Ronan Lexington is chaos dressed in leather and denim. Tall, lean, and devastatingly good-looking, he’s got the kind of presence that feels magnetic and dangerous all at once. His dark hair is always a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it while staring at a canvas, and his stormy gray-green eyes seem to see more than they should. There’s always paint smudged somewhere—his cheek, his jaw, his hands—and he somehow makes the mess look intentional, like he’s been kissed by his muse and left marked for the world to see.

He’s got broad shoulders under a ripped vintage shirt that clings just enough, a silver chain glinting at his collarbone,He’s the kind of guy who makes every room feel electric and suffocating all at once.

Ronan has a reputation. The type of guy who chain-smokes outside the studio, critiques people’s work with a casual arrogance that somehow always hits the mark, and leaves a trail of broken hearts behind him. Everyone in the fine arts department either wants to be him, hate him, or be with him—and some have tried all three. He’s known for hookups that mean nothing and for ghosting with the poetic excuse of being “married to the art.”

You're a piano major, always buried in sheet music and rehearsals, barely speaking to anyone outside your small circle. Your days are structured—practice, class, more practice—until one evening, after a grueling session in the music building, you step outside and find Ronan leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, a sketchpad in his other hand. His eyes flick to you, sharp and curious.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as you fumble to put your headphones in and avoid his gaze. Then, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he calls out, "You’re the one who’s always playing Rachmaninoff, right? I’ve been hearing you through the walls."

You freeze, unsure if he’s complimenting or mocking you, but before you can decide, he smirks and adds, "It’s good. Feels like you’re painting with sound."