Page 74 of Override

Protect. That word again.

The guilt hits almost instantly this time. Maybe that’s all Ronan has been trying to do from the beginning.

Protect me. And here I am sneaking away from him like he’s someone dangerous instead of my husband.

My throat tightens painfully. “I know.”

My father pulls me into a hug before I can say anything else. I close my eyes immediately. Cedarwood. Smoke. Home.

The embrace wraps around me so naturally it almost physically hurts to pull away again.

“You know where to find me,” he murmurs against my hair.

I nod quickly before emotion can fully reach my face.

Then force myself toward the front doors.

Rain drizzles lightly across the estate grounds while security opens the SUV for me near the drive. My chest feels heavier with every step toward the vehicle— because I need to get back before someone notices I’m gone. Before Ronan worries. Before this turns into something bigger than it already is.

I slide into the driver’s seat and freeze.

There’s a coffee cup sitting in the holder beside the console. My pulse stumbles hard. Slowly, I reach for it. Warm. The scent hits me the second I lift the lid slightly.

French vanilla. My favorite.

A sharp ache moves unexpectedly through my chest because Ronan used to know that once.

Before black coffee. Before meal plans. Before adjustments.

My eyes shift slowly toward the passenger seat. Brown paper bag.

My fingers shake slightly as I pull it closer and unfold the top.

Soup container. Still warm. And beneath it—a folded note.

The paper crackles softly between my fingers while rain taps against the windshield overhead.

You said you didn’t feel well this morning.

I hope this helps.

— Taibhse

My throat tightens instantly. Not because of the soup. Or the coffee. Because he listened. Somewhere inside all the cameras and systems and shadows—someone listened.

The paper trembles slightly between my fingers.

Not because I’m cold. Because somewhere beneath the fear and confusion and complete insanity of this entire situation—something warm unfurls quietly inside my chest.

And that feels infinitely more dangerous than the messages ever did.

I glance toward the passenger seat again.

Soup. Coffee. French vanilla. The detail of it aches , because it means he listens. Notices.

And suddenly I can’t stop comparing that to the way Ronan looked at me this morning while explaining why I needed to eat differently. Train harder. Take better care of myself.

The thought leaves something heavy sitting behind my ribs. I lift the coffee cup slowly and take a sip before I can overthink it.