Rain drizzled gently over the University of Westbridge, streaking across the tall windows of the Art and Design faculty building. In Room 3B, the soft scent of turpentine and acrylic filled the air, blending with the faint hum of indie music from someone's Bluetooth speaker. At the center of it all sat Aria Monroe, her brow furrowed as she dabbed soft pinks and bruised purples onto her canvas—a flower blooming against a broken sky.
She barely noticed the buzz of her phone. Again.
She knew who it was.
Liam.
Her boyfriend of two years, toxic to the core and charming only when he wanted something. Which, lately, was usually her time, her silence, or her forgiveness. She exhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her paint-smeared jeans before snatching the phone from the stool beside her.
"Where the hell are you?"
"You said we'd talk. Are you ignoring me again?"
"Don't embarrass me tonight. We're going to Nate's party. Wear that red dress I like."
Her lips pressed into a tight line. The red dress. The one that made her feel like a painting he owned, not one she created. She typed a quick reply:
"Fine."
She threw her phone down. Outside the window, the rain eased into a gray mist. She hoped tonight would pass in silence. No scenes. No fights. Just survive another night.
Across campus, in the flood-lit stadium, the air thudded with the rhythm of feet against wet turf. The rain hadn't stopped practice. Not for Ronan Wolfe. Captain of the Westbridge Vipers, top scorer, and the subject of far too many locker room rumors.
Most of them true.
Except the ones about him falling in love. Ronan didn't do love.
The only thing he felt remotely loyal to was the feel of a ball against his boot and the way it momentarily silenced the ache in his chest.
He slammed the ball into the net again, harder than necessary.
"Yo, Wolfe!" called Coach Henderson. "You planning on breaking the goalpost?"
Ronan barely glanced over. "If I do, we'll finally have an excuse to get a better one."
Coach gave a tired chuckle, knowing better than to push. Everyone on campus knew Ronan Wolfe's story. Mother: deceased in a car crash two years ago. Father: ex-military turned barfly, who couldn't look at his son without seeing the ghost of the woman he loved.
And Ronan? He'd learned to live like a firecracker—explosive, beautiful, but always burning out before morning. He partied, he played, he slept with girls who didn't ask for his name twice. The fewer attachments, the less to lose.
And tonight, he had every intention of drinking hard enough to forget. Again.
The house party at Nate's was a collage of neon lights, bass-heavy music, and alcohol-soaked laughter. Bodies moved to the rhythm, and the air was thick with sweat, smoke, and something dangerously close to freedom.
Aria felt out of place the moment she stepped in.
The red dress clung to her skin, too tight in some places, too revealing in others. Liam was already halfway drunk, grinning with his arm slung around her like a trophy he didn't remember winning. His words were slurred, his eyes wandering. She had spent months defending him, convincing herself he could change. Tonight, something inside her began to crack.
Ronan spotted them from across the room, drink in hand, leaning lazily against the kitchen counter like he owned the place. He recognized Aria, vaguely. Different faculty. Arts, maybe? She was in one of his elective classes for a week before switching out. Pretty, quiet. Too smart to run in his circles.
But there she was, with Liam Beckett.
Ronan hated Liam. The guy was a pompous, rich-boy control freak who thought love was possession and loyalty was submission.
And right now, he was grabbing Aria's wrist a little too tight in the middle of a hallway argument.
Curiosity tugged at Ronan like a thread.
"You're embarrassing me!" Liam snapped.
"I said I wanted to leave." Aria's voice trembled, but her eyes were flint. "Let me go, Liam."
"You always do this—"
"She said let go."
The voice cut through the noise. Calm. Dangerous.
Liam turned to find Ronan standing beside them, drink in one hand, the other curled into a loose fist. Ronan's gaze wasn't loud, but it was lethal.
"Back off, Wolfe. This is none of your business."
"Could be. If you keep grabbing her like that."
Aria blinked, caught between the fire of anger and the flicker of something new—surprise.
Liam scoffed, but released her wrist and stormed off, muttering curses that dissolved into the music.
Aria stood still, her chest rising and falling like waves against a broken dam.
"You good?" Ronan asked, tipping his head.
She nodded slowly. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
She turned to leave. So did he. And that should've been it.
But something strange lingered in the air.
She looked back. "Wait."
He turned, one brow raised.
"Do you… want to get out of here?" she asked.
The words shocked her more than him. Aria Monroe didn't invite boys to leave parties with her. She painted emotion; she didn't act on it. But tonight, something inside her had snapped free.
Ronan stared at her for a beat too long. Then he downed the rest of his drink and tossed the cup into the sink.
"Yeah," he said, lips curving slightly. "Let's go."
They didn't talk in the car. He drove a beat-up black Mustang with leather seats that smelled faintly of pine and gasoline. Aria's heart pounded like a drumline.
She wasn't this girl.
But she didn't want to be the old one tonight.
Ronan didn't ask questions. He only drove until the city lights disappeared behind them and the road turned quieter, darker, freer.
He pulled into an overlook, the city a canvas of stars beneath them.
"This okay?" he asked.
She nodded.
Minutes passed before she said, "He's not always like that.
"Yeah," Ronan said softly, "they never are. At first."
Silence again.
Then her voice: "I paint to feel. You play to forget. That's kind of sad."
He glanced over. "So is being with someone who breaks you just to glue the pieces back their way."
They sat in the quiet after that, breathing the same night air but feeling entirely different worlds. And yet… something tethered them.
And that's when it happened.
The kiss.
It wasn't planned. It wasn't sweet. It was desperate. Angry. Full of something neither of them could name. It tasted like broken promises and stolen chances. Her fingers gripped his jacket. His hands tangled in her hair.
And when they pulled apart, breathless, their foreheads pressed together, eyes wide, a single question echoed in both their chests:
What the hell did we just start?