Asher was halfway into the aisle, his eyes adjusting to the softer light of the bookstore, when a voice—warm, easy, disarmingly familiar—cut through the quiet.
"Seems the bookstore has a habit of attracting princes."
He nearly flinched.
His fingers twitched around the strap of his sling bag, the word prince striking deeper than it should.
But Asher's training in composure was almost instinct. He pivoted toward the voice, face smooth, gaze level.
It was him.
The man from yesterday. The one with the rare signed book. The one who smiled too much, too easily.
"…You're mistaken," Asher said quietly, tilting his chin in that steady way he'd perfected in boardrooms. "I'm no prince."
The stranger laughed—unrestrained, genuine, the kind of laugh Asher rarely heard in his world.
"Then we're in the same aisle by accident. Browsing books?"
A nod. Crisp, minimal.
"Mind if I join you?"
A hesitation. One second, maybe two. He should refuse. The safer choice was to remain detached, to walk away. Yet—
"…Alright."
They walked side by side, and to Asher's own disbelief, words began to slip out.
Book spines called memories to the surface, and he found himself speaking: about the weight of certain poems, about a memoir he'd read last winter that stayed with him, about novels that dissected solitude.
Not much. Not personal. Nothing that gave away his name or the empire he ran. Just words shared between strangers, about books.
But still—too much.
He caught himself, inwardly grimacing. He disarms me too easily. Yesterday it was kindness. Today, this… openness. What is it about him?
Their wandering brought them to the children's section. Lutte chuckled, shaking his head.
"Funny. I was here just before I saw you."
Asher's brow lifted slightly. "What were you browsing here?"
Lutte picked up a slim, familiar cover and held it out with an amused smile. "This. The Little Prince. You ever read it?"
The name made Asher's stomach tighten. He froze before answering. "…No."
"Really?"
"I… avoided it." His voice was lower, measured. "When I was young, my relatives used to tease me. They called me little prince every chance they got. So by association, I have avoided reading it."
Lutte's smile softened, but mischief lingered in his tone. "Then maybe it's time to face that childhood trauma and read it."
The words stung. Too direct, too careless. Asher's eyes sharpened.
"…That's an insensitive thing to say."
The man blinked, then immediately bowed his head slightly.
"You're right. Sorry. That was thoughtless of me."
For a long second, silence stretched.
Then Asher reached out, took the book from Lutte's hand, and turned it over in his own.
"Still, there's truth in what you said," he admitted at last, voice quieter, more thoughtful. "So… I'll read it."
Lutte's grin returned, but this time softer, almost proud.
"In that case, maybe we should exchange contacts. Then we can talk about books properly."
Asher studied him.
The smile, the steady gaze, the way he radiated a kind of unpolished sincerity.
And then—recognition flickered. The face clicked with the name he had seen in financial reports and trade headlines.
Lutte Valdes. CEO of Valance Ventures.
A sigh left him. "Maybe… if we meet a third time."
Lutte laughed aloud, warm and unbothered. "You're a romantic, then."
Asher ignored the jab, turning away before the curve of his lips betrayed him.
He walked briskly to the cashier, The Little Prince tucked under his arm, the stranger's laughter still following him like sunlight he wasn't ready to admit felt good.
The cashier handed Asher the neat little paper bag with The Little Prince tucked inside.
He nodded his thanks, adjusting the strap of his sling bag as he stepped out of the bookstore.
His mind was already retreating inward, constructing walls again, when a familiar voice chased after him.
"Hey—since we both survived the bookstore, how about a drink?"
Asher almost said no.
The word hovered on the tip of his tongue, perfectly rehearsed like the countless polite refusals he gave to investors, journalists, and distant acquaintances. But then—Lutte smiled.
Not the kind of smile that pressed for advantage, not sharp or calculating.
Bright.
Simple.
Like he actually meant it.
"…Fine," Asher said at last, voice clipped.
The smile widened, triumphant without being smug. "Perfect. I know just the place."
Lutte led him through the flow of shoppers until they veered into a tucked-away corner of the mall.
A small café was nestled there, almost hidden, its doorway framed by potted herbs and hand-painted signage.
The air carried the rich scent of spices—cardamom, cinnamon, something darker and nutty—that stirred an unexpected curiosity in Asher.
He had never stepped into a place like this.
His usual haunts were sleek, curated spaces designed for efficiency and prestige.
This… this felt lived-in. Warm.
"Morning, Lutte!" an old man behind the counter called out the moment they walked in.
His face split into a broad grin. "Here for your usual again?"
"Of course," Lutte said easily, his tone brimming with charm. "No one makes drinks like you. Beats any fancy café out there."
The old man laughed, the kind of laugh that filled the space and loosened the edges of silence.
Asher stood slightly back, watching.
The way Lutte's presence pulled warmth out of people so naturally—it was… fascinating.
Maybe even enviable. How does he do it?
Lutte turned, announcing with theatrical cheer, "And today I've brought a dear friend to try your magnificent drinks!"
The owner's gaze shifted to Asher, his smile gentle. "Welcome. What'll you have, young man?"
For reasons he couldn't explain, Asher's lips curved upward before he caught himself.
The small smile earned him a sharp, almost stunned look from Lutte.
Heat prickled faintly at his ears, and he quickly glanced away, pretending to study the menu board.
"Something refreshing," Asher said after a moment, "with subtle sweetness and… a touch of creaminess."
The old man chuckled knowingly. "Quite different from Lutte here. He likes his drinks bold—no cream, no softness."
"Hey, don't betray me like that!" Lutte said, mock-scandalized. "Divulging my secrets?"
"It's fine," the owner countered with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm only sharing with your dear friend."
Asher almost laughed, the sound catching in his throat before he smothered it into a small exhale.
But he couldn't stop the smile this time.
And from the corner of his vision, he felt Lutte watching him—again.