Touch Through The Line

New York City – One Month Later

Aria stood beneath a white-hot spotlight, the noise of the gallery reception swelling around her like waves.

Her painting "Reverie"—a sweeping, stormy canvas of interlocking shadows—had just sold to a collector from Berlin.

She should've been ecstatic.

Instead, her fingers hovered above her phone, waiting.

Waiting for his call.

Ronan had been distant the last few days. Not emotionally, just… tired. Disconnected. Something was off, even across the ocean.

When his name finally lit up her screen, she bolted to the rooftop terrace.

"Ronan?"

His voice was groggy. "Hey, baby."

She smiled, relief easing her shoulders. "You sound wrecked."

"I'm fine," he said too quickly. "Tell me about the show."

"It went well. I sold the storm piece."

"That's amazing." But his voice had that same tight edge.

Aria leaned against the brick wall. "What's going on?"

A pause. Then:

"I tore my hamstring."

The world seemed to slow.

"You what?"

"Training drill went wrong. I tried to pivot too fast. Heard the snap before I felt it."

"God, Ronan…"

"They're saying six to eight weeks. Maybe more if there are complications."

Aria felt the breath leave her chest. "And the scouts?"

"Put on hold."

She closed her eyes, swallowing the ache. "I wish I was there."

"I wish you were too."

They sat in silence for a few seconds, the line heavy with everything they couldn't fix in that moment.

Then he asked, softly, "Can we pretend tonight? Just for a little?"

She understood immediately.

"Yes," she whispered. "Tell me what you want."

Later That Night – Across Oceans

Aria sat in her apartment window, New York glittering behind her.

Ronan's voice, low and warm in her ear, guided her through every shared memory—the way her back arched under his hands, the way he'd whisper things only she was meant to hear.

His words weren't just sensual. They were intimate. Specific. Reverent.

Like a man painting her with his voice.

And she responded with gasps, laughter, a whispered "God, I miss you" as her hands moved the way he knew best.

It wasn't just physical.

It was connection.

When they finally went quiet, both of them breathless and a little tearful, she whispered:

"Does this mean you still believe in us?"

His voice cracked.

"I believe in you. I just need to know you'll still be there when I'm on the other side of this."

She smiled through her tears. "I'll be the one holding the banner at your first match back."

The Next Day – New York

Aria walked into the studio different. Lighter.

She began painting again—not just the pain, but the passion.

And it showed.

A curator from a major Soho gallery stopped by.

"Your new work is… electric. What changed?"

She smiled. "I remembered who I was painting for."

Meanwhile – Paris

Ronan sat in physical therapy, sweat dripping down his temple, his leg braced and trembling.

"Push through," his therapist barked.

He gritted his teeth and thought of her.

Of Aria. Of her voice at night. Her art in the spotlight. Her fire.

And he pushed.

Not just to return.

But to rise.