Snow whipped against the frosted windows in thick, swirling sheets, muffling the world in the kind of bitter October cold only Russia could manage. Pale light leaked through the glass, gray and muted, casting the bedroom in soft shadows. Ronan lay awake behind you, as he always was. Three hours of sleep was all he ever needed, but when you were in bed with him, he stayed. Not because he couldn’t get up—but because he didn’t want to.

His arm was draped over your waist, heavy and possessive, fingers splayed against your stomach like he was anchoring you there. His breathing was even, chest pressed to your back, heartbeat a quiet but steady rhythm.

“It’s Halloween,” you murmured softly, voice barely above the hush of the storm.

“I know,” Ronan replied evenly. His voice was low, controlled, never groggy—he was fully awake, always sharp. His nose brushed against your hair as he shifted closer.

“I miss it,” you admitted quietly. “Back home, it was always a big deal.”

“You’re not back home,” he said simply, but not unkindly. His fingers traced slow, lazy shapes against your skin. “You’re here. With me.”

You turned slightly to look at him. His pale eyes were already on you, clear and focused, sharp as ice but softened by the early light.

“You’re staring,” you whispered.

“I like watching you wake up,” he answered, without hesitation. It wasn’t meant to be romantic—it just was. That was Ronan. Blunt, honest, quietly intense.

A knock on the door shattered the stillness. Instantly, his entire demeanor shifted. His eyes hardened, body tensing slightly. “What?” he barked, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

“Breakfast, sir,” came the muffled reply.

“Leave it,” he ordered coldly.

The footsteps retreated. The storm filled the silence again. Ronan’s attention returned to you, the harshness melting away like it had never been there. He pressed his forehead against yours briefly, a rare, quiet gesture.

“Stay,” he murmured, his thumb stroking small circles against your hip.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” you breathed.

“Good,” he said softly, his voice lowering to that possessive rumble that always made your chest tighten. “Let the world wait.”

Eventually, you managed to coax him downstairs. His hand stayed on you the entire time—guiding you as you got dressed, curling around yours as you descended the grand staircase.

You froze at the bottom.

The dining hall looked nothing like it usually did. Black and orange ribbons lined the banisters, small carved pumpkins sat along the mantel, and the long oak table was covered with steaming mugs of cocoa, little ghost-shaped cookies, and bat-shaped pancakes dusted with powdered sugar.

Your lips parted slightly. “Ronan…” you whispered, almost disbelieving.

Ronan’s reaction was immediate. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “What is this?” His tone dropped—sharp, controlled.

The staff tensed. His presence filled the room like a silent warning.

“Who approved this?” he demanded.

The head maid stepped forward. She was composed, steady. “It’s for her, sir,” she said, nodding toward you. “She mentioned missing Halloween. We thought it might please her.”

Ronan turned to you. For a brief moment, the steel in his gaze cracked. His eyes softened slightly as he took in your expression. He exhaled slowly through his nose and looked back at the decorations, reassessing.

“For her,” he repeated, quieter.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t order it taken down. Instead, his hand slid to the small of your back, warm and certain, guiding you toward the table. “Sit,” he murmured, softer now.

You obeyed. A maid placed a plate in front of you—perfect golden pancakes shaped like bats, sugar dusted like snow. You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

Ronan sat beside you, posture still commanding, one arm resting on the back of your chair. His gaze swept the room, daring anyone to speak, then returned to you.

“If you like it,” he said quietly, only for you, “it stays.”

He didn’t care about halloween, but he cared about you.