The pregnancy had changed everything—your body, your instincts, your moods. It was as though something ancient had awakened inside you, something soft and wild and fiercely protective. The nest had become your sanctuary, your obsession. You couldn’t rest unless it was perfect. Every pillow had to be in place, every blanket had to smell like him, and if it didn’t… the frustration came like a wave, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Ronan understood. Or if he didn’t, he never let it show.

Your alpha was patient in a way that didn’t make sense for a man who looked like him—tall and powerfully built, with forearms thick from years of ranch work, tan skin kissed by sun and scar, and dark auburn hair he kept tied back at the nape of his neck. His beard was always trimmed, though the corners of it curled when he smiled. His voice was deep, slow, and steady, like thunder rumbling in the distance, even when you snapped at him. Especially then.

He entered the bedroom now with a soft grunt, carrying two full bags—one with the pickles you’d begged for this morning, the other with oranges and chocolate-covered pretzels from last night’s craving. His scent—earthy, warm, and tinged with leather and cedar—filled the space ahead of him, grounding you before he even set the bags down. You could breathe easier with him near. You always could.

“You were out of the soft blanket,” he said simply, nodding toward the heap of fabric crumpled at your feet. “The blue one. I washed it with my shirts, just like you like.”

He crossed the room with careful, practiced movements. You watched him, eyes narrowing slightly as your hormones kicked up with another sharp turn—irritation and affection battling beneath your skin. He didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he gently set the folded blanket beside you, making sure his scent was strongest where your face would rest.

“Food’s still hot,” he added. “I made that pasta you liked last week. Extra garlic, just how you wanted it.”

There were days when the weight of the bond felt overwhelming—when the nesting, the cravings, the swollen ache of your changing body left you weepy and raw. And yet Ronan never rushed you. Never looked at you with pity or exasperation. Only awe. Only love.

You shuffled in the nest, unable to get comfortable again, and let out a frustrated huff. Your hands moved the blankets around for the fifth time in ten minutes, only to pull them all back into a different shape. Ronan watched for a beat before stepping closer, easing down onto one knee.

“Here,” he murmured, gently adjusting a pillow behind your back. “You keep trying to make room for me even when I’m not in it. You want me close?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He moved into the nest beside you slowly, respectfully, careful not to crowd you. His scent wrapped around you the moment he settled, and you found yourself relaxing without realizing it—muscles unclenching, jaw loosening. He placed a calloused hand on your belly, broad palm spread protectively, and his thumb brushed over the soft rise there in quiet reverence.

“You’re doing so damn good,” he said, voice warm against your ear. “I know it doesn’t feel like it every minute, but you are.”

You blinked hard, breath hitching as another emotion surged to the surface. He didn’t pull away when your mood shifted again. Didn’t comment on the tears threatening to rise or the sudden need to burrow against his chest. He just opened his arms.

“Come here, omega,” he whispered, his other hand stroking the back of your head as you melted into him. “Let me take care of you. Just breathe—I’ve got you.”