Autumn had crept in slowly, like a memory rediscovered. Campus was buzzing again—scarves replaced tank tops, coffee cups steamed in the cold, and the skies above the art building blushed with softer pinks.
Aria had been back for three weeks. Her Paris sketches had made her something of a campus legend in the art faculty, and she'd been offered a chance to lead a student gallery exhibit in the winter.
Ronan was thriving too. He was one of the team captains now. He didn't party as much—didn't need to. When he wasn't at practice, he was usually with Aria, or sketching things he never showed anyone but her.
They were no longer just shadows hiding from the past.
They were building something real.
That Friday night, she invited him over.
The apartment was warm from candles and cinnamon tea. Jazz played low in the background, a vinyl record spinning as dusk melted into night.
She wore an oversized sweater, paint-stained jeans, and nothing underneath the sweater but skin and nerves.
Ronan arrived with two things: takeout and the way he looked at her—like the world had narrowed to just this moment.
"Something smells amazing," he said, setting the food down.
"It's just tea," she laughed. "The candles are cheating."
"You're the one who smells amazing," he murmured, stepping closer.
She blushed. "You're ridiculous."
He gently backed her against the kitchen counter. "Maybe. But I missed this. You. Us. No oceans, no deadlines."
"No waiting," she whispered.
His lips brushed her jaw. "No holding back."
The first kiss was slow, reverent—his hands cupping her face like she was a secret he was terrified to break. She tangled her fingers in his hoodie, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned like puzzle pieces that always belonged.
The second kiss was hungrier. Bolder. Fire igniting beneath skin that remembered what it felt like to crave each other.
When he finally lifted her onto the counter, her legs wrapped around his waist, the world tilted slightly.
They paused.
Breathing hard. Eyes locked.
"Are you sure?" he asked, voice rough with restraint.
"Yes," she whispered. "I want this. You. Not just tonight. Not as a one-time thing. I want us."
His hands skimmed beneath her sweater, slow and steady. "Then I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, tasting the cinnamon on her tongue, the promises on her breath.
They made their way to her bedroom like they were discovering a new language—one written in whispered moans and fingers that knew exactly where to hold and where to tremble.
Her sweater fell first. Then his hoodie.
Skin met skin.
Warm. Real. Needed.
She traced every scar on his chest, like she was painting with her fingertips. He kissed every freckle along her shoulder like they were constellations meant only for him
There was no rush. No noise. Just two people learning how to breathe together again.
When they finally came together, it wasn't just about passion.
It was about belonging.
Each movement was a confession.
Each breath, a promise.
And when she said his name—soft, broken, whole—he whispered hers back like a prayer.
Later, they lay tangled in sheets and moonlight, silence wrapping around them like silk.
Aria ran her hand down his bare chest, eyes half-lidded. "We could've just eaten the takeout."
He smirked. "You saying this wasn't better?"
She laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. "This was... everything."
He turned to her, brushing hair from her face. "I've never felt this before. Not even close."
She kissed his chest, right over his heart. "That's because it's real now."
They stayed like that for a long time. Just holding. Just being.
No ghosts. No guilt.
Only fire and canvas.
Only love.