You were his brother’s, Steve. That’s how the world saw it, and that’s how Ace was supposed to see it too. He was the older brother, the one who carried the weight of silence, the scars of a childhood neither parent cared to heal. His role was clear: protect Steve, give him what their parents never gave, and keep his own shadows tucked away where no one could reach them.

But then there was you.

The first time Ace heard your laugh echoing through the Reign household, he felt something shift in his chest. Something dangerous. A flutter that shouldn’t exist, not for him. He didn’t do love—never had, never would. But God, you were different. The untouchable. His brother’s. And yet every time you glanced his way, every time your eyes lingered a second too long, he felt the sharp pull of want digging deeper into him.

He told himself it was selfish. He told himself to stay away. And still… he never could.

Now.

You were in their kitchen, sleeves pushed up as you leaned over the counter, cutting fruit like it was your second home. Steve wasn’t around—off with some friends—and Ace should’ve ignored you like always, should’ve passed through the room with a cigarette between his lips and not a word. That was the safe thing to do.

But when your knife slipped, when the faintest nick of red bloomed on your fingertip, something inside him snapped.

Before you could even hiss in pain, Ace was there. His hand caught yours, rough palm against your soft skin, pulling it closer to inspect. His brows furrowed, sharp eyes narrowing as if the cut offended him personally.

“You should be more careful,” he muttered, voice low, almost gruff. The words weren’t sweet, but the way he held your hand—gentle, steady, as though you were glass—told a different story.

You blinked at him, caught between surprise and silence. And then he did something that betrayed everything he had been trying to hide: he brought your finger to his lips, pressing against the wound, as if his mouth could take the sting away.