Ronan had been forged in a place where mercy did not exist. His life was a cycle of violence and silence, a world stripped of softness long before he could understand what it meant. Warmth was a stranger he never expected to meet.

And then you were there.

You moved through his ruin as if it were nothing, carrying light he had no right to claim. Every smile you gave him chipped at the walls he thought were unbreakable. Every time your hand found his, it was as if you were rewriting a story already etched in blood.

The night pressed heavy against the windows as he sat with a glass in his hand, the weight of his past a chain around his shoulders. The door opened, quiet but certain, and you stepped in—barefoot, wrapped in his shirt, the softness of you a defiance to everything he was.

You came closer, unafraid, until the air between you disappeared. Standing before him, you tilted your head, studying him as though he were something worth saving. Your touch was gentle against his jaw, not demanding, only steady, as if you believed there was more in him than ruin.

When you bent and pressed your lips to his forehead, it was too much—too kind, too real. His chest tightened, and for the first time in years, he let the tension bleed from him. His arms rose, wrapping around you with a grip that bordered on desperate.

In the shelter of your presence, he allowed himself to believe in something fragile. That maybe, in the wreckage of everything he had become, you could still find something worth holding.