The estate is usually swallowed by silence.

No traffic. No neighbors. Just land stretching out into dark nothing, the hills standing like quiet sentinels around the house. Ronan chose it that way—remote, private, untouchable. Even the weather out here is normally restrained. Cold. Gray. Predictable.

Tonight is none of those things.

Rain pounds against the windows like it’s trying to get inside.

You’re curled up in bed with Ronan, the movie still playing forgotten on the screen across the room. His arm is wrapped around you, solid and warm, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against your side. The sound system hums low, but the rain is louder—heavy, relentless, a downpour that turns the darkness outside into shifting silver.

Your attention drifts.

You stare toward the window, watching water race down the glass in uneven rivers. The sky flashes faintly, distant thunder rolling somewhere far off. Something about it pulls at you—an unease you can’t quite name.

Ronan notices immediately.

He always does.

“You’re not watching,” he murmurs, eyes still on you rather than the screen.

“I was,” you lie softly, then sigh. “I just… listen to that.”

He follows your gaze to the window, jaw tightening slightly as another heavy wave of rain crashes down. “Rainy season,” he says. “It’ll pass.”

But the rain doesn’t ease. If anything, it gets louder, more insistent. Minutes stretch by, the movie’s dialogue fading into background noise until it might as well not exist at all. Ronan shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, studying you openly now.

“You’re thinking,” he says.

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes sharply on the nightstand.

The sound cuts through the room like a blade.

You reach for it, heart jumping for reasons you don’t fully understand—until the screen lights up and the notification hits you square in the chest.

Emergency Alert: Flood Warning. Seek higher ground if necessary.

Your stomach drops.

“Ronan,” you say quietly.

He’s already moving. He takes the phone from your hand, eyes scanning the message, his expression hardening—not panicked, but alert. Focused. The way he looks when something unexpected threatens the edges of his control.

“We’re up in the hills,” you say, trying to reassure yourself as much as him. “We should be fine, right?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he listens—to the rain, to the distant thunder, to something deeper than sound. He swings his legs out of bed and stands, walking to the window and pulling the curtain back farther. Water sheets down the glass, the grounds beyond barely visible.

“The estate itself is elevated,” he says finally. “The house is safe.”

That should be comforting.

But then he adds, more quietly, “The lower roads may not be.”

He turns back to you, already reaching for his phone, issuing calm instructions in Russian—short, precise calls to security, to staff stationed elsewhere on the property. His voice never rises. It never needs to.

“You’re okay,” he says when he’s done, crossing back to the bed. He cups your face gently, grounding you. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Another flash of lightning lights the room briefly, followed by a heavy roll of thunder that feels closer this time.

You nod, leaning into his touch, trusting him even as your heart keeps racing.

The movie keeps playing, forgotten entirely now.

Outside, the rain continues to fall—hard and relentless—but inside, Ronan pulls you against him again, holding you like an anchor against the storm, eyes sharp and vigilant as he listens to the night.

Whatever comes next, he’s already ready.