(Ace's POV)
Night had a way of making everything louder.
The city wasn't quiet — far from it. Cars hummed along the streets, someone's music thumped through an apartment wall, laughter drifted from the restaurant two blocks over. But inside Ace's skull? Inside his chest?
It was a roar.
He paced the length of his living room for the sixth time, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every shadow, every flicker of light off the windowpane, every passing siren made him more restless. His hands wouldn't stay still; they flexed and unflexed like he was trying to wring the truth out of the air.
He hadn't meant to push her.
God, he hadn't meant to.
But when he saw Liam sitting beside her on that park bench — Mia's shoulders tight, her eyes uncertain, that hopeful look Liam never deserved — something inside Ace twisted, snapped, rewired itself with pure instinct.
He'd wanted to speak calmly. Firmly. Reasonably.
But the second Liam opened his mouth, Ace felt a fire licking up his ribcage, all teeth and memory and protectiveness he didn't know how to hide anymore.
He didn't expect Mia to run.
He didn't expect that look on her face — wide-eyed, wounded, overwhelmed — before she bolted like the ground beneath her had cracked open.
And now?
Now every hour she didn't respond to his texts felt like someone was tightening a rope around his lungs one knot at a time.
Lily sat curled on his couch, a soft blanket around her legs. James stood by the window, hands in his pockets, eyes tracking Ace like he was a bomb threatening to detonate.
"She's still not answering?" Lily asked gently.
Ace stopped pacing. "No."
James let out a low exhale. "She's probably somewhere alone. Processing. You know how she gets."
Ace did know.
And that was the problem.
Mia didn't do emotions in small, manageable doses. When she felt, she felt in hurricanes. In tidal waves. She ran because the moment got too big to hold in her hands. Too sharp. Too heavy.
"Maybe I shouldn't have gone there," Ace muttered. His voice cracked in a way he wished it hadn't. "Maybe she just needed space."
"Don't backtrack," Lily said. "You weren't wrong."
"But wasn't I?" Ace shot back, frustration curling around the edges of every word. "I walked into something I didn't understand. I let my feelings get in the way."
Lily tilted her head. "And which feelings would those be?"
Ace ran a hand through his hair roughly. "All of them."
James laughed once — not unkindly, but in that you're screwed and we both know it way. "You're in love with her."
The room snapped silent.
Ace froze. His heart stuttered.
Lily didn't blink. "We've known for months, Ace."
He swallowed hard. "It's… not that simple."
"It is," James said. "You don't look at anyone else the way you look at her."
Ace turned away, fists tightening. He didn't want to admit it out loud — not when Mia was out there, tangled between a past that wounded her and a future she wasn't sure she wanted.
"It doesn't matter what I feel," Ace said quietly. "Not when she's still… figuring herself out. Not when Liam's back."
James scoffed. "Liam could show up in a golden chariot wearing angel wings and holding a boombox over his head. She still wouldn't magically forget everything he put her through."
"He still matters to her," Ace murmured.
"And so do you," Lily replied softly. "More than you realize."
Ace stared at the floor. The wooden boards blurred slightly. He blinked the haze away.
This wasn't jealousy.
This wasn't competition.
This was fear.
Fear of losing her.
Fear of hurting her.
Fear of wanting her more than she was ready to be wanted.
The clock hit 10:45 PM.
Ace stood abruptly. "I'm going to look for her."
Lily frowned. "Ace—"
"I'll give her space," he said quickly. "I promise. I'm not going to force anything. I just… I need to know she's safe."
James nodded slowly. "Go."
Ace stepped out into the night air, drawing a breath that didn't quite steady him.
He started with the obvious places.
The park bench where she'd been earlier — empty now, touched only by moonlight and broken leaves.
The café down the street — dark behind locked doors.
The little bookstore she loved — lights off, CLOSED sign hanging like a dead weight.
He checked her apartment building next, standing across the street like some hopelessly lovesick cliché. His phone glowed in his hand.
Are you home? Just text me once. Anything.
No reply.
He didn't expect one. But the silence still struck like a cold wave.
Ace rested his hands against the hood of his car, shoulders sagging. Everything inside him ached with the same quiet, stubborn pain he'd been carrying since Mia first stepped into his life — bright, complicated, stubborn, lovely Mia — and set off a spark he pretended not to feel at first.
What if she thought he was just another man trying to decide things for her?
What if he had become part of the noise, instead of a refuge from it?
One thing he knew for certain:
He'd never forgive himself if Mia felt pressured.
He needed her to choose in her own time.
Her own way.
Even if that meant she didn't choose him at all.
But the thought of losing her — that undid him.
Ace rested his forehead against the cool metal of his car, breath tight. He stayed like that for a moment, letting the city wind cut through him.
Finally, he pushed off the car and started walking.
Not searching — wandering.
The kind of wandering a man does when he's looking for something that isn't physical. When he's searching for a place to put his feelings so they don't rip him apart.
He ended up at the bridge overlooking the river. The water glowed with reflected city lights, shimmering like the world was shaking.
He leaned against the railing, gripping it until his knuckles whitened.
He whispered her name once — not expecting an answer, but needing to hear it in the air.
"Mia…"
And then—
A soft sniff.
A hitch of breath.
A tiny, involuntary sound from the far end of the bridge.
Ace stiffened.
Slowly, he turned.
And there she was.
Mia.
Sitting on the ground, back against the railing, knees drawn to her chest. Her hair was loose, messy from the wind. Her cheeks blotchy. Her eyes swollen like she'd been crying for hours.
Ace's heart stopped.
"Mia…" he breathed, voice breaking.
Her head snapped up, surprise flickering through her expression — surprise, and a flash of guilt, and beneath it all… relief.
"Ace?" she whispered.
The world narrowed to her.
He took one step forward. Then another.
Slow. Careful.
Like approaching something fragile and sacred.
"I didn't mean to find you," he murmured, stopping a few feet away. "I just… needed to know you were okay."
Mia looked down again.
"I didn't run because of you," she said softly. "I ran because everyone was right. And I hated it. And I needed air. And I didn't know how to choose anything without hurting someone."
Ace's chest cracked open.
He crouched in front of her — not touching, not crowding, just being there.
"You don't have to choose tonight," he said. "Or tomorrow. Or next week. You don't owe anyone a decision, Mia. Not me. Not him."
Her eyes filled again.
"But I feel like I do," she whispered.
"You don't," Ace repeated gently. "You only owe yourself honesty. Wherever that leads."
She stared at him with a trembling lower lip.
"Ace… I'm scared."
"So am I," he confessed.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Ace lifted a hand — slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, he brushed the tear from her cheek with a touch so soft it hurt him.
"You don't have to be okay tonight," he murmured. "You just have to let someone be beside you."
Mia's breath shook. Then she reached out and took a fistful of his hoodie, pulling him closer until his forehead touched hers.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just closeness.
Warmth.
The most intimate non-answer in the world.
Ace closed his eyes.
He didn't breathe.
He didn't move.
He just stayed.
Because she asked without speaking.
And he would never deny her that.