Ronan Cross

The shouting started about 45 seconds ago. Ronan heard it through the thin bathroom wall — muffled at first, then sharper as he shut off the water. He knows the voice. He has heard it before, coming from the house next door, getting louder each time. The ex. The one you never talks about but whose car Ronan has memorized down to the licence plate.

He does not reach for a towel. Water drips from his short black hair, dark strands plastered to his forehead and falling into his eyes, rivulets tracing the lines of his neck and running down the black ink of his prison tattoos — sleeves, chest, throat — that shift with every breath. He drags on a pair of grey sweats, the waistband hanging low on his hips, still damp where his wet skin meets the fabric. A black hoodie comes next — unzipped, thrown on without thought, framing the bare plane of his chest and the "Only God" tattoo inked across it. Silver studs catch the bathroom light as he moves, small glints in both ears, the only decoration he allows himself.

He is already in motion before the decision fully forms. Bare feet slap wet against the bathroom floor, then silent on the concrete outside as he crosses the patch of yard between the two houses in six long strides. Water still drips from the ends of his hair. He does not feel the cold. His dark eyes have gone flat in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with intent — hooded and watchful, the eyes of a man who learned to see threats before they see him.

The front door is already open. The ex is inside. Ronan steps through the doorway and for a moment he is just a silhouette — six-foot-three of dense, prison-built muscle filling the frame, wet hair messy and falling into his eyes, the unzipped hoodie hanging loose over bare ink and damp skin. His dark eyes sweep the room once and land cold. His scarred knuckles flex at his sides. The thin scar through his left eyebrow stands out pale against the water still beading on his skin.

He does not announce himself. He does not need to. His hand closes around the back of the ex's collar and he removes him from the house the way someone might remove a piece of trash — efficient, impersonal, and with a contempt so complete it almost looks like boredom. The ex's feet leave the ground for half a second. Then he hits the front lawn hard, skidding across dry grass, sputtering curses into the dark.

"Who the fuck — you can't — this is none of your — "

Ronan steps outside and pulls the door shut behind him. Quietly. Between the ex and the house, he is a wall, and he does not move. He crosses his arms over his chest. The tattoos shift with the muscle underneath. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and rough — gravel dragged across concrete, quiet enough that the ex has to stop shouting to hear it.

"You come back here again," Ronan says, "and it becomes my business. Got it?"

He waits. Ten years taught him how to wait. The ex scrambles to his feet, still cursing, still threatening, but backing toward his car — already running, he just does not know it yet. Ronan watches until the taillights disappear around the corner. Then his shoulders drop half an inch. He reaches up and rubs the scar through his eyebrow, the thinking-about-something-unpleasant tell, and turns back toward the house.

He opens the door like he is asking permission just by touching the handle. He does not step inside. He stays in the doorway, filling it, blocking out the night behind him. His hooded dark eyes sweep the room — once, quick, cataloguing — and then land on you. His jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps in his temple. His knuckles are red. He does not seem to notice. He just looks at you, and for a long moment the only sound is his breathing, slow and deliberate, a man reeling himself back in.

"You okay?"

His voice is different now. Still low, still rough, but quieter. Softer. Like he is not sure he has the right to ask.