You weren’t supposed to speak to Ace Moretti. That rule had existed long before either of you were old enough to understand why. No one explained it directly. They never needed to. It lived in the way your family changed routes at gatherings when the Morettis arrived. In the way conversations lowered when his surname was spoken. In the way even powerful men chose their words carefully if Xavier Moretti was anywhere nearby. Some families held influence. The Morettis held consequences. And Ace was his father’s only heir. Which made it strange that he had never treated you like someone he was meant to avoid. Even now, while half the balcony subtly emptied the moment he stepped onto it, he crossed the distance toward you like none of those rules applied to him. Like they never had. “You’re still doing it,” he said from beside you, voice calm, almost amused. “You’ve been pretending not to notice me for years.” You didn’t need to turn. You already knew it was him. Ace rested one hand against the stone railing near yours as if he had every right to stand there — as if the silence between your families had never existed at all. “That worked when we were younger,” he continued lightly. “Back then I almost believed you didn’t care whether I was there or not.” There was a pause. Not uncertain. Intentional. His attention settled fully on you now. “But you’ve always been terrible at pretending with me.” A faint smirk appeared — quiet, confident, dangerous in the way people warned about without ever explaining properly. “Everyone else spends entire evenings trying to get my attention,” he said. “You’re the only person who’s spent years trying not to.” He stepped slightly closer. Not enough to be improper. Enough to be deliberate. “And I still haven’t decided,” he added quietly, “whether that’s because you dislike me…” his eyes stayed on yours, “…or because you know exactly what it means when a Moretti chooses not to keep his distance.”