The house was quiet when Lutte stepped inside, as it always was at this hour.
He loosened his tie on the way to his study, dropping his suitcase onto the familiar leather chair by the desk.
The soft thud echoed like punctuation to the day.
"Home," he murmured, more ritual than word.
The kitchen light flicked on with a click, warm and steady, and he crossed to raid whatever Mrs. Hanson had left for him.
Tonight, it was reheated pizza—crispy on the edges, gooey in the middle—and a plate of fried chicken that still smelled faintly of spices.
He ate with the hunger of someone who had held it back all day, leaning against the counter as he finished each piece.
And then he saw them.
The matcha cookies sat neatly in a small container on the counter, as if waiting for him.
He paused, picking one up between his fingers.
It was soft, faintly green, dusted with just enough powdered sugar to catch the light.
Lutte bit into it slowly, and his eyes closed almost on reflex.
The sweetness wasn't cloying—the earthy matcha mellowed it, a calm undercurrent against the crisp edges and creamy softness.
It was balanced. Elegant, in its quiet way.
He smiled to himself, savoring the lingering flavor.
"Now, where did he get you?" he mused aloud, chuckling. "A high-end patisserie? Or maybe the Emberborne chef on special order?"
The thought amused him enough—until another slipped in uninvited.
What if Asher baked them himself?
Lutte froze, the cookie halfway to his lips again. Then he laughed, shaking his head.
"I wish," he said to the empty kitchen, tone teasing, as if daring the universe.
Still, the idea stayed with him as he finished the rest, one by one, more slowly than he'd eaten the pizza or chicken.
He wanted to stretch the moment, to stretch Asher's presence that lingered in the quiet house.
Later, under the hot spray of the shower, steam rising around him, Lutte leaned his forehead against the tile.
His thoughts, as they often did now, circled back to the café.
The strange comfort of Asher across the table.
The unguarded smile. The way silence between them had been less an absence than a bridge.
"I want to be closer," he admitted softly, letting the water wash the confession away.
By the time he pulled on his sleepwear and slipped into bed, the matcha aftertaste still lingered on his tongue.
He set his alarm, reached over to flick the lamp off, and lay back with the ceiling fading into shadow.
Tomorrow. The Emberborne Tech meeting.
A grin spread across his face, half amusement, half anticipation. "The third time… it's coming," he whispered, eyes already closing.
And Lutte fell asleep smiling, his dreams quietly colored green and gold.
****
The dream clung to him like dew—fleeting, fragile. A boy's voice echoing in the half-light of his memory:
[A fox with lustrous red fur in a small prince's arms, the prince bittersweet voice whispers, "Treasure the fox."]
Lutte blinked awake, the words already fading like mist against dawn.
He sat there for a moment, puzzling over it, before a grin curved his lips. "The fox, hm? What a strange mind you have, Valdes."
Morning began for Lutte with the same discipline that anchored his life.
At six sharp, he ran along the trimmed pathways of his neighborhood, his breath even, his stride steady.
The rhythm of his shoes against the pavement cleared out the cobwebs of yesterday's laughter and longing.
By 6:40, he was back home, greeted by the familiar scent of Mrs. Hanson's breakfast waiting in the bright, quiet kitchen—black coffee, a ham and egg croissant sandwich, and mixed leafy vegetable salad with avocado and boiled egg.
She fussed about his appetite, and he indulged her once again by eating another sandwich, chuckling at her satisfied smile.
Ten minutes of meditation followed, stillness anchoring his thoughts.
Watering the plants in his study windowsill came next, each leaf reminding him that patience was a kind of power.
Then came the inbox: sorting, responding, flagging.
Finally, the news feed—he skimmed through energy policy updates, tech sector shifts, and market forecasts, his mind sharpening for the day ahead.
And through it all, Asher's face kept appearing at the edges of his thoughts.
By the time he arrived at Valdes HQ, his stride carried a buoyancy that didn't go unnoticed.
Shira was already waiting, tablet in hand.
"The improved pitch," she announced, handing it over.
"We've refined the language to better align with Emberborne's vision, long-term partnerships, and global adaptability. Your notes from last week were implemented. It's tighter now, less corporate, more visionary."
Lutte scrolled through it, eyebrows raised. "Shira, I swear I owe you too many cookies and cream. At this rate, I'll have to start buying wholesale."
Her lips quirked, the faintest trace of amusement. "I wouldn't mind. But for now, you owe me results. Go secure that deal."
"Slave driver," Lutte teased, tucking the tablet under his arm.
She had already turned back toward her desk, fielding a call from a department head.
Smiling, he ducked into his office.
He stood before the mirror, straightening his jacket, smoothing a hand over his tie.
He wasn't vain—at least, he told himself so—but today he wanted more than to look prepared.
He wanted to look like someone who could stand before Asher Emberborne and hold his gaze without faltering.
A touch more cologne, a crisp fold to his pocket square.
Confidence was half-won in the details.
****
By the time Arnold pulled the car up, Lutte carried himself with a sharper elegance than usual.
Arnold noticed instantly. "Well, don't you look like a magazine spread today?"
"To catch a prince, Arnold," Lutte replied with a grin, sliding into the seat, "one has to look like one."
Arnold just shook his head, chuckling. "You're unbelievable, Boss."
Lutte chuckled and grinned knowingly.
****
At Emberborne Tech, efficiency reigned. An usher was already waiting in the glass-lined atrium, tablet in hand.
"Mr. Valdes, welcome. We've prepared the boardroom for your presentation. Please, this way."
Lutte inclined his head with polished warmth. "Thank you."
He followed, every step measured, every sense sharpened.
The meeting room gleamed with understated sophistication: polished wood table, minimalist displays, walls of glass opening to the city skyline.
The kind of room where futures were decided.
As he set up his presentation, adjusting the screens, testing the slides, his focus deepened.
But beneath the strategy and polish, a single, quiet resolve pulsed steady in his chest:
Today, no matter how this deal ends, I'll secure more than just a contract. I'll secure a moment with him.