Morning light spilled through the studio's tall windows, painting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor.
Aria stood barefoot, hair pulled into a lazy bun, sketchbook tucked under her arm. Ronan sat on the edge of their bed—a mattress on the floor for now—tying his laces and grinning like someone who still couldn't believe this was real.
She tossed him a protein bar. "Breakfast of champions?"
He caught it, eyebrows raised. "A protein bar and a kiss?"
"You'll live."
He stood and crossed the space between them, cupping her cheek with a smirk. "Then I better get my kiss."
Their lips met in a soft, familiar press—more habit than hunger now, but no less electric. There was a kind of joy in the ordinary moments. Coffee on the fire escape. Shared grocery runs. Late-night laughter over spilled paint and cleats left in the hallway.
They were building something.
But even paradise has its shadows.
Two Weeks Later – Lyon Development Program
Ronan was thriving on the pitch. The training was more intense than anything he'd known, the competition brutal. But he was holding his own.
His name was being passed around in conversations he was never meant to hear.
"Strong defensive instincts…"
"Undisciplined, but raw talent…"
"Could go pro with the right polish."
But with the rise came pressure.
And time.
Practice, travel, recovery—it left little room for everything else.
Aria noticed it first in the way he texted less.
Then in the way he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
Then in the silence during dinner.
Not because they were angry.
But because they were exhausted.
In the Studio
Aria's new residency came with its own set of challenges—and rivalries.
Especially in the form of Celeste Dumas.
Celeste was a French painter whose style was abstract and dramatic, praised by critics and adored by curators. She'd already sold three pieces during the first week.
She was also—unapologetically—competitive.
"You're the American girl, right?" Celeste asked, stopping by Aria's workspace one morning.
Aria nodded. "That's me."
Celeste peered at her latest piece. "Interesting. Very… emotional."
"Thanks," Aria replied, unsure if it was a compliment.
"I mean, it's sweet. How love can inspire so much. But do you ever wonder what you'd create without it? Without him?"
Aria blinked. "Excuse me?"
Celeste shrugged. "Sometimes love dilutes the edge. Makes us soft. Comfortable. I just hope you don't fade out."
The words stuck to Aria's ribs like a splinter.
Later That Night
She didn't mention Celeste.
Not even when Ronan finally got home and collapsed beside her.
She just traced circles on his shoulder, silent.
He kissed her hair. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
He nodded. "Same."
The Cracks
Three nights later, he missed her open gallery night. He texted an apology: "Got pulled into extra drills. Coach's orders. I'm sorry."
She didn't reply.
The next morning, she left early for the studio without waking him.
That evening, he returned to find her sketch torn in half on the desk. Not by accident.
She sat on the floor, surrounded by crumpled paper, frustration carved into every line of her face.
"Aria…"
She looked up, eyes glassy. "I don't know if I'm good enough for this."
"Don't say that."
"I keep wondering if Celeste is right."
He frowned. "Celeste?"
"Never mind."
"No—what did she say?"
Aria stood, pacing. "That love makes me soft. That maybe you're the reason my art's lost its edge."
He stared at her, stunned. "You believe that?"
"I don't want to," she snapped. "But I'm scared. I came here to find my voice, Ronan, and I'm starting to think I'm just echoing everyone else's."
Silence fell between them.
Then he said, quietly, "Do you think I'm holding you back?"
Aria's heart cracked. "No. But I think I'm scared to fly in case I leave you behind."
Ronan stepped forward. "We're not chained to each other, Aria. We're choosing each other. That's different."
Tears welled up in her eyes. "I don't want us to get so busy chasing our futures that we forget how we got here."
He pulled her into his arms. "Then let's make time to remember."
A New Agreement
They made a promise that night.
To talk. Really talk.
To make space for both ambition and each other.
To believe in one another's fire, even if the flames didn't always burn in the same direction.
And later, as they lay tangled in the soft glow of Paris moonlight, Ronan whispered against her shoulder, "Let them doubt you. Let them try. But you're the bravest artist I know."
She turned to him, kissed him slowly. "And you're the only boy I'd build a home with in a city where I once thought I was alone."