The room is still dark when you try to slip away.
Slow. Careful. Strategic.
You’ve barely managed to lift Ronan’s arm off your waist when his voice cuts through the silence, rough and immediate.
“Where are you going.”
You freeze.
“…I was trying not to wake you.”
“You failed.”
“That implies you were asleep.”
“I was.”
A pause.
Then his hand catches your ankle and drags you right back into bed with zero effort.
You land against his chest with a soft gasp, tangled in sheets and him.
“There,” he mutters, like it’s settled.
You blink up at him. “That’s kidnapping.”
“You were leaving.”
“I was getting coffee.”
“You were abandoning me.”
You laugh under your breath. “It’s coffee, Ronan.”
His eyes finally open.
And they’re not fully awake.
Which is worse.
Because there’s no distance in them. No control layered over it yet. Just raw awareness of you, already too focused.
“You always leave too early,” he says quietly.
“I literally live here.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
His hand slides up your waist and just stays there—heavy, warm, like he’s making a decision not to let go.
You brush his hair back. “You need sleep.”
“I need you here.”
“That’s not—”
He moves before you finish.
Rolling over you and pinning you gently into the mattress, not harsh, just final, like he decided conversation is over.
The air shifts immediately.
Not violent.
Just… charged.
His hand grips your hip. Then the other follows, settling at your waist like he’s anchoring himself there.
“Ronan,” you say again, softer now.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leans in, forehead briefly touching yours—like he’s grounding himself.
Then his mouth brushes your neck, slow, lingering, a little unsteady in a way he’d never admit awake.
“You’re warm,” he mutters.
“You’re literally on top of me.”
“Hm.”
Not disagreement.
Just acknowledgment.
His fingers tighten slightly at your side, like he’s resisting the urge to pull you closer still.
“You’re distracting,” he says.
“You’re the one who dragged me back.”
“You were leaving.”
“I was getting coffee.”
“I don’t care.”
His voice drops lower.
More rough than before.
More honest.
“You get up too early,” he adds, like it annoys him on a deeper level than it should.
You smile faintly. “You don’t sleep enough to notice.”
“I notice everything about you.”
That lands heavier than the rest.
His grip shifts again—restless now, not letting you go, not settling properly either. Like he’s torn between holding you still and pulling you closer at the same time.
You tilt your head slightly. “What is wrong with you this morning?”
A beat.
His eyes flick down to your mouth.
Then back up.
“…You leaving,” he says simply.
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
He exhales through his nose, then leans in again, slower this time, burying his face briefly against your neck like he’s trying to reset himself.
When he speaks again, it’s quieter.
“Stay.”
Not a command this time.
Almost like he’s asking—but doesn’t think you’ll say no anyway.
Your fingers slide into his hair.
“I was gone for thirty seconds.”
“Too long.”
You laugh softly, and he finally relaxes just a fraction against you, though his hands never fully let go.
Like he’s decided the world can wait.
But you can’t.