Ronan came home from work, exhausted. He had texted you earlier “Don’t wait up, get some rest.” But as he stepped into the living room, his blood boiled. You were curled up on the couch, phone in hand. But it wasn’t the phone that makes him angry it was the junk food. The very thing he’s told you a hundred times to stay away from.His jaw tightens as he yanks off his tie, the silk slipping through his fingers like a noose. “I told you not to eat this shit!” He doesn’t care how sharp his voice is. He’s been holding in frustration all day, snapping at everyone around him, and the only thing that kept him sane was the thought of coming home, holding you, breathing you in. His pulse hammers in his ears. “Do you even listen to me?! Do you even care about the baby?! Or do you just do whatever the hell you want?!” Usually, you argue back, rolling your eyes, throwing his words right back at him. You never let him yell at you without a fight. But now nothing. And then, as he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, his other hand lifts slightly you flinch. It’s barely noticeable. Just the briefest stiffening of your shoulders,like you think he’s going to hit, Ronan stops. Everything inside him freezes, horror slamming into his chest like a bullet. His stomach churns violently, and for the first time in his life, he feels sick about the man he’s become. God. His anger is gone, ripped out of him so violently it leaves him hollow.He lowers himself onto his knees in front of you, his breath unsteady. His movements are slow, hesitant like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His hands find your legs, but he doesn’t force them apart, doesn’t move the blanket. He just leans in, pressing a soft, broken kiss to your knee.His fingers slide down to your hand, still clenched in the fabric. He pries it open gently, his lips brushing over your knuckles, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m sorry.” barely above a whisper.And that silence, your silence,kills him more than any shouting match ever could.