The Emperor Heir

Chapter 8: The Way He Looked at Her

Sophia didn't realize how late it had gotten until she noticed the sunlight fading across the garden, the gold going soft and orange the way it had the evening at the lake. She looked toward the house, then back at Adrian.

"I should go home."

He nodded and stood, brushing grass from his trousers without seeming to mind it. "I'll take you."

They walked back toward the car in a quiet that felt different from the one at the gate — less tense, more like the kind of silence two people share after saying something true. Adrian glanced over at her.

"You're thinking again."

"I always think."

"Too much."

"Maybe." She let him open her door, and paused before getting in. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For today."

"You enjoyed it?"

"Yes." She glanced back at the estate, pale and enormous behind them. "More than I expected."

"Good."

The drive back unwound slowly, the countryside sliding past in the low light. She kept turning his words over — *you don't have to become someone else to be here* — wanting to believe them completely and not quite managing it. His world was beautiful. It was also, in its own quiet way, intimidating, and she was aware there were things about being the Emperor heir she didn't understand at all.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Do you ever wish you had a normal life?"

"Sometimes."

"What would normal be for you?"

He thought about it, eyes on the road. "Waking up without someone expecting something from me."

"That sounds nice."

"What about you?"

She looked out the window at the fields going by. "A successful café."

"That's it?"

"And enough money that my parents never have to worry again."

"You always think about them."

"They're my family."

"What about yourself?"

She shrugged, the motion smaller than she meant it to be. "I'll figure myself out later."

He didn't like that answer — she could hear it in the pause before he spoke. "You deserve more than later."

"What do you think I deserve?"

He held her gaze for a beat too long for a man driving a car. "Everything you want."

Her heart did something complicated. She looked back out the window before he could see her face do anything about it.

She expected him to leave when they reached the café. Instead he parked the car and cut the engine.

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"Inside."

"You've been inside my café plenty of times."

"I know." He followed her through the door anyway, and she flipped the lights on against the dark.

"Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"I can make something."

"Let me help."

"You're terrible at helping."

"I helped yesterday."

"You wiped one table."

"That counts." She laughed and let him stay, and they moved around the small kitchen together, bumping shoulders more than once in a space built for one person at a time.

She reached up for something on the top shelf, fingers just short of it, and before she could stretch further he reached over her and got it himself. She froze. He was close enough that she could feel his breath stir the loose hair at her temple, and neither of them moved for a second that stretched longer than it should have. He looked down at her; she turned, slowly, and their faces ended up inches apart, close enough that the rest of the café seemed to fall away around them. His eyes dropped to her mouth for just a second — she caught it, felt her pulse pick up — and he leaned in, just slightly.

Then she stepped back. "Your food is burning."

He looked at the stove. The pan was smoking. He swore under his breath and killed the heat, and Sophia burst out laughing.

"You were going to burn dinner."

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

"You." Her laughter cut off. She swallowed.

"Adrian—"

"I'm sorry."

"You don't sound sorry."

"I'm not." She shook her head, fighting a smile and losing.

"You're impossible."

"And you like me anyway."

"Don't be so sure."

He stepped closer. "You're smiling."

"I am not."

"You are." She was, and there was no hiding it by then.

They finished cooking and sat together at one of the small café tables, the meal nothing fancy — simple, a little uneven, nothing like the elegant lunch from earlier in the week. Somehow she enjoyed it more. Maybe because it felt like *her* — her kitchen, her mess, her food — and he seemed to feel the same, more relaxed here than she'd seen him anywhere else, even the estate.

After they ate, he helped her clean up, marginally better at it than the day before, though not by much. She laughed when he nearly sent a plate to the floor.

"You're going to break everything."

"I've got it."

"No, you don't."

"I do." They both reached for the same plate at the same moment, and their hands met on the rim of it. Neither pulled away right away. The playful mood between them thinned out into something else — something warmer, more serious, sitting behind his eyes in a way that made her pull her hand back first.

He let her go without resistance, and said, quietly, "You don't have to be afraid of me."

"I know."

"Then why do you keep pulling away?"

"Because I don't know where this is going."

"Neither do I." She looked up at that. "But you aren't worried?"

"I am."

That surprised her. "About what?"

He took a breath before answering. "About liking you more than I planned to."

Her heart stopped for a second and then started again, faster. He wasn't saying he loved her. He wasn't promising anything he couldn't keep. He was just telling her the truth — and somehow that was more unsettling than any grand declaration would have been.

"I don't want to get hurt," she admitted.

"Neither do I."

Their eyes held for a moment, and he reached for her hand again. This time she let him take it, and he didn't pull her closer or try anything more than that — just held her hand across the table, and the small, plain gesture of it meant more to her than anything more dramatic could have.

He walked her to the door once the café was locked up for the night.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight." She started on the key, then heard him say her name.

"Sophia." She turned. He looked at her for a long moment, like he was deciding whether to say the next part.

"I'm glad I came into your café."

"Even after the coffee?"

"Especially after the coffee." She smiled, and he smiled back, and neither of them moved for a second before he finally turned and walked toward his car.

She stood in the doorway until he was gone, then touched her fingers to her lips without quite meaning to. Nothing had happened. He hadn't kissed her. She hadn't said anything close to how she felt. But something had shifted anyway, quietly, somewhere between the burning pan and the plate they'd both reached for.

He wasn't just someone she liked spending time with anymore. He was becoming someone she could picture missing.

That thought followed her up the stairs, and right behind it came the one she'd been avoiding all week: what would happen when the Emperor heir's world eventually decided a girl like her wasn't good enough for it?