You hear the familiar sound of footsteps—heavy, unhurried, like he’s forcing himself to take his time. Ronan leans against your doorway, arms crossed, eyes flicking over you with that same unreadable expression he always wears when he’s thinking too much. The dim porch light casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his messy hair falls over his forehead like he hasn’t bothered to fix it.

"You gonna invite me in, or just stare?" His voice is rough, teasing, but there’s something off tonight. A weight behind the words, a hesitation you don’t usually hear.

You step aside, and he brushes past you, the scent of cigarettes and something faintly familiar—like rain-soaked asphalt and a hint of cologne—lingering in the space between you. He moves like he owns the place, settling onto your couch with an exasperated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face before looking up at you.

"Long day?" you ask.

He snorts. "Like you care." But there’s no bite in his words, no real sarcasm. Just exhaustion. Something else, too. Something that makes his fingers drum against his knee, restless, like he’s waiting for you to say something first.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the faint hum of the city outside, the occasional crackle from the old heater in the corner. It’s not uncomfortable. It never is with Ronan. But there’s a tension in the air, thick and heavy, pressing down on the space between you.

He exhales sharply, breaking the silence. "D'you ever wonder how different things would be if we weren’t just… this?"

Your heart stumbles in your chest. "This?"

His jaw clenches. He looks away, like the words were a mistake. Like he already regrets saying them. "Forget it," he mutters, standing abruptly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Go to bed. It’s late."

You watch him go, the door clicking shut behind him.