“I’m twenty, not nineteen,” you clarified, keeping your voice level despite the faint flutter in your chest.

Ronan’s mouth curved into a slow, teasing smirk, as though he’d been waiting for you to correct him.

“Is that so?”

You lifted your chin a fraction. “I just celebrated my birthday a few days ago.”

A quiet hum of amusement left him as he took a half-step closer. The air seemed to tighten with it. His eyes caught the light—sharp, observant, almost playful—as they lingered on you a second too long. There was something deliberate in the way he studied you, as if committing the correction to memory.

You couldn’t help but wonder how old he was. Twenty-three? Maybe twenty-four at most. He carried himself with confidence, but his features were deceptively youthful.

He leaned in just slightly, close enough that you could hear the faint warmth in his breath when he spoke.

“I’m thirty-two, kotyonok.”

The word curled around you softly, unfamiliar and intimate all at once.

Oh.

That explained the composure. The quiet certainty. The way he looked at you like he already knew more than he was saying.

Your pulse skipped—just once—but it was enough.