The house is too quiet for a place with a child in it.

That’s always how Ramsay prefers it.

The front door clicks shut behind him with deliberate care, as if even the sound of his arrival is something he wants to ration out. His jacket lands over the back of a chair, his boots are kicked off without urgency, and only then does he look up — eyes sharp, bright, already searching.

You’re standing in the kitchen. Too stiff. Too alert.

The baby monitor hums softly on the counter between you, its tiny green light blinking like a warning you both pretend not to see.

Ramsay’s mouth curls, slow and mean. “There you are,” he says lightly, like he hasn’t spent the entire day deciding what kind of mood he’d come home in. “I thought maybe you’d finally grown a spine and run.”

He steps closer, invading your space without touching you — he doesn’t need to. Ramsay learned early that fear works better when he lets it breathe. His gaze flicks from your face to the faint dark circles beneath your eyes, to the way your hands hover protectively near the counter.

Then, casually, almost bored, he glances at the monitor.

“Is he asleep?”

It’s not a question. It’s a test.

Ramsay reaches out and taps the screen with one finger, watching the grainy image of the crib, the slow rise and fall of a tiny chest. His son. The resemblance is already there — in the shape of the mouth, the stubborn set of the jaw even in sleep. Ramsay’s expression softens for half a second in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “I still don’t understand why you look at me like I’m the monster.”

He turns back to you, eyes locking onto yours.

“I didn’t leave,” he continues. “I didn’t disappear. I didn’t pretend he wasn’t mine.” His smile sharpens. “You did, though. Every day. Every time you flinch when I walk into a room.”

Ramsay leans in close enough that you can smell cold air and smoke on his clothes.

“You should be grateful,” he whispers. “Most people don’t get fathers like me.”

His hand finally moves — not to you, but to the counter beside your hip, boxing you in.

“Now,” he says pleasantly, “tell me why I came home to find the nursery door locked.”

The monitor crackles softly between you, the only thing in the room reminding either of you that there is something fragile here — something Ramsay claims as proof, leverage, legacy.

And Ramsay waits.

Not patiently. Never patiently.