It started with a knock.
Late evening. Sky streaked with crimson and gold. Aria had just finished cleaning her brushes, drying the last of her Paris sketches to frame for the upcoming campus gallery.
She opened the door to find Ronan standing there—hair tousled from the wind, hoodie pulled over his head, hands in his pockets like he wasn't sure if showing up unannounced was a bad idea.
She tilted her head. "Everything okay?"
He looked up at her, and there was something in his eyes—unspoken. Raw.
"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said simply. "And I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to see you."
She stepped aside. "Then don't."
The apartment was quiet, lit by the soft glow of lamps and the flicker of scented candles. Jazz played from a corner speaker. The scent of eucalyptus and paint mingled in the air.
"I was working on the gallery pieces," she said, motioning to the sketchbooks and canvases scattered across the living room.
He walked in, scanning the pages. "These are incredible."
"You think so?"
"I know so." He paused, tracing the edge of a charcoal drawing of the Paris skyline. "This one… reminds me of how you looked that morning you called me from your window."
She smiled. "I remember that. You were shirtless and half-asleep."
"And you said I looked like a mess of poetry."
"You did."
He turned to her slowly, voice lowering. "So do you. Right now."
The air shifted.
Thickened.
He crossed the room until they were inches apart.
"You sure you want this?" he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I've never been more sure," she whispered.
The first touch was tentative—his fingers grazing her jaw, her breath catching in response. Then her hands slid beneath his hoodie, finding skin and warmth, anchoring herself to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
She pulled him into a kiss—slow, explorative, then hungry. Months of letters, calls, and silent longing erupting into a fire that had waited too long to burn.
They stumbled toward the bedroom in a trail of hurried kisses and whispered need, laughter tumbling between heated touches.
"God, I missed you," he murmured against her neck as her sweater hit the floor.
"You have no idea," she breathed, tracing the muscles along his back like she was memorizing every inch.
Clothes fell like petals.
The world shrank to just skin, breath, and the sacred way their bodies curved into each other.
It wasn't rushed—there was too much emotion for that.
Every touch was a question.
Every moan, an answer.
Every heartbeat, a vow.
He moved with reverence, with intensity, with a softness that didn't match his reputation but fit perfectly with the man she'd come to know. The one who wrote her letters he never let anyone else read. The one who held her like she was more than just a body. Like she was a home.
And when he whispered her name, trembling and fierce, she felt every part of herself unravel—and rebuild—in his arms.
After, they lay tangled in each other, the sheets messy, her fingers trailing idle patterns across his chest.
"I used to think love was just chaos," he said, voice husky in the dark.
"And now?"
He turned to her. "Now I know it's peace. When it's with the right person."
She kissed him again. "And it's you. It's always been you."
He smiled, eyes softer than she'd ever seen. "I don't want to be who I was before you. I want to be someone who deserves you."
"You already are," she whispered.
They fell asleep like that—intertwined, safe, and weightless.
Not because their demons had disappeared.
But because, together, they weren't afraid to face them anymore.