Chapter31: Morning After

MAEVE

I stirred awake, blinking into the faint golden light filtering through the curtains. It was soft, almost pretty — one of those mornings that would look perfect in a photo 

I couldn't ignore leftovers from last night's vision. For a split second, the fear was all I could feel, and then, just as suddenly, there was something else. Something warm and solid pressed against me.

Ronan.

I was curled into his side like some kind of overgrown house Cat — a realization that made me tense and relax all at once. 

His presence was grounding, a kind of rough-edged safety I hadn't expected. The guy was stoic on his worst days, brooding on his best, and yet somehow lying there next to him felt... safe. 

That, or I'd just gone completely mad.

As I shifted slightly, he moved too — he was awake, lying at the edge of the bed, probably to give me space. 

His eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, we just stared at each other, both hyper-aware of the fact that I was practically plastered to his side. I wanted to make a crack about personal space, but for once, words felt thin. 

There was something there, a kind of an unspoken question neither of us dared to answer.

"So," Ronan said, finally breaking the silence, his voice rough with sleep in a way that might've been distracting if I weren't so focused on pretending to be unaffected. "Hungry?"

"Always," I deadpanned, stretching my legs and throwing him a side-eye. "But don't tell me you're about to offer me something other than cereal."

He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Guess I don't have to ask what you want, then. I'll take that as a 'yes' to pancakes?"

"Since I know you'll make them with that secret spice magic of yours, fine." I sighed dramatically, slipping out of bed and aiming for the world's most nonchalant eye-roll. "Let's get this over with. If you're as good as you say, you'll be quick."

He chuckled, shaking his head as he led the way to the kitchen, looking half-amused, half-competitive, like my doubts about his culinary prowess were the ultimate challenge. 

I followed, knowing full well that his pancakes were anything but "quick and easy." This was Ronan's art, after all.

I slid onto a barstool as he started pulling out ingredients like he was staring in a cooking show. Eggs, flour, vanilla. The whole bit. It was almost annoying how good he looked, whisking things around, completely in his element. And, as always, out came the pink carton.

"Let me guess. No pancakes without the sacred strawberry milk?" I said, hiding my smirk.

He didn't even look up, just poured himself a glass and handed me one too, smirking as if he were passing over a goblet of ambrosia. "Don't pretend you're above it."

"Fine," I muttered, taking a sip and pretending the flavor wasn't actually growing on me. Sweet and ridiculous, but oddly comforting. "But just so we're clear, this is just an experiment."

"Right, right," he said, grinning as he poured batter onto the hot skillet. "Whatever you say. You're not fooling me, Maeve. I see your appreciation."

"You wish." I gave him a look, half challenging, half hiding a smile. But he just flipped a pancake and handed me a plate, as though that smug little grin hadn't just thrown me off for a second. "If these pancakes aren't at least magical, Ronan, you'll have to explain yourself."

"They'll be the best you've ever had," he said, without an ounce of doubt. And somehow, as he slid another perfectly golden pancake onto my plate, I kind of believed him.

Somehow, eating there with him, sharing this silly ritual with the strawberry milk and his ridiculous culinary precision, the leftover dread from last night's vision felt a little further away. The storm inside me didn't feel so big — at least not when he was around.

We fell into a strange rhythm in the kitchen, moving around each other like we'd been doing it for years, which was absurd because I could count on one hand the number of times we'd done anything together that didn't involve public performances, cryptic visions, bickering, or heated kisses in the middle of the living room —

"Want to help, or are you just here for the entertainment?" he asked, glancing at me over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, disturbing my musings.

He handed me a spoon, directing me to stir the batter. As I did, he stood beside me, flipping a pancake in a way that looked entirely too practiced.

My elbow brushed his, and he didn't move away. Instead, he just looked down at me, an amused smile lingering as he set the spatula down.

"Who knew you were so… domestic?" I teased, trying to focus on the task and ignore the warmth radiating from where our arms kept brushing.

