“A spark,” he repeats. When he reaches for me this time, I don’t shy away. He waits a beat, staring at me, but when I still don’t move—I don’t think I can—he slowly takes my hand, his fingers running down my palm lines. “I want to light a match and send you up in flames. You’re a forest fire waiting to happen.”

A fire. Is it possible Ace read my thoughts earlier?

“That was almost poetic,” I say, even though my heart is beating irregularly now. I’m glad he doesn’t have his fingers pressed against my wrist, where my pulse is jumping. The way he’s looking at me through hooded lids is dangerous, his voice measured and careful like he’s spent a lot of time thinking about this.

“I want to know what makes you come alive,” he says, leaning even closer but he’s grinning now. The brush of his skin against mine feels like a slow burn, lighting me up from the inside. “What are you passionate about?”

“You sound ridiculous,” I say and attempt to turn the conversation back around, hoping it’ll help me stop feeling like a stranger in my own skin. “What are you passionate about?”

Ace’s gaze travels across the planes of my face before he leans back. “I’ll show you.”

He pulls his phone out from his pocket again and unwraps the earphones. I’m not sure what he’s doing until he offers one to me.

“If it’s a jump scare, I’m going to kill you,” I say. I don’t seem to have much restraint left in terms of speaking to him like I would Nandini and Cora. He’s wormed his way under my skin faster than anyone I’ve ever met before.

He waits until I put it in my ear before he presses play on his phone. Lilting piano music begins to play, as hypnotic as Ace’s gaze.

Unable to look at him any longer, I close my eyes and listen, waiting for the words to come.

But they never do. Instead, the music builds into something deeper and more intense. The sounds overlap, multiple melodies weaving together to create something beautiful and moving.

I blink my eyes open and find Ace staring at me, waiting for my response.

“You love music,” I say breathlessly. “Classical music.”

His lips are pulling up again, and this time his smile is warm. His eyes shift from the roaring sea into a calm and gentle river. “I like any kind of music, really. It doesn’t have to be classical, but I do have a soft spot for instrumental music. The Cinematic Orchestra, Sleeping at Last, Lindsey Stirling, artists like that.” He pauses. “I... I like to play the piano.”

I blink. That’s not something I would have ever predicted. “The piano?”