The house has been tense all day.
Not loud tense. Worse. Quiet tense.
The kind where everyone knows Ronan is one bad moment away from making the entire estate miserable, and nobody says it out loud because they like having jobs.
You’re curled under the blankets, still warm and half-sleepy, while Ronan sits beside you like a guard dog pretending he is not, in fact, a guard dog.
His phone has been buzzing for the last hour.
He has ignored every call.
“You’re staring again,” you mumble, voice soft and lazy.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His jaw flexes. One of his hands is already at your waist, the other tucked under your shoulder like he just happened to place it there and definitely is not holding you in place.
“I’m checking on you,” he says.
“By being weird and glued to me?”
He looks at you with immediate offense. “I am not glued to you.”
You blink at him. “Ronan, your hand has not left my side in forty minutes.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
It is not irrelevant. It is, in fact, extremely relevant.
He pouts.
Not openly. Never openly. But you know him too well now. The tight mouth, the narrowed eyes, the way he refuses to look directly at you when he’s being stubborn.
Across the room, one of his men clears his throat and very carefully pretends he heard nothing.
Because everyone knows.
If anything ever happened to you, Ronan would go absolutely feral.
Not dramatic-feral. Not cute-feral.
The kind of feral that makes the world regret being born.
So instead of arguing, the staff just moves quieter, talks less, and makes sure your tea is exactly how you like it.
You shift a little, and immediately Ronan’s hand tightens around your waist.
“Ronan.”
“What.”
“You’re acting like I’m about to evaporate.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m a little sick.”
“You’ve been saying that for days.”
“Because it’s true.”
He looks away, annoyed at being correct. “You’re getting worse.”
“And you’re getting clingy.”
His head snaps back to you. “No, I’m not.”
You smile into the blanket. “You are.”
He leans closer, glaring at the wall instead of you like that makes the accusation less true. “I’m monitoring a situation.”
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Uh-huh.”
His hand slides up to your hair, smoothing it back with a touch so careful it nearly ruins his attempt at being stern.
“You’re warm,” he mutters.
“That’s called having a fever.”
“Don’t get smart.”
“You started it.”
He huffs, very obviously irritated that you are smiling right now. Especially smiling at him. Especially when he is trying very hard to look like a man in control and not the kind of man who would burn down a city if you disappeared from his sight.
“You’re making that face,” you say.
“What face.”
“The one where you’re trying not to admit you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
You give him a look.
He gives you one back, darker and more stubborn, then pulls you closer anyway.
It is not subtle.
It is absolutely clingy.
He just refuses to call it that.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
“You love me.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost a scowl.
“Unfortunately.”
You laugh softly, and that is apparently enough to settle him for half a second. His forehead comes down to yours, his arms tightening around you like the whole world is exactly this small.
If anyone in the house asked, he would deny being clingy to his dying breath.
If anyone asked what would happen if he lost you, the answer would be easy.
Ronan Markov would make hell look polite.
And that is why, right now, he is holding you like a man trying to out-stubborn fate itself.