"Don't let the brooding exterior fool you," he said, deadpan. "I have layers."

"Right," I snorted, mixing a little too enthusiastically, "like an ogre or an onion."

He laughed, the sound bouncing around the kitchen, making it feel lighter. I felt the tension from last night's vision slipping away, bit by bit. 

For now, it was just us, tangled elbows, and that annoyingly attractive laugh of his.

Between pancakes, he leaned back against the counter, watching me stir. 

"You know, this reminds me of mornings with my dad. He'd make pancakes every Sunday, and insisted it was a ritual for 'building character' or something." His voice softened, like he was letting himself drift into the memory. "After my soccer games, he'd pick me up, no matter how badly I played, and hug me like I'd just won the championship."

I paused mid-stir, surprised. I didn't think Ronan had that kind of softness lurking under the surface. He caught me looking and shrugged, as if admitting something sentimental was no big deal.

"Siobhan's the same way," I said, surprising myself with the admission. "She stepped up when my mom passed. Always knew how to calm me down or, you know, threaten me out of being an idiot. It was her way of making sure I survived my own stupidity."

He chuckled at that, nodding. "I have a feeling that she is like a force of nature."

"Pretty much," I replied, a pang of fondness sneaking in. Talking about Siobhan made me feel something warm and nostalgic, almost like we were sharing pieces of ourselves that didn't get aired out much.

He joined me by the countertop, with our slightly mangled pancakes and glasses of strawberry milk, sitting so close our shoulders touched. Each bite felt more comfortable, more charged than I'd expected. 

Every so often, I'd glance his way, catching him doing the same, and we'd both look away, hiding our smiles behind bites of pancake like we were in on some shared secret.

It felt… easy. 

Safe. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this morning had been worth all the tension hanging between us.

The last bite of pancake had barely settled when I noticed the light shifting. A few minutes ago, the room had been bathed in warm, soft sunlight, a picture-perfect morning scene. Now, thick clouds rolled in, swallowing the light and casting long shadows that crept up the walls. 

I glanced at the window, feeling an odd sense of foreboding that I couldn't shake. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ronan stiffen, his shoulders tensing as if he could feel it too.

Rain started to fall in slow, intermittent drops, the kind that hinted at something heavier just waiting for its cue. I watched him for a moment, caught off guard by the way his usual calm seemed to fade with each drop that hit the window.

"Hey." I nudged him lightly, my voice casual, as if I hadn't noticed the subtle tightening in his posture. "You okay? You look like you're waiting for the storm to personally walk in here and insult your mother."

He snorted, flashing me a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "It's just weather, Maeve. I think I can handle a little rain. And no storm would be brave or stupid enough to insult my mother."

"Right," I said, watching him carefully. His words had been casual, sure, but there was something underneath them, a slight crack that I couldn't ignore. Whatever this was, it was bigger than the rain.

"Alright," I said, shifting closer and reaching for his hand without really thinking. "How about we make this storm a little more fun?"

He looked at me, eyebrows raised, like he wasn't sure if he should be intrigued or concerned.

"A game," I offered, squeezing his hand just slightly before letting go. "Cards, truth or dare… maybe we could go make an epic mess in the kitchen and make a food fight. My siblings love good food fights. I'm open to suggestions."

For a second, he just stared at me, like he was weighing his options, debating if he'd let me get away with this distraction tactic. And then he smiled — this real, reluctant smile that made me feel like I'd won some secret, impossible battle.

"Alright. Truth or dare," he said, his voice taking on a low, almost playful tone that seemed to sneak its way under my skin.

I grinned, feeling the flicker of something mischievous spark between us. "Truth or dare it is."

We'd started with light-hearted truths and silly dares, the kind you laugh off easily, no emotional risk required. But now, as the game circled back to me, I felt a tiny surge of courage—or recklessness, maybe. His turn again.

"Truth," he said, his tone casual, but something in his eyes suggested he was bracing himself.

