The café owner had barely left the table when Lutte leaned back in his chair, taking in the sight of Asher across from him.
The young man's eyes—those sharp, thoughtful peridot eyes—kept straying around the café, studying the wooden furniture carved in organic curves, the soft lampshades crafted from recycled glass and fabric, the miniature trees planted in painted tires at the corners.
All of it simple, humble, yet full of life.
Lutte caught the faint crease between Asher's brows as if he was puzzling out what made the place feel… different.
"So," Lutte said, breaking the quiet, "what do you think?"
Asher's gaze lingered on a tire-turned-planter painted in bright yellows and blues before answering.
"It has a… unique vibe. The ambiance is unlike anywhere else I've been."
Lutte's lips tugged upward. "And do you like it?"
Asher hesitated, his fingers drumming once against his cup before stilling. "…It's starting to grow on me. So yes."
"Good," Lutte said softly, leaning forward on his elbows.
"I'm glad." Then, with a grin, he added, "By the way—I'm Lutte. And since I know you don't like being called prince, I'll drop the nickname."
He watched carefully.
The way Asher studied him then—it wasn't casual.
It was the look of someone trying to measure intent, to dissect motive.
For a long moment, the air between them seemed to hum with that quiet tension.
Finally, Asher said, "…Asher."
"Glad to meet you, Asher," Lutte said, savoring the name like it was meant to be spoken aloud.
"And I hope I get to meet you again. You know… the third time."
Asher's mouth parted to reply—but their drinks arrived just then, placed neatly on the table by the café owner's wife.
Lutte smiled warmly up at her. "Thank you, ma'am. You always make the best drinks." She chuckled, brushing his compliment off with a wave before leaving.
Lutte turned back, not about to lose the thread. "Now… what were you going to say before we got interrupted?"
Asher took a sip instead of answering.
His expression flickered—subtle surprise softening his features.
Then, almost involuntarily, he took another.
Lutte's grin spread. "Knew you'd like it. The owner's got a magic touch."
Asher nodded once, this time letting a smile slip, unguarded and bright with enjoyment.
Lutte didn't drink. He just watched, letting the moment imprint itself in his memory.
"You shouldn't stare," Asher said without looking at him, voice sharp enough to slice through the air.
Lutte blinked, caught, then chuckled sheepishly.
"Sorry. You're right."
He tilted his head, playful glint in his eyes. "But you still haven't told me what you were going to say."
Asher sighed, muttering under his breath, "You're too persistent."
His gaze flicked up, meeting Lutte's directly. "What I was going to say is—you shouldn't hope for a third time so much."
Lutte's grin widened. "Then I won't hope for it. I'll just make it happen."
Asher arched a brow. "Confident much?"
"Yes." The answer came without hesitation.
The words lingered between them, sparking the faintest twitch at the corner of Asher's lips before he smoothed it away.
They eased back into silence after that, comfortable this time, drifting into books again—memoirs, poems, half-finished novels.
Time slipped past, and eventually, they parted at the mall's entrance with simple farewells.
Lutte had barely walked a few steps when a voice called after him.
"Wait."
He turned. Asher approached, holding out a small wrapped packet.
"Here."
Lutte took it, recognizing the faint scent even before he peeked inside—matcha cookies.
"It's… a thanks. For yesterday."
Lutte's heart kicked once against his ribs, but he managed to slip into teasing instead.
"Good thing it wasn't just me looking forward to seeing someone in the bookstore again, huh?"
Color rushed faintly to Asher's cheeks. Without a word, he spun on his heel and walked away briskly.
Lutte laughed, loud enough for him to hear, and called, "Thanks, Asher!"
No reply came back—but Lutte swore he saw the tiniest stiffness in Asher's shoulders, like a man walking too quickly from something that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
****
The glass doors of the mall slid open, and Lutte stepped into the afternoon sun with the cookies tucked safely at his side.
Arnold was already waiting, the sleek black car purring quietly at the curb.
The driver leaned out the window as Lutte slid into the back seat.
"So, boss," Arnold said with a knowing grin, "how was the grand venture to the bookstore? Any luck?"
Lutte let himself fall back against the leather seat, grin slow and playful.
"Found the prince I was looking for."
Arnold groaned, shaking his head as he steered them onto the main road. "You and your fairy tales. One of these days, your sweet talk is going to put me in an early grave."
Lutte chuckled, deliberately vague.
Yet as the cityscape passed beyond the tinted glass, his smile softened.
In truth, I did find a prince.
The words he didn't speak aloud hummed in his chest.
The afternoon drifted by in silence, broken only by the occasional murmur of traffic.
Lutte's gaze lingered on the window, the reflection of his own face staring back as his thoughts strayed.
That look when he smiled. Like he didn't mean to. Like he'd forgotten himself for just a breath.
It wasn't much—a handful of words exchanged, a stolen laugh, a shared silence—but Lutte found himself clutching it tightly as if it were rarer than gold.
"I'll make the third meeting happen," he whispered to himself, quiet but firm, as if the vow itself carried weight.
By the time the car rolled up to his home, he'd shaken the haze of daydreams.
He hurried inside, changed into work attire more fitting for the afternoon's demands, and returned to the waiting car.
At the company, Shira was already at the entrance, tablet in hand and expression sharp with efficiency.
She greeted him briskly, then handed him the detailed schedule of the rest of the day.
"You never fail to amaze me," Lutte said, skimming the tidy rows of appointments, inspections, and reviews.
His eyes flicked upward, teasing.
"Honestly, Shira, I should just hand the reins of the company over to you. You'd run it better."
Shira rolled her eyes, though the twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement.
"It's more trouble than it's worth. But…" Her gaze slid sideways, sly. "…a generous bonus wouldn't hurt."
Lutte burst into a laugh, genuine and warm. "Cookies and cream again, I see."
Her smile widened, but she said nothing more, already turning to usher him into the flow of the afternoon.
The rest of the day passed in measured rhythm. Meetings, inspections, follow-ups.
Lutte leaned into the work, but he never rushed it—stopping often to greet employees by name, to lend a hand where machinery stuck, to share in their laughter or listen to their frustrations.
Every department got a piece of him, and in turn, gave him their best.
By the time he left the building that evening, the weight of responsibility had settled firmly on his shoulders—but so had the warmth of camaraderie.
On the drive home, however, his mind betrayed him.
His thoughts slipped away from reports and schedules, back to the quiet corner café, to wood-carved furniture and the glow of upcycled lamps.
Back to the way Asher's composure had cracked open for just a moment over a simple drink.
The image rose again, unbidden: peridot eyes soft with surprise, lips curved around a smile he hadn't meant to give.
And before Lutte realized it, he was smiling too, leaning his head lightly against the window as the car carried him home.