The room was dark and quiet, the kind of silence that only settles deep into the night. Rain tapped steadily against the window, soft and rhythmic. Ronan’s arm was wrapped firmly around your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his breath warm against your neck. It was the kind of embrace that always made you feel safe—like nothing could touch you as long as he was there.

But that safety didn’t stop the heat that burned beneath your skin. You woke slowly, disoriented by the feverish flush spreading through you, your throat raw, your head heavy. You shifted beneath the blankets, trying to find some relief without waking him.

You should’ve known better. Ronan never slept lightly when you were in his arms.

“Kotyonok,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep, his grip tightening instinctively. “Why are you moving?”

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered, your voice barely holding together.

The change in him was immediate. His drowsiness vanished like a switch had been flipped. He pushed up onto one elbow, scanning your face even in the dim light, his hand already pressing against your forehead. His expression hardened the second he felt the fever.

“You’re burning up,” he muttered, jaw clenching. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you tried weakly.

His eyes narrowed, the protective darkness you knew so well flashing through them. “Bother me?” His voice was low, dangerous, but it wasn’t anger at you—it was anger at the very idea of your suffering without him. His hand slid to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing against your heated skin. “You are mine, kotyonok. There is no such thing as ‘bothering’ me when it comes to you.”

You tried to sit up on your own, but he didn’t let you. With one swift movement, Ronan sat up fully and pulled you into his lap as if you weighed nothing. He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, tilting it carefully to your lips while his other arm held you anchored against him.

When you coughed, his entire body tensed, like he wanted to fight something he couldn’t see. He muttered something low and furious in Russian—sharp consonants that sounded like a threat aimed at the fever itself.

“Ronan,” you whispered, tired, “It’s just a fever. I’ll be okay.”

He leaned in closer until his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and steady despite the storm brewing in his eyes. “Don’t say ‘just.’ Don’t ever say that.” His voice dropped lower, possessive and unyielding. “Nothing is small when it comes to you. I’d tear this world apart before I let anything take you from me.”

You felt the truth in every word. His arms wrapped around you again as he lay back against the headboard, pulling the blankets over both of you like a fortress. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your ear, a rhythm stronger than the fever.

“Sleep,” he whispered, lips brushing your temple. “I’ll watch you. I’ve got you, kotyonok. Always.”

And as you drifted back into sleep, fever and all, the last thing you felt was his arms tightening protectively around you—as if his strength alone could keep the world at bay.