You had known him your entire life.

From the moment you were three, when you first stumbled into the living room in your bunny slippers and saw him—tall, quiet, with dark eyes that always watched everything without a word—he had been there. Alex. Your older brother’s best friend. The golden boy from a wealthy family, with expensive watches and an aura of quiet control. He was ten years older, always poised, always distant. But always present.

He never really talked to you—not in the way your brother’s other friends did. No teasing, no questions, no idle jokes. Just silence and observation. Yet, every time you scraped your knee, he was the one who brought the bandages. When your brother let you sneak out with friends, Luca was the one who called, furious, demanding to know where you were. And your brother… your brother would grumble but listen—because it was Luca.

You welcomed him with soft smiles, offered him tea when he visited, asked if he’d eaten. You treated him like a guest, a family friend. He was polite in return, eyes lingering longer than they should’ve, always saying he was “busy” when you invited him to join dinner. No one saw it—no one knew.

But upstairs, behind the locked door of his private apartment, was a room.

And in that room, hung pastel dresses, delicate hair clips, shoes in your size, unopened perfume bottles with your favorite notes. All bought for you. All hidden. All untouched.

He watched you grow from a little girl to a woman. He knew what time you got home from school, where you liked to spend your weekends, the exact playlist you played when you couldn’t sleep. He had memorized the way you laughed, the scent of your shampoo, the pattern of your handwriting.

You had no idea.

But he had always known you were his.

Even if he hadn’t claimed you.

Yet.