I paused, choosing my words carefully. "Why do you let your mother meddle in your life so much?"

The question hit him like a sucker punch. His easy demeanor faltered, and a shadow crossed his face before he straightened, almost as if he was physically resisting the weight of the answer. He didn't look away this time, and his voice, when he spoke, was quieter, edged with something raw and reluctant.

"It wasn't always like this," he began slowly, a trace of bitterness lacing his words. "After my father died, I didn't have a choice. I was barely sixteen, Maeve. Sixteen, and the Alpha of the biggest pack on the West Coast." His gaze dropped, his jaw tense. "I couldn't even pick myself up for weeks, let alone think about the weight of leading a pack. She…my mother…stepped in as regent, made the decisions I didn't know how to make yet. She was a natural; politics has always been her strength, and at the time, I didn't care that she was in control, because we both wanted the same things."

He looked away, jaw tight, as if fighting down the pain of memories that still had sharp edges. "And there was Liam — he was only six. He was devastated. And my mother…she's not exactly maternal. She buried herself in work, left the caring to me. So, I took care of Liam, and she handled the pack." He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Somehow, it just became…normal. I got used to letting her lead."

The silence between us felt like a loaded gun, poised to go off with the next word. His voice dropped even lower, and I could hear the frustration bleeding through. "But now…she's not on my side, Maeve. It's gone too far. I know it. I should've done something sooner. Letting her control everything…it's…it's like I'm still sixteen, and she's the real Alpha. But I can't let that keep happening." He met my gaze, and I could see the decision hardening behind his eyes, the realization he'd needed to face.

Something twisted in my chest, something tender and fierce all at once. "Then don't," I whispered, my fingers curling around his, grounding him. "You're strong enough now, Ronan. You're more than enough." I squeezed his hand, my voice barely a murmur. "You don't need her to keep holding the reins."

He looked at me, something dark and intense simmering in his gaze, a spark that held a thousand unsaid things. There was a beat of silence, and the tension crackled between us, electric and heavy, pulling me toward him. It felt like standing on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling, and for once, I didn't want to step back.

"Alright," I said, my voice coming out a little breathless. "Dare. I dare you to kiss me."

Oh, Maeve, what the fuck is wrong with you?

I don't know what I was thinking—actually, I'm not sure thinking was even on the table. Logic? Rational decisions? Nope, no sign of them. My brain had apparently taken the night off, leaving me with pure, unfiltered impulse.

The challenge was electric, sparking heat that traveled through my veins. I half-expected him to laugh it off, maybe toss a witty remark to diffuse the tension. But instead, he closed the distance between us, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made my breath catch.

He cupped the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair as he pulled me closer. 

When his lips finally met mine, it was like an inferno igniting in my chest. The kiss was deep, fervent, and unrelenting. Every second seemed to elongate, rich with the unspoken desires neither of us dared to voice.

His other hand slid down my back, pressing me against him, and a shiver ran through me as his tongue teased my lips before delving deeper. 

The world blurred out of focus except for the delicious sensation of his mouth moving against mine, the taste of him intoxicating and demanding.

I moaned softly as his grip in my hair tightened, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. His lips were insistent, almost punishing, and I welcomed the intensity, losing myself in the overwhelming connection. My hands found their way under his shirt, grasping at the hard planes of his back, needing more of the closeness, the heat.

When we finally pulled away, we were both gasping for breath, faces inches apart, eyes locked. The air between us crackled with unresolved tension, promises hanging in the silence. He didn't release me; instead, he pressed his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with mine as his thumb traced a slow, agonizingly gentle line along my jaw.

"So," he murmured, his voice rough with barely suppressed desire. "Truth or dare?"

I felt a grin pull at my lips, my heart racing as I stared back at him, still tasting him on my lips, feeling the rush of possibilities hanging in the air.

"Think you can handle another dare?," I whispered, the word barely more than a breath, not sure if I wanted to know what he'd choose next — or if I'd even care.