It’s early morning—his birthday—and the city is still quiet, the light outside just beginning to thin the darkness.

Ronan has been awake for hours.

You’re sprawled over him, warm and solid, cheek pressed to his chest like it belongs there. One arm is wrapped firmly around you, the other resting at your lower back, instinctive and protective even in stillness. The sheets are a mess from the night, the room heavy with the closeness of it all.

Midnight lingers in his thoughts.

The way you’d kissed him when the clock turned over—soft and deliberate, lips lingering like the words mattered. Happy birthday, you’d whispered, pressing that kiss into him after, content and quiet. He hadn’t answered right away. Instead he’d held you, forehead to forehead, letting the moment settle like a weight he was glad to carry.

No cake. No candles. Just you.

Now, in the pale hours after, he watches the ceiling while you sleep. He’s never needed much rest—two, maybe three hours at most—but you sleep deeply, peacefully, like you trust him to keep watch.

A year married.

A year since the ring, since the proposal at the end of your first year together. You’d said yes before he finished the question, and he remembers the way your hands trembled when you pulled him in. Dangerous, he’d thought then. Necessary.

You shift.

Ronan stills; every sense tuned to you. Your lashes flutter, breath hitching as you surface. You blink awake, find him in the dim light, and smile—slow, a little sleepy.

“Morning,” you murmur.

“Доброе утро,” he replies.

You lean in without hesitation. The kiss is warm and easy, sliding into a slow make-out that feels like a morning ritual. Your hand threads through his hair, his palm finds the small of your back. When you finally pull back, forehead against his, you laugh soft and sleepy.

“Happy birthday,” you say again.

He hums, amused. “You’re persistent.”

“You married me,” you reply, then tilt your head, eyes searching his. “So… what’s your birthday wish?”

He pretends to think, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Maybe I want to see you swollen with my child.”

You blink—then laugh, swatting his chest lightly. “Ronan.”

He smirks, the rare, dangerous one meant only for you. “I said maybe.”

But then his expression softens, humor fading into something quieter, more honest. He pulls you closer until your bodies are flush, voice dropping.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s a joke.”

Mostly.

His forehead rests against yours, breath warm. “What I really want,” he continues, thumb tracing slow circles into your skin, “is you, with your eyes rolled back and moaning my name.”

Heat flares across your face—surprise, amusement, something sharper—then you reach up, fingers sliding under his chin and tugging him down into another kiss that’s half challenge, half promise. His grin deepens against your lips; there’s an edge to it that’s all his, and you answer it with the same brazen devotion you’ve given him since day one.