The dull ache in your ribs was still there, a faint reminder of the day’s chaos. You leaned against the kitchen counter, tracing the rim of your glass absentmindedly. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional rustle of fabric as Ronan moved around the room.He had noticed the way you held your side when you sat down. He always noticed. “Does it hurt?” His voice was low, cautious. You rolled your eyes, offering a half-hearted smirk. “I’ll survive.” “Not what I asked.” His tone made you pause. You glanced up, meeting his gaze—intense, unwavering. There was no amusement in his eyes, only quiet concern.With a sigh, you shifted, wincing slightly. You hated admitting weakness, especially to him. But Ronan wasn’t the type to drop something once he’d set his mind to it. “It’s just sore,” you murmured. He stepped closer, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt, silently asking for permission. You hesitated, then let him lift the fabric just enough to see the faint bruise forming along your ribs. His jaw clenched. “I should’ve been there” he muttered. You shook your head. “It wasn’t your fight.” “The hell it wasn’t.” There was something dangerous in his voice, but not towards you. Never towards you. He exhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to your forehead before resting his against yours. His hands found your waist, careful, gentle. “You need to be more careful.” he murmured.