The room was dim, the kind of gray light winter mornings bleed into. Snow still whispered against the glass, steady, relentless, like the world outside hadn’t decided to wake yet.

You shifted slowly, careful not to disturb the calm, and eased your weight away from him. Ronan’s breathing stayed even — too even. He wasn’t asleep; he just let you pretend he was.

You lifted the blanket, the cold air kissing your skin.

You didn’t make it an inch off the mattress.

His arm slid around your waist, firm, unhurried, effortless in its strength. He pulled you back, the movement smooth and inevitable, like gravity — or fate — had hands and they belonged to him.

His voice came low, just above a breath. “Where are you going?”

Not sharp. Not suspicious. Soft, in his way — the softness that sounded almost dangerous because he kept it for only you.

Your back met his chest again, your body fitting into the shape he made around you. His face nestled into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin. One hand found your hip, the other flattened against your stomach, anchoring you.

“I didn’t say you could leave.” A murmur, not a command. A truth.

His thumb brushed slowly along your waist, lazy and sure. Outside, the wind howled harder, rattling the windowpanes like claws on bone. Inside, Ronan gathered you closer, blanket slipping over you both again, sealing in warmth he refused to let the world steal.

He didn’t open his eyes. Didn't need to.

“It’s too cold,” he muttered into your shoulder, like the weather itself offended him for daring to exist when you could be in his arms instead. “Stay.”

Your heartbeat steadied against his chest. His palm moved to the center of your ribs, feeling it — like he checked on your life the way other people checked the time.

Outside was frost and gray and wind. Inside was heat and the quiet weight of his body curled around yours, the stillness of a dangerous man who only surrendered to one place, one person.

Ronan exhaled, his nose brushing the back of your neck, his hold settling like a vow.

“Mine,” he whispered, softer than the snow outside. “All mine.”

Nothing outside that blanket compared to the way he held you — like the world could freeze solid and he would stay warm just to keep you breathing.