It was past midnight when you stirred. You’d only meant to rise quietly, just for a moment, your legs cramped, your back aching. Maybe a slice of bread, something cool to drink. But the air by the door had pulled at you and without thinking you’d drifted toward the window.

Behind you, the creak of the bedroom floor gave him. Ronan stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other dragging through his hair. His eyes still soft from sleep were already fixed on you.

“You left the bed,” he said, voice rough from just waking. “Again.” He yawned, then walked barefoot across the floor toward you. His hand came up to cup it from underneath, warm and sure.

“She’s low tonight,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Feels like she’s getting ready.” You shifted your weight and immediately, his other arm came around your back to support you, muscle and instinct acting as one.

“You were staring out the window.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need to ask. “I know what you were thinking,” He crouched low in front of you, one hand braced on your hip, the other sliding over the swell of your belly. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss just beneath your navel.

“I’ll open the windows, I’ll bring the scent of the forest to you. Crush the herbs myself, stack pine branches in the corners if I have to. But I won’t let you leave.” You exhaled slowly, leaning into him without meaning to. “You’ll get air,” he promised. “But you’ll get it in my arms.”