Ronan leaves you in his office the way he always does—quiet instructions, a brief kiss, the door closing behind him with a promise that he won’t be long.

You usually stay.

You nap on the couch, or flip through whatever book you find, or scroll on your phone while his world moves outside those walls.

You don’t wander.

You definitely don’t drink.

—

Which is why, when Ronan walks back in an hour later and finds the office empty—

He stops.

The air shifts instantly.

“Where is she?” he asks.

No one answers right away.

Bad move.

One of his men finally steps forward. “She… went to the bar.”

Silence.

Ronan’s eyes narrow slightly.

“The bar,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

That’s new.

You don’t like alcohol. You barely tolerate it. He’s seen you take maybe a sip or two at events, wrinkle your nose, and pass it off.

So the idea of you—alone—at his bar?

Already off.

He turns without another word.

—

The club is alive—music heavy, lights low, bodies moving in a blur of sound and color.

It takes him less than a minute to find you.

Because of course you’re not hidden.

You’re at the bar.

On full display.

A drink in your hand.

Another already empty beside you.

And another man leaning a little too close.

Ronan goes still.

You’re laughing.

Soft, loose, a little unfocused.

Not your usual laugh.

Your fourth drink sits between your fingers, and you’re sipping it like you don’t hate the taste anymore.

That’s what sets him off first.

Then the man.

Then the way you’re not looking for him.

He moves.

Fast.

The man barely registers him before Ronan is there, stepping into your space, placing himself between you and whatever conversation was happening.

“Enough,” Ronan says flatly.

The man freezes, takes one look at him, and immediately steps back. Smart.

You blink up at him, delayed.

“…Ronan?”

Your voice is softer. Slower.

Drunk.

His jaw tightens.

“How many,” he asks, voice low, controlled, “have you had.”

You glance at the empty glasses, then back at him, thinking.

“…I lost count.”

Not the right answer.

His hand closes gently—but firmly—around your wrist, taking the drink from you before you can sip again.

“You don’t drink,” he says.

“Maybe I do now,” you mumble, swaying slightly.

His other hand is already at your waist, steadying you before you tip too far.

“You don’t,” he corrects.

You look up at him, eyes glassy but still amused. “You left me alone.”

“I told you to stay in my office.”

“I got bored.”

“That doesn’t mean you start drinking with strangers.”

You frown a little at that. “He wasn’t a stranger. He was talking.”

“That’s worse.”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t need to.

The irritation sits just under the surface—tight, controlled, sharp.

His thumb brushes your side, grounding, checking.

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” he adds quieter.

Not possessive.

Not angry.

Concerned.

You catch that shift.

“I’m fine,” you say, leaning into him slightly. “See? Still alive.”

His grip tightens just a fraction.

“That’s not the standard.”

You laugh softly, but it’s weaker now, your balance clearly off. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being accurate.”

He doesn’t let go of you.

Doesn’t step back.

If anything, he pulls you closer, arm firm around your waist, anchoring you against him like he doesn’t trust the floor to keep you upright.

“You’re done,” he says.

“With drinking?”

“With this.”

You pout slightly. “I was having fun.”

His eyes flicker—annoyance, something darker, something protective.

“You can have fun without this,” he says.

“And without him.”

You glance over his shoulder at the man who has very wisely disappeared.

“…He left.”

“I made sure of it.”

You hum, like that explains everything, then lean your head against his chest without asking.

He stills.

Just for a second.

Then his hand comes up, brushing your hair back, slower now.

Softer.

“You’re coming upstairs,” he murmurs.

“Bossy.”

“Always.”

You don’t fight him when he guides you away from the bar, his hold firm, unyielding—but careful.

Because the irritation is still there.

The jealousy too.