In the beginning, everything had felt alive. Ronan’s walls had lowered, if only slightly, and you had stepped into the spaces he never thought he’d share. There had been laughter, warmth, a fragile thread of hope that perhaps he could belong to something other than silence.

But now the house had grown heavy again. He no longer came upstairs, no longer sought you out. Nights stretched long and empty, your side of the bed untouched by him. Words between you had become rare, stripped of meaning, spoken only out of habit.

So you went to him.

The study smelled faintly of smoke and whiskey, the lamplight dim against the shadows that pooled in every corner. He sat in the leather chair, a glass resting in his hand, his gaze fixed not on you, not on anything—only the blankness of the wall before him.

You stepped in barefoot, the floor cool beneath your skin, his shirt falling loose around your frame. Crossing the room, you leaned against the edge of the heavy wooden desk, the polished surface biting into the backs of your thighs.

And then you waited.

The silence stretched, unbearable, broken only by the faint clink of glass when he shifted it absently in his hand. He didn’t look at you, didn’t move, as if your presence had become just another shadow in the room.

You stood there, staring at him, wondering how something that once felt so inevitable could now feel like it was already slipping away.