The next few days passed like a quiet rebellion.
Ronan and Aria didn't make grand confessions. They didn't hold hands in the quad or take pictures together on campus. But they found each other, again and again, in small, unexpected moments—as if the universe was conspiring to keep their secret orbit intact.
It started with shared coffees.
Ronan would show up at the campus café around 10:00 AM, minutes after Aria's figure drawing class ended, carrying two cups—one black, one with oat milk and two sugars. He never asked her order. Somehow, he just knew.
"I'm not saying thank you every time," she warned one morning, arching an eyebrow as he slid the cup toward her.
"Good," he replied, smirking. "I don't like needy girls."
"But you like sarcastic ones?"
He shrugged. "Only the ones who paint like they're bleeding."
She didn't answer. But she drank the coffee.
By Thursday, Aria found herself wandering to the athletics field, a sketchbook tucked under her arm. She sat on the bleachers during Ronan's practice, pretending to study poses and light—but really, she was watching him.
There was something raw about the way he moved on the field. Fast. Focused. Like the world disappeared except for the ball, the grass, and the goal. He wasn't smiling. He rarely did. But there was something alive in his silence.
When practice ended, he jogged toward her.
"You stalking me, Monroe?" he teased, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it over his shoulder.
"I'm sketching for class."
"You draw better subjects than me."
She held up the page. A quick pencil sketch of his outline mid-sprint. Shoulders taut. Expression fierce.
He looked at it for a long moment, then said, "You make me look better than I am."
"Maybe you are better than you think."
That made him pause.
They stood there in silence, surrounded by the fading cheers of teammates and the rustle of late spring leaves.
"I meant what I said the other night," he said. "I don't know what this is. But I want to figure it out."
She looked at him, heart in her throat. "You really want something more?"
Ronan's jaw tensed. "With you? Yeah."
Aria hesitated.
"I'm still with Liam," she said, quietly.
The words hit like cold water, even though he suspected it.
"He doesn't deserve you," Ronan said after a pause.
"I know."
"So why stay?"
"I guess…" She looked down. "I thought maybe he'd change. Or maybe I was just scared to be alone."
"You're not alone now."
He didn't mean it like a line. It came out soft. Honest. Vulnerable in a way she wasn't prepared for.
And that scared her even more.
The next day, Liam found her in the art building.
He slammed her locker shut, startling her.
"We need to talk," he said through gritted teeth.
"I have class."
He stepped closer. "You think I don't know what you've been doing? Word gets around, Aria."
"I didn't cheat on you, Liam."
"You disappeared after the party. And I saw you with him. Wolfe."
Her silence was answer enough.
Liam's voice dropped. "He's not you. He'll use you. You think he'll stay? He'll leave the second you stop being fun."
"Maybe," she said. "But at least he doesn't make me feel worthless."
The slap of her words echoed louder than any shout.
Liam's face twisted. He reached for her wrist—too tight, too familiar.
"Let go of me." Her voice didn't shake this time.
"Or what?" he hissed.
Before either of them could say another word, a voice cut through the hallway.
"Get your hand off her."
Ronan.
He didn't yell. He didn't have to. His voice was low, lethal. Dangerous in the way only a boy who'd been holding back for years could be.
Liam turned. "You think she's yours now?"
"I don't think. I know she's not yours anymore."
There was a pause, heavy and stinging.
Aria pulled her wrist free. "We're done, Liam."
"You're gonna regret this."
"No," she said. "I already regret staying this long."
Liam glared at them both before storming off, his footsteps angry and meaningless.
Ronan looked at her, unsure if she'd break or cry or run.
Instead, she exhaled and leaned into him, forehead resting on his chest.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For dragging you into this."
He shook his head. "Aria, I'd walk through worse for you."
That night, she didn't go back to her dorm.
She ended up in Ronan's apartment again—this time not out of desperation, but by choice.
They didn't sleep together.
Instead, she lay beside him under a frayed old quilt, watching the ceiling, hearts syncopated in silence.
He reached over and gently took her hand, lacing their fingers together.
She didn't pull away.
"I was nine when my mom died," he whispered into the dark. "Car crash. She was supposed to pick me up from soccer practice."
Her fingers tightened around his.
"My dad hasn't really been the same since. Started drinking. Shouting. Sleeping through the days. I tried to be perfect, you know? Good grades. Good games. But none of it was enough."
"You were just a kid," she said softly.
"I stopped trying to fix him last year. Figured if I couldn't save him, I might as well stop caring about anyone else, too."
He turned his head toward her.
"Then you showed up in that red dress. And I haven't been able to stop caring since."
Aria blinked away the burn in her throat.
"I don't want to be a rebound or a regret," she whispered.
"You won't be."
He kissed the back of her hand, and for the first time in years,he let himself hope.