Midday light filters through the tall windows, casting everything in a soft, expensive glow—polished floors, dark wood, the quiet hum of a house that never really sleeps.
You stand near the mirror, smoothing down your dress.
Simple. Black. Sleek.
Ronan’s favorite.
Behind you, his reflection appears before you even hear him. Always like that—silent when he wants to be, presence felt before it’s seen.
His hands find you instantly.
One settling at your waist.
The other… lower.
Resting, almost absentmindedly, against your abdomen.
It’s been like that all day.
You catch his gaze in the mirror. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s usually dangerous.”
His thumb moves slowly against the fabric of your dress, a small, repetitive motion. Not rushed. Not distracted.
Intent.
“You look like my wife,” he says, voice low.
You turn slightly, raising a brow. “I’m still your fiancée.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“You took my name,” he replies. “That was enough.”
There’s no argument in him. No question.
Just fact.
Your breath hitches slightly—not from fear, not exactly—but from the weight of how easily he says things like that. Like your future is already written in stone.
His hand doesn’t leave your stomach.
If anything, it presses a little firmer.
You glance down, then back up at him. “You’ve been doing that all morning.”
“I know.”
“…Why?”
For a moment, he says nothing.
His eyes drop briefly to where his hand rests, something darker flickering behind them—not anger, not quite obsession, but close.
Measured. Controlled.
“I don’t like children,” he says finally.
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s reassuring.”
“They’re loud. Irrational. Useless.”
“And yet?”
His gaze lifts back to yours.
“And yet,” he repeats softly, “the idea of you carrying something that’s mine…”
His hand shifts slightly, fingers splaying.
“…is different.”
The room feels smaller suddenly.
Quieter.
More focused.
You search his face, trying to read where the line between truth and control sits with him—but with Ronan, those lines blur too easily.
“You’ve thought about this,” you say.
“I plan everything.”
Of course he does.
His other hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair from your face before resting at the side of your neck. Gentle. Possessive.
Grounding you in place.
“You wouldn’t leave,” he adds, almost casually.
It’s not a question.
You know that.
He knows that.
Your lips part slightly. “That’s not why people have children.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a benefit.”
There it is.
Honest. Unfiltered. Ronan doesn’t dress his intentions in pretty words.
And still—
His thumb softens where it rests against you.
“You’d be good at it,” he murmurs, quieter now. “You take care of everything.”
You swallow, heart pulling in two directions at once.
“You hate kids.”
“I’d tolerate one,” he corrects. “If it’s yours.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“If it’s ours.”
That almost sounds like something else.
Something warmer.
His forehead brushes yours briefly, grounding again, like he’s aware he’s said more than he usually allows.
“My wife,” he murmurs.
You exhale slowly, your hand coming up to rest over his.
Still at your abdomen.
Still unmoving.
“You’re impossible,” you whisper.
“And you’re staying,” he replies.
Like it’s already decided.
Like it always has been.
And the way his hand lingers there—steady, certain—it’s clear he’s not just imagining the future.
He’s already building it.