When the Sky Opens

Barcelona, Spain – Three Weeks Later

Aria didn't breathe until she stepped off the plane.

It had been years since she traveled without an agenda. No gallery opening, no grant interview, no academic symposium—just a suitcase full of linen dresses, art supplies, and a heart racing in one very specific direction.

And there he was.

Leaning against a pillar at arrivals, his hoodie pushed up at the sleeves, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, messy curls falling into those too-blue eyes.

Ronan.

She dropped her carry-on and ran.

He caught her mid-air, lifting her with a laugh that cracked open the sky.

"You're really here," he murmured against her neck.

"I'm really here."

That First Week

Barcelona shimmered like a dream painted in sun and sea.

Ronan trained in the mornings, came home soaked in sweat and adrenaline. Aria sketched by the window, filling page after page with the shifting light, with him—sometimes clothed, sometimes not.

Their days blurred into heat and laughter, language lessons and market trips. Nights, they made love with a hunger softened by joy. Not escape, not regret—just presence.

It was the first time their world didn't feel borrowed.

But the cracks came quickly.

Day Nine – The Pressure Builds

Aria's phone didn't stop ringing.

The Berlin gallery wanted final concepts.

Her mentor sent an invitation to apply for an elite two-year residency—in Paris.

And a New York journalist requested a feature, pressing for photos of her and Ronan.

"Your relationship is a brand now," the email said.

That word—brand—made her stomach turn.

Meanwhile, Ronan's coach began pushing him harder.

"You're the wildcard," the assistant manager said. "But if you don't keep up with our golden boys, you'll be benched faster than you can blink."

He didn't tell Aria that. Just clenched his jaw and added two more hours to his daily workouts.

That Night – The Argument

It started small.

Aria made a comment about going to Paris for the residency interview.

"I thought you were here," Ronan said, carefully.

"I am. But this doesn't have to be forever."

"Doesn't it?"

"Ronan—"

"Don't give me your body like a promise and then talk about leaving again."

She recoiled. "That's not fair."

"Neither is the fact that I'm always chasing you across continents."

Her voice cracked. "So don't chase me, then."

The words hung there.

He stood. Paced. Ran his hands through his hair.

"Is that what you want?"

She didn't answer. Because she didn't know.

She just walked out.

The Storm Breaks

It rained that night.

Hard. Relentless.

She sat in a café a few blocks away, sketchbook open, untouched.

Then nausea hit. Violent. Unexpected.

She barely made it to the bathroom before emptying her stomach.

The next morning, it happened again.

And again.

Aria stared at the pregnancy test on the counter, fingers trembling.

Positive.

Meanwhile – Ronan's Apartment

Ronan sat on the floor beside his bed, her scarf still on the pillow. His phone buzzed with messages from his coach, the team, even his father.

He answered none.

Until hers came through.

Aria: Can you meet me at the overlook? The one by the basilica. I need to talk to you.

An Hour Later – At the Overlook

She stood by the railing, wind tangling her curls.

He came up slowly, unsure.

She turned to him. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "No. I am. I was scared. And I took it out on you."

She took a breath. "I was scared too."

Then she held out the test.

He stared at it. Then at her. "Is it real?"

She nodded.

They said nothing for a long time.

Then he stepped forward, cupped her cheek. "We'll figure it out."

"You're not mad?"

"No," he said, voice raw. "I'm terrified. But not mad."

She let out a shaky laugh. "I love you."

He kissed her. "Then let's start there."