By Monday morning, the campus had started whispering.
Not openly. Not yet.
But sideways glances, raised brows, and half-sentences lingered in the air around Aria like perfume she didn't wear. Ronan Wolfe—the university's infamous, emotionally unavailable star forward—was now more than just a late-night rumor in her life. He was real. Present. Holding her hand in quiet places. Walking her to class even when it meant being twenty minutes late to his own.
It wasn't public, not really. But it was undeniable.
Still, it didn't take long for the stories to start.
"She dumped Liam for him?"
"I heard they hooked up that night at the party."
"He's just using her like he does every girl."
"She's supposed to be the smart one. Guess that didn't apply to her love life."
Aria sat alone in the art studio late that afternoon, the whispers echoing louder in her head than the scratch of her pencil on canvas. She tried to focus on her latest piece—a broken violin floating underwater—but her hand trembled. Her lines were off. Everything felt off.
She didn't regret Ronan.
But she hated the way the world tried to turn their moments into dirt.
The way they talked like they knew her.
Like she was just a name in someone else's story.
Meanwhile, Ronan stormed off the practice field, his cleats digging into the grass harder than necessary.
"You good, Wolfe?" Carter called after him.
"Fine."
But he wasn't.
Coach had pulled him aside after drills. Said his head wasn't in the game. That if he wanted to keep his starting spot, he needed to "lock it in."
Ronan wanted to laugh. As if all it took was "locking in."
He was already locked in—on Aria's laugh, her shy smile, the way she curled her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. Or the fire in her eyes when she stood up to Liam. Or the ache in her voice when she whispered, "I don't want to be a regret."
He was distracted, yeah. But it didn't feel wrong.
It felt like waking up from something numb.
Still, the pressure weighed on him.
Football was supposed to be his future—the one thing that kept him out of the house, out of the spiral, out of the shadow of his father's drinking and silence.
He couldn't afford to lose it.
That night, he waited outside the art building, hood up, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. When Aria finally walked out, face pale and tired, he fell into step beside her without a word.
"Rough day?" he asked.
She nodded.
"You?"
"Same."
They walked for a while in silence, past the library, the quiet pond, the scattered patches of students sitting on benches with books or guitars or dreams.
"You ever feel like the whole world's watching you?" she asked suddenly.
He exhaled. "Yeah. And judging me while they do."
Aria looked up at him. "They think I'm just another one of your one-night mistakes."
"You're not."
"I know that. But it still hurts."
He reached for her hand. She let him take it.
"I don't care what they think," he said.
"I wish I didn't," she whispered.
Ronan took her to the one place no one ever went: the rooftop of the abandoned math building on the edge of campus. He'd found it freshman year while looking for a quiet place to scream into the sky.
Now, he just wanted somewhere to breathe with her.
They sat on the edge, feet dangling over the brick ledge, city lights stretching out like stars below them.
"Sometimes," he said, "I wonder if I'm broken."
She turned her head. "Why would you say that?"
"Because I don't know how to do normal. I don't know how to be soft with people. I don't know how to have something real and not destroy it."
He was looking out at the skyline, but she was looking at him.
"You haven't destroyed anything."
"Not yet."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"You know," she said quietly, "people think art is just about talent. But it's really about knowing how to feel something without running from it. I think that's what you're learning."
"I think that's what you're teaching me."
They stayed there for a long time, not kissing, not saying anything else—just two broken pieces trying to fit together without shattering further.
But not all wounds heal in silence.
That weekend, Aria walked into her dorm to find Liam sitting on the floor outside her door.
Her heart sank.
"What are you doing here?"
He looked up. His eyes were glassy. Not from tears—from vodka.
"I miss you," he slurred.
Aria stepped back instinctively. "Liam—"
"I messed up, I know. But you're mine, Aria. You don't just walk away from what we had."
"We didn't have anything," she snapped. "You manipulated me. Controlled me."
"I loved you!"
"No, you didn't. You loved owning me."
He stood, too fast, swaying slightly.
"You think he loves you? Ronan Wolfe? He's just bored. He'll leave the second he finds someone new."
She folded her arms, steadying her breath. "Even if he does, it would still be better than being with you."
He stepped closer, and this time, she raised her voice. "Back off."
Doors cracked open down the hallway.
Footsteps approached. Then—
"Is there a problem?"
Ronan.
He didn't raise his fists. He didn't need to.
Liam looked between them, nostrils flaring, before muttering something under his breath and stumbling away.
Aria didn't speak.
Ronan walked toward her and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. "Are you okay?"
"I think I will be."
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her like she might disappear, and she clung to him like she'd found solid ground for the first time in years.
Later, in his apartment, Aria lay on his couch wrapped in a blanket. Ronan brought her hot cocoa—extra marshmallows, even though he teased her for them.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked softly.
He gave a lopsided grin. "Because for the first time in a long time, I want to be."
She stared at him.
"I think I'm falling for you, Ronan."
He didn't flinch.
"I think I already fell."