The gallery walls were stark white—cold, pristine, silent. But Aria's art made them sing.
Each canvas pulsed with life, emotion, and story. A woman in red walking away from flames. A boy half-submerged in shadows, reaching toward light. A self-portrait shattered in panes of blue, each fragment painted like glass.
Ronan stood in the center of it all, surrounded by strangers in tailored coats and murmured French, staring at her soul on display.
He'd seen her paint. Seen her smudge charcoal across her cheek without noticing. But this—this was her heart cracked open for the world.
She stood at the far end of the gallery, speaking softly with an elderly curator, eyes glowing under soft yellow lights.
Ronan couldn't stop staring.
She was radiant.
Alive in her element.
And still… she looked for him across the room.
Their eyes met.
Her smile bloomed, and his breath caught.
She excused herself, walking toward him with that quiet, determined grace he loved.
"Well?" she asked, slipping her hand into his.
He took a slow breath. "You turned pain into color."
"That good, huh?"
"I'm in love with you, Aria. So yeah—'that good' doesn't even cover it."
Her expression softened, full of something deeper than pride. "You always see me, don't you?"
"Every version of you."
She leaned into him, the noise of the gallery fading for just a second.
And for the first time since landing in Paris, he didn't feel like a visitor in her life. He felt like part of the masterpiece.
That night, they celebrated on the rooftop of her artist residency, wine and laughter between stolen kisses.
But just before midnight, his phone buzzed.
Coach Ramirez.
Ronan stared at the name.
Then the voicemail.
Then back at Aria.
She saw the shift in his eyes immediately.
"Everything okay?" she asked, brushing his hand.
He played the message.
"Ronan. It's Coach. I spoke to the sports rep from Lyon. They were watching your games—somehow, your stats made it across. They're offering a spot on a development team. Six months. Starts next month. Kid… it's the kind of thing that leads to pro contracts. Think about it."
Aria blinked, setting down her glass. "Lyon. As in… France?"
He nodded slowly. "I didn't send them anything. I didn't even know anyone was watching."
"Do you want it?" she asked, voice quiet.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I was supposed to be the guy who stayed in one place. Steady. Predictable. I didn't think my dream got to be big."
Aria looked at him then, the way she had on the night they first really saw each other.
"You were always big, Ronan. You just forgot."
He swallowed. "What if I only came to Paris for you, and I leave with something I never knew I needed?"
"Then maybe that's what love's supposed to do."
He stared at her.
And realized, right there on a rooftop in the city of artists and broken hearts—
She had always been his reason to look up.
The Next Morning
They walked along the Seine, fingers entwined, both quiet.
Finally, Ronan spoke. "If I take this shot, it's six more months. And I don't want to live another six months away from you."
Aria turned to him. "Then don't."
"I can't ask you to stay."
"I wasn't planning to."
He looked at her, confused.
She smiled gently. "There's a second residency here. Two floors above mine. For illustrators. And I've been offered it."
"What? When?"
"Yesterday. I didn't want to say anything until I knew how you felt about staying."
Ronan pulled her into him, pressing his forehead to hers. "So… we're staying?"
"Looks like it."
He laughed softly. "I came here to surprise you. Turns out, you're the one giving me everything I never thought I'd have."
"Welcome to Paris," she whispered. "Our beginning."
That night, beneath the golden lights of a foreign city that had somehow become home, they kissed like they had all the time in the world.
Because now, they did.