mouth tastes like I swallowed a tribble after a warp core meltdown.”

Radcliffe glanced at everyone, then back at Taf. “Right. So can someone tell me how the hell we got here?”

Taf crossed her arms and leaned against the counter with an exaggerated sigh. “All right, newlyweds. Sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”

“Wait, before we get into this story,” Hawkins said, waving his arms. “Whose farm is this?”

Taf chuckled. “Mine.”

“Yours, Lenara?” Harper asked, surprised at hearing that from her friend.

Nodding a few times, Taf explained how she had purchased it two years ago as a place she could go to when she wanted a short break and how she has a small staff operate it for her. “Some of the fresh food sold on the station comes from here.”

“How are we only learning about this now? Harper questioned again.

“It’s not something I thought worth sharing,” Taf replied.

“Next, she’ll tell us she’s secretly the Klingon Empress,” Parin added with a smirk.

Taf placed her hands on her hips. “Do you want to hear how we got here or not?”

“Please, counsellor, do share,” Radcliffe encouraged as he tried to shush the others.

“Very well,” Taf said, sitting down on a spare armchair. “Our story starts in our Klingon bar and someone,” she looked at Hawkins, “doing country-western karaoke with a visiting high-ranking general.”

“Oh, I don’t think I want to know anymore,” Hawkins said, shrinking into Radcliffe’s arms further.

“I want to know!” Radcliffe said. He was even more excited to hear his husband’s antics.

Taf smirked and carried on the story, pausing for everyone to laugh at how their night out had become quite legendary.