The Heart Beneath The Surface
1399 Words
CHAPTER 7 — THE HEART BENEATH THE SURFACE
Paris woke slowly the next morning, washed in pale sunlight that stretched across rooftops and melted into the early winter mist. Hannah was already awake, lying in bed with her thoughts running miles ahead of her.
She had dreamed of the café.
Of soft lights.
Of Eric turning toward her in slow motion, as if he had been waiting for her all along.
When she finally got up, her chest felt strangely tight — not painful, just full. Full of questions she didn’t dare voice.
Her family gathered around the breakfast table in the suite. Glasses clinked, plates shifted, her parents discussed schedules, business partnerships, and a political charity dinner they’d been invited to. But Hannah felt disconnected from it all.
Joyce kicked her under the table, eyebrows raised meaningfully.
Hannah shot her a warning look.
Do NOT start.
But Joyce only smirked.
Later that morning, the Lancaster family went shopping along Rue Saint-Honoré. The sidewalks glittered with Christmas lights, and luxury shops were decorated with ornate wreaths and velvet ribbons. But Hannah couldn’t focus on any of it.
She kept seeing the café sign in her mind.
The snow melting on Eric’s sleeves.
His eyes when he said he didn’t belong anywhere.
She didn’t know whether she wanted to see him again…
or whether she was terrified that she might.
As they walked, Joyce slipped beside her and whispered, “You’re thinking about him.”
Hannah’s cheeks warmed. “I’m thinking about Christmas,” she lied.
“No you’re not,” Joyce whispered, bumping her shoulder.
Hannah didn’t respond.
They entered a boutique full of expensive winter coats, but Hannah drifted toward the window instead. The world outside felt real — unpredictable — unlike the careful luxury inside the store.
She pressed her fingers against the glass.
And then she saw him.
Across the street.
Carrying a supply box into the café.
Walking quickly through the falling snow.
Eric.
Her breath caught.
He hadn’t seen her.
He didn’t even glance around.
He just kept walking, his head bowed, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, like someone used to moving quietly through life without being noticed.
But Hannah noticed.
Her heart leapt in a way she didn’t understand — a pull, soft but undeniable.
Joyce appeared beside her. “Go,” she whispered.
Hannah blinked. “What?”
“Go talk to him,” Joyce urged. “You’re already halfway out the door with your eyes.”
Hannah looked at her family — her mother discussing gloves with a saleswoman, her father adjusting his cufflinks, her brothers posing in front of a mirror.
They wouldn’t notice her slipping out for ten minutes.
She hesitated only one moment longer.
Then she stepped back from the window — and ran.
---
Across the street, the café was warm and alive with sound. Bells chimed as she entered, and the smell of cinnamon hit her instantly.
Eric was behind the counter, unpacking a box of pastries. When he glanced up and saw her, he froze.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly shocked.
But his eyes widened the smallest bit, as if he had briefly forgotten how to breathe.
Hannah felt her heartbeat thudding. “Hi.”
He set the pastry box down carefully. “Hi,” he said softly. “You’re… back.”
The way he said it made something flutter inside her. “I was nearby,” she offered, trying not to sound like she had sprinted here across the road.
Eric wiped his hands on his apron. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather without gloves,” he said without thinking.
Hannah looked down. Her fingers were red from the cold.
Before she could reply, Eric reached beneath the counter and pulled out a warm cloth napkin. “Here,” he said quietly. “It’s not gloves, but…”
Hannah wrapped it around her hands, grateful. “Thank you.”
He nodded, eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary — then caught himself and looked away.
She leaned forward on the counter, lowering her voice. “I’m glad I saw you again.”
Eric swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t be.”
The gentle warning in his tone startled her.
“What does that mean?” she asked, frowning slightly.
Eric’s jaw tightened, but he shook his head. “Nothing. Forget it.”
But he didn’t look away.
And neither did she.
For a long, quiet moment, they simply stood there — two people from two different worlds, yet somehow tied together by something neither could explain.
Finally, Eric whispered, “Hannah… you shouldn’t get too close to me.”
But his eyes said something entirely different.
---
CHAPTER 8 — THE WARNING IN HIS EYES
Hannah stared at him, confused. “Why would you say that?”
Eric didn’t answer immediately. He looked toward the kitchen, then toward the windows, as if checking that no one was watching. His hand tightened around the cloth he’d been holding earlier.
She stepped closer. “Eric, if you don’t want me to be here, just say so.”
“That’s not it,” he said quickly.
“Then what is it?”
He ran a hand through his hair — a nervous gesture she hadn’t seen before. “Hannah… you don’t know anything about me.”
“Then tell me,” she said softly.
He flinched slightly.
Not visibly — but emotionally.
Like she had touched something fragile.
“Hannah,” he said quietly, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She blinked. “You’re not hurting me.”
“Not yet,” he murmured under his breath.
She barely heard him.
“Eric…”
He finally met her eyes.
There it was again — the heaviness she didn’t understand. A shadow behind his gaze, something sharp and painful and tightly controlled. It wasn’t something an ordinary waiter carried.
And Hannah, though young, was not naĂŻve.
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
Eric tensed. “Nothing. Don’t ask that.”
“But—”
“Please.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “Don’t.”
Hannah stepped back slightly, breath catching. She had never seen someone so closed, so scared of being known.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Eric shook his head. “You did nothing wrong.”
But he looked like someone who had been wronged all his life.
She hesitated. “Do you want me to leave?”
Eric closed his eyes for a second, exhaling shakily.
When he opened them again, his voice was steady — but soft.
“No.”
It was the most honest word he had ever spoken.
Hannah felt warmth rise in her chest. She slipped onto a stool and rested her elbows on the counter.
“So… can I stay a little?”
Eric hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You can.”
---
They talked. At first awkwardly, then naturally. Hannah told him about Paris, about the view from her hotel, about how her family always pretended to be perfect even when they were falling apart behind closed doors.
Eric listened — really listened — his eyes softening.
He answered her questions carefully, offering only small pieces of himself.
His childhood?
“Complicated.”
His family?
“Gone.”
His dreams?
“…I don’t think I’m allowed to have any.”
That sentence struck her harder than she expected.
“Of course you’re allowed to,” she said gently.
He didn’t respond.
After a long moment, she added, “I like talking to you.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I like talking to you too.”
Their moment was interrupted when the café owner shouted his name.
Eric glanced toward the kitchen, reluctant to go.
“Will you come back?” he asked quietly.
Hannah nodded. “Yes.”
He watched her as she stood, pushing her hair behind her ear. His eyes softened again — warmth, conflict, fear, all tangled together.
“Hannah,” he said suddenly, “be careful.”
She frowned. “Of what?”
Instead of answering, Eric said the one thing she could not understand:
“Of getting too close to me.”
Then he turned away.
Leaving Hannah standing there with a heart pulling her forward
and a warning pushing her back.
---
- Writer
