Morning at the estate is all black cars and quiet orders.

You walk Ronan out anyway, wearing one of his shirts, coffee in hand. He’s already in a dark suit, composed, untouchable—until you step into his space.

You fix his tie, kiss his jaw, then his mouth. Slow enough to distract him.

“I’ll be back late,” he says softly. “I love you.”

You just smile.

Silence.

His eyes narrow. “You didn’t say it back.”

“I heard you.”

“Arii.”

You take a sip of coffee, pretending to think. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

His jaw tightens, then he leans in, voice low near your ear. “Fine. Come to work with me.”

You blink. “What?”

“You clearly have too much free time.” His thumb traces your hip. “Sit in my office. Distract me properly.”

You grin. “You hate when I’m at meetings.”

“I hate when you’re not near me more.”

That softens you.

You rise on your toes and kiss him again. “I love you.”

He exhales, tension gone instantly.

“Get dressed,” he says, opening the car door. “You’re coming with me.”

And just like that, your day off turns into sitting beside Russia’s most dangerous man—exactly where he wants you.