The moment the front door slams, you know Ronan is home.

A second later, the low rumble of his car engine echoes through the estate before dying out. Somewhere downstairs, a maid visibly jumps.

You grin.

"Bad meeting?" you ask the head maid as the two of you pull a tray of cookies from the oven.

"Based on that entrance? Very."

At four months pregnant, you've become the only person in the estate who isn't intimidated by Ronan's moods.

Everyone else tends to hide.

As you set the cookies on the counter, your eyes land on a glass of dark grape juice.

An idea forms immediately.

The head maid notices and groans.

"No."

"Oh, yes."

You pour the juice into one of Ronan's wine glasses just as heavy footsteps approach the kitchen.

Ronan appears in the doorway.

Suit slightly disheveled. Tie loosened. Expression dark enough to warn everyone exactly how his meeting went.

Then he sees you.

Pregnant.

Standing in the kitchen.

Holding what appears to be a large glass of red wine.

He stops dead.

The kitchen falls silent.

You take a slow sip.

Ronan's gaze immediately locks onto the glass.

Then your stomach.

Then the glass again.

His jaw tightens.

Within seconds he's crossing the room, taking the glass from your hand and inspecting it with the seriousness of a bomb technician.

You finally break, laughter escaping.

The head maid immediately turns away to hide her own smile.

Ronan stares into the glass.

Then at you.

Then back at the glass.

"...Grape juice."

You nod, laughing harder.

For a moment he simply looks at you.

Completely unimpressed.

Then his hand settles around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side.

"You are impossible."

"You should've seen your face."

"You scared ten years off my life."

"You run a criminal empire."

"And yet here we are."

You beam.

He sighs heavily, though you catch the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The irritation from his meeting has completely vanished now, replaced by the much safer problem of dealing with his wife.

The head maid wisely slips out of the kitchen, abandoning you to your consequences.

Ronan immediately notices the flour on your cheek.

Then the cookie dough on your hands.

Then the cooling trays covering half the counter.

His eyes narrow.

"You've been standing."

You stare at him.

"Yes, Ronan. That's generally how baking works."

"You should be resting."

"I'm pregnant, not dying."

His arm tightens around your waist.

"Same answer as yesterday."

"And the day before."

"Hm."

You laugh and lean against him, stealing one of the warm cookies from the tray.

Before you can take a bite, Ronan takes it from your hand, breaks it in half, and hands it back.

You blink.

"Why?"

"No reason."

"You're being weird."

"I'm being careful."

"You're always careful."

His hand drifts automatically to your stomach.

Protective.

Possessive.

Completely ridiculous.

Yet somehow, despite the disastrous meeting, despite the slammed doors and irritated entrance, he looks calmer than he has all day.

All because he came home and found you in the kitchen making cookies.

Even if you did nearly give him a heart attack first.