Aria had almost finished the last piece for her final residency showcase. Her fingers were stained with charcoal and paint, and the sound of rain tapping the window had become a familiar background melody in her small Montmartre flat.
Paris had become a second skin.
But it wasn't home.
Home had Ronan in it.
And tonight, she felt the ache stronger than ever.
She lit a candle by the easel, pulled on his hoodie again, and played the playlist he'd once made for her in secret—slow, gravelly songs that spoke of things too big for words.
She didn't expect the knock on the door.
Soft.
Once. Then again.
Heart thudding, she padded barefoot across the old hardwood floor and pulled it open.
Ronan.
Standing there in the Paris rain, soaked to the bone, eyes dark, suitcase in hand, breathless like he'd run halfway across the world to reach her.
"Surprise," he said, smiling crookedly.
She didn't say a word.
She launched herself into his arms.
He kissed her like he'd been holding his breath for six weeks. Like he couldn't believe she was real. Like this wasn't a dream he might wake up from any second.
Their lips crashed together—wet from the rain, frantic from all the nights they couldn't touch, all the words left unsaid. Her fingers tangled in his hair as he kicked the door shut behind them, never breaking contact.
The hoodie slipped off her shoulders.
His jacket hit the floor.
Ronan's mouth trailed down her neck, slow, reverent. "I missed you," he whispered against her skin. "God, Aria, I missed this."
She pulled him closer. "Then don't stop."
Clothes melted away between kisses and gasps, the air thick with the kind of longing that had simmered too long. She guided him through the tiny apartment, bumping into her easel, laughing breathlessly as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms and carried her to the couch.
There, in the soft glow of candlelight, they re-learned each other with touch.
He kissed every inch of her like he was trying to remember the exact shape of her, the feel of her skin under his palms, the way her breath caught when he whispered her name. She ran her hands over the muscles of his back, tracing every scar, every story he carried silently.
And when they finally came together—slow at first, then desperate—it wasn't just heat or lust.
It was days of ache and love and needing to feel real again.
Their moans echoed in the quiet room, tangled with whispered promises and sacred silence.
It was messy. Honest. Raw.
And it left them lying breathless afterward, skin against skin, hearts pounding as one.
"Was it okay that I came?" Ronan asked softly, brushing a damp curl from her cheek.
Aria nodded, eyes glassy but full of light. "You always show up right when I need you."
"I couldn't stay away," he admitted, fingers lacing through hers. "I didn't want you thinking I was a dream you had once. I wanted to be real."
"You're the most real thing in my life," she whispered.
He kissed her again, softer now, with the slow certainty of someone who had found his home across the ocean.
They lay together on the paint-stained couch, limbs tangled, a blanket pulled lazily over their bodies. Rain tapped gently against the windows, and outside, the Paris skyline glowed gold.
Inside, two hearts beat steady again.
Together.