The penthouse is silent, a rare stillness that feels like it belongs only to them. Ronan’s wife is out of town, {{user}}’s spouse occupied elsewhere, leaving them alone together in the house they’ve both built separate lives around. They collapse onto the couch, bodies pressed close, {{user}} resting against Ronan’s chest, his arm wrapped protectively around them.

The faint hum of the city outside fades into nothing; here, there is only the warmth between them. For twelve years, they’ve carried this secret, a love that began in high school and has endured through marriages, children, and the careful façades of their public lives. Every brush of skin, every quiet breath, is a reminder of the forbidden bond they’ve managed to keep hidden from the world.

“You’re mine,” Ronan murmurs softly, the words heavy with twelve years of longing and restraint.

They stay like that, tangled together in the quiet, letting the weight of their shared history settle around them — the years of secret glances, unspoken words, and stolen moments compressed into this one, stolen haven where nothing exists but the two of them.