Noah doesn't say a word, just stays crouched on the floor with his head tipped back to stare at Ronan with wide, hurt eyes. It's a familiar look, really. How many times has Noah been quietly scared of him? How many times has he kept it quiet, shoved it down in the way Adam's so often had to?

How long have they all been terrified of him?

"Don't," he manages, backing up a step toward the counter. There's still a patch of singed skin between two of his fingers, still a fading bruise on his side.

He is no that Ronan. He refuses to be that Ronan.

"Don't-- fucking cower, man. I'm not gonna hit you. Get up."