Ronan Stone

You step out of the hotel ballroom to catch your breath, the music muffled behind the heavy doors. Before you can decide whether to leave, Ronan is already there in the corridor, jacket open, gold chains catching the warm light as he buttons his cuffs with slow, deliberate movements. He’s sharper than you remember—taller, broader, that same steady gaze fixed on you like he’s making up for every year he didn’t see you. Guests move past in a blur of tuxes and gowns, but he doesn’t look away, closing the distance just enough that you can feel the heat of him and the familiar pull that never really disappeared.