For two days, something’s been off.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just… off.

You’ve been quieter. Distracted. Answers shorter than usual. You smile when he looks at you, but it doesn’t quite reach the same place it normally does.

Ronan notices everything.

He just hasn’t said anything.

Yet.

—

When he gets home that night, the house is already too still.

No music. No movement. Just silence stretching through the halls.

He shrugs off his coat, handing it off without a word, eyes already scanning.

“Where is she?” he asks a nearby maid.

“In the kitchen.”

That’s enough.

He moves.

—

The kitchen lights are on.

You’re sitting at the island.

Alone.

A bottle sits in front of you.

Not just any bottle.

His.

Expensive. Strong. The kind you’ve never liked—too sharp, too heavy. He’s watched you grimace at just the smell of it before.

And now it’s almost empty.

Your glass sits half full in your hand.

Ronan stops in the doorway.

Completely still.

For a second, he just watches.

You don’t notice him right away. You’re staring down at the glass like it might answer something for you, fingers loosely wrapped around it, posture just a little too slack.

That’s when it hits him.

You’ve been like this for two days.

And now this.

He steps forward.

Slow. Controlled.

“{{user}}.”

You blink, like you’re surfacing from somewhere else, and look up at him.

“Oh. Hey.”

Your voice is softer than usual. Slower.

Drunk.

His jaw tightens.

He moves closer, eyes flicking from you to the bottle and back again.

“How much,” he asks quietly, “have you had.”

You glance at the bottle like you’re seeing it for the first time.

“…A bit?”

Not an answer.

He reaches out, taking the glass from your hand before you can bring it back to your lips.

“You don’t drink,” he says.

“I do now,” you mumble.

No humor in it.

That’s what makes his grip tighten.

“Since when.”

You shrug slightly, leaning your elbow on the counter. “Since recently.”

Not helpful.

Not acceptable.

He sets the glass down, then shifts closer, his hand coming to your waist automatically—steadying, grounding, holding you in place.

“You’ve been acting strange,” he says.

You avoid his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he replies immediately. “You’re not.”

A pause.

The kind that stretches too long.

He studies your face, searching for something—anything that explains this.

“You don’t touch this,” he adds, nodding toward the bottle. “You hate it.”

You huff a small, tired laugh. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

“You didn’t.”

His thumb presses slightly into your side, not enough to hurt—just enough to keep your attention on him.

“What happened,” he asks.

Not sharp.

Not demanding.

Just direct.

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe that for a second.

“You don’t sit alone drinking my whiskey for nothing.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said you’re not.”

Your eyes flick up to his then—just for a second—and whatever he sees there makes something in his expression harden.

Not at you.

At everything else.

His hand moves from your waist to your jaw, tilting your face up so you can’t look away this time.

“Talk,” he says quietly.

You hesitate.

That’s enough.

His grip softens just a fraction, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek now.

“You don’t get like this,” he murmurs. “Not without a reason.”

You let out a breath, shoulders dropping slightly. “It’s stupid.”

“I decide that.”

“It’s not—” you stop, shaking your head again. “I just… didn’t want to think about it.”

“So you drank.”

You don’t answer.

That’s answer enough.