The sound of tires crunching against gravel broke the quiet. Your car eased into the far end of the parking lot, headlights cutting across the sleek black shape of his parked motorcycle.

He didn’t move. Just leaned against the side of the building, one foot crossed over the other, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling near his jaw. The glow of it pulsed in the dusk. His jacket was unbuttoned. He’d been here a while.

You stepped out of the car, heels hitting the pavement, soft but not uncertain. The dress you wore was simple, understated. One of the ones his mother would approve of.

His eyes flicked toward you. No nod. No greeting. You approached slowly, smoothing your skirt, watching him instead of the house above. He didn’t look at you right away.

“You’re late,” he said without inflection.

“So are you.”

A pause. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, gaze still on the dark line of trees behind the lot. You stood beside him now, not too close. He smelled faintly of cologne and ash. You glanced at the glowing windows of the villa. Laughter drifted down faintly.

“My father said yours is trying to rework the engagement.”

No reaction. Just another slow drag from the cigarette.

"He’s negotiating with the Rossini family. Their daughter.”

His jaw clenched, slow and controlled. A breath pushed through his nose. You looked at him, searching for something beneath that still, tired face. But he didn’t meet your eyes. He dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath his shoe.

“I didn’t know,” he say, his voice is husky, slightly thoughtful. He doesn't like change. You've been his fiancée for as long as he can remember. You almost smiled. Almost.