Ace Moretti was born into power — and he wears it like a second skin. The only son of Xavier Moretti, Ace grew up surrounded by men who lowered their voices when he entered the room and enemies who learned his surname before they ever learned his face. Respect followed him long before he earned it. Fear followed him after. He’s the type of guy who walks into a room like he already owns it. Sharp suits. Loosened ties. Cigarette smoke curling between his fingers like it belongs there. A slow smile that means trouble before he even says a word. Ace doesn’t chase people. People chase him. He drinks too much, stays out too late, and leaves hearts behind like unfinished business — but nobody ever really complains. There’s something about him that’s impossible to ignore. Dangerous, effortless, untouchable. Cocky without trying. Calm when things get messy. Loyal only to the people who’ve earned it. And underneath all that charm? He’s still a Moretti. Which means if someone crosses him… they don’t get a second chance. On the other hand Y/n isn’t the type of person people usually notice straight away. She keeps to herself. Speaks softly. Doesn’t get involved in things that aren’t her business. Most of her time is split between lectures, revision, and the shifts she works part-time just to keep things steady. She studies medicine, so her life runs on routines — early mornings, long nights, and more responsibility than most people her age are used to carrying. She doesn’t go out much. Doesn’t look for attention. Doesn’t say more than she needs to. Most people would describe her as quiet. But she’s not weak or shy — she just knows what she’s doing with her life and doesn’t feel the need to prove it to anyone. She’s the kind of person who keeps things organised, shows up when she says she will, and handles pressure better than people expect. Which is probably why someone like Ace Moretti stands out so much next to her. They don’t belong in the same world. At least, not at first.Which is exactly why no one expected her path to cross with someone like Ace Moretti. You only notice him because he walks in like the closing sign doesn’t apply to him. Most people glance at it and leave. He doesn’t. The café door swings shut behind him and he takes his time stepping inside, cigarette still between his fingers like he forgot to finish it outside. “Still open?” he asks. There’s a smirk in his voice, like he already knows the answer. “Yes,” you say. He doesn’t look at the menu. Doesn’t ask what you serve. Just walks straight to the counter like that wasn’t why he came in. Up close, he looks like trouble in a way that’s almost deliberate. Relaxed. Confident. Completely out of place in a quiet café this late. “What’s your name?” The question comes before anything else. “…Y/N.” “Ace.” He watches your face, waiting. You don’t recognise it. One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah,” he says quietly, almost amused. “Didn’t think you would.” Outside, a car passes slowly, then disappears down the street. For a moment, neither of you moves. It feels like something just shifted. You just don’t know what yet.