Aria woke to sunlight pouring across tangled sheets and the steady rise and fall of Ronan's chest beneath her cheek.
She smiled, kissed the space just above his heart, and quietly slipped out of bed.
The morning felt like a painting—bright, fragile, fleeting. She brewed coffee, humming to herself as she flipped through her sketchbook, already drafting ideas for the gallery. But the spell broke the moment her phone buzzed.
1 New Voicemail.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then pressed play.
A voice spilled through the speaker like ice water.
"Aria. It's Ethan.I don't know if you heard... Liam's out. He showed up on campus. He's asking about you."
Liam.
The name hit like a crack of thunder.
Her ex. The one with the possessive hands and cruel words wrapped in fake apologies. The one who said she wouldn't find anyone better, who called her "emotional" whenever she cried, "dramatic" whenever she stood up for herself.
Aria stared at the wall, her breath caught between disbelief and fear.
She hadn't thought about Liam in months. Hadn't needed to—not with Paris, and definitely not with Ronan. But now he was here. And he was looking for her.
Ronan noticed the shift as soon as he walked out of the bedroom.
"You okay?" he asked, voice hoarse from sleep.
She looked up from the floor, where she had sunk, phone still in her hand.
"He's back," she said quietly. "Liam. My ex."
Ronan froze. "What?"
"Someone saw him on campus. He's asking about me."
A storm passed through Ronan's eyes. "Has he come near you?"
"No. Not yet."
"You should report it."
"I know, I just—" Her voice cracked. "I feel like I can't breathe."
Ronan sat beside her, pulled her into his arms. "You don't have to go through this alone."
But even as he held her, she felt the old fear creeping in—the part of her that wanted to run, to shut down, to hide behind walls she thought she'd buried for good.
The next few days felt... strange.
Aria went to classes, met with her gallery mentor, even sketched in the quad like normal—but she kept glancing over her shoulder. She hadn't seen Liam, but the idea of him hovered like a shadow.
Ronan tried to be there—protective, grounded—but Aria could see the shift in him, too.
He was angry. Not just for her. At himself. For not being able to stop the anxiety clawing at her chest. For being helpless against a past he couldn't fight off with his fists.
And then came the moment when everything cracked.
It was late. They were supposed to have dinner at Aria's, but she texted last-minute and said she needed space.
Ronan came anyway.
He knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
She opened the door wearing an oversized hoodie and tired eyes.
"I said I needed space," she murmured.
"I know, I just... I wanted to make sure you were okay."
She stepped back. "I'm fine."
"You're not," he said. "You haven't been since you got that message."
"Would you stop treating me like I'm broken?"
He blinked. "That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing, Ronan? You keep hovering. Watching. Like I'm going to fall apart."
"I'm trying to be here for you," he said, voice tightening. "Because I care. Because I—"
"I don't want to feel like I'm being watched all the time," she snapped. "I finally got out of that. I don't want to feel trapped again."
His face fell.
"You think I'd ever do that to you?" he asked, voice cracking.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The walls were up again. Not because of him—but because she didn't know how to let someone protect her without feeling owned.
The silence was brutal.
Ronan stepped back. "If you need space... I'll give it to you."
She reached for his hand, but too late. The door closed behind him.
And she cried. Because she wasn't mad at him.
She was mad that someone like Liam had left scars so deep they still bled—even now.
The next day, she didn't see Ronan on campus.
She sat beneath the big elm tree near the arts building, sketchbook open, but her pencil never moved. She felt hollow.
Then came a text.
From Ronan:
"I'm sorry if I pushed. But I'm not leaving. I just... don't know how to help without making it worse. You don't have to go through this alone. Even if it means waiting outside the walls until you let me in again."
Tears welled.
She looked down at her sketchbook and drew the simplest thing:
Two silhouettes standing across from each other.
One holding a key.
The other holding a door half-open.
That night, she went to his place.
Ronan opened the door, surprised—but hopeful.
"I was wrong," she said. "You didn't make me feel trapped. Ethan did. And I let that fear bleed into something that wasn't yours to carry."
He stepped forward. "You don't have to explain."
"No," she said, standing straighter. "I want to. Because this is the first time in my life I've had something good. Someone real. And I don't want fear to ruin it."
He reached for her hand.
This time, she let him hold it.
And when they hugged, it wasn't desperate or fiery.
It was healing.