The art gallery was buzzing.
It was opening night. Aria's first full exhibit.
Sunset light poured through the tall windows of the university's fine arts building, casting long amber shadows over the white walls now adorned with Aria's work—portraits, charcoal cityscapes, bold color-splashed emotions. Each piece was part of a quiet symphony, the story of a girl who had bled in silence and learned to turn pain into beauty.
Ronan stood by the far corner, watching her float between faculty and art lovers, students and strangers. She looked radiant—black dress dusted with silver accents, hair pinned with a paintbrush tucked into the back like a quiet signature.
"You're in love with her," a voice said beside him.
Ronan turned. It was Carter—his teammate, former wingman, and the only person who'd ever seen him cry after his mother died.
"I am," Ronan said. No hesitation. No shame.
Carter grinned. "Never thought I'd see the day."
Ronan sipped his drink, eyes still on her. "Me neither."
Aria spotted him moments later and crossed the room, her smile softening.
"Hey," she whispered. "You've been quiet."
"Just soaking it all in," he replied. "This is... incredible, Aria. You're incredible."
She slipped her hand into his. "Come see the last room. I saved something for you."
The final gallery space was smaller. More intimate. White walls lined with pieces that felt personal—raw sketches, journal pages, watercolor memories.
She led him to a painting that stopped him cold.
It was of him.
Half-formed. A shadowed figure curled on a couch, face buried in his hands, arms tense, a bottle on the table beside him. His father's living room. The one place Ronan never brought her. A place filled with silence and shame.
"How did you...?" he asked, throat tightening.
She looked at the painting, then at him.
"I pieced it together from your stories. From your letters. You said you didn't have a way to let it out. So I let it out for you."
He was quiet. A storm gathering in his chest. She'd captured it too well. The helplessness. The way his dad looked right before collapsing in the hallway. The ache of a home that never healed.
"You're mad," she whispered. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have—"
"No," he said, voice breaking. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't know how badly I needed someone to see it."
She stepped closer. "I see all of you, Ronan. Even the parts you try to hide."
After the gallery closed, they returned to his apartment.
There, for the first time, Ronan opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a photo.
His mom. Smiling. Laughing at something off-camera. He hadn't looked at it in two years.
"She died in the spring," he said, voice low. "I was seventeen. She had this thing for cherry blossoms—she used to drive me an hour out of the city just to see them bloom. I told her I didn't care. I did, though. I really did."
Aria sat beside him, brushing her thumb over the photo. "She looks kind."
"She was." His jaw clenched. "After she died, my dad wasn't the same. I'd come home from practice and find him passed out, or screaming at the walls. Sometimes I thought he hated me for surviving her."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "You don't have to carry that alone anymore."
Later, as rain pattered against the windows and the city pulsed beneath them, Ronan turned to her.
"I saw you tonight," he said. "Not just the artist. The survivor. The girl who loved out loud. You're the bravest person I know."
Aria's eyes welled. "It's easier to be brave when you have someone beside you."
He kissed her softly, reverently. Not because they needed fire—but because they needed stillness. Safety.
"I think I want to see the cherry blossoms this spring," he whispered. "Will you come with me?"
She smiled. "Always."