Bound To Be Yours 🦌

Chapter 6 Testing the Water [Edited]

Aurora's POV

The moment I spot him, the night rearranges itself.

I keep my posture textbook perfect—back straight, chin level, smile locked—while my pulse decides to speed-run betrayal.

"Mr Sinclair," I say, smoothing the chair hem before sitting. "Didn't expect you here."

Polite. Practiced. Not the demand it wants to be.

Adrian leans back like the table already belongs to him—because of course it does. Candlelight threads through his dark hair, glints in the gold flecks of his eyes. Warm if you glance quick. Sharper if you don't.

"Neither did I," he says easily. "The evening... opened up."

Vague. Infuriating. My lips press tight, but I don't ask. Politeness is armour, and I won't drop mine first.

He studies me—not like boys here usually do, quick glances and lazy labels—but like he's cataloguing data I didn't mean to hand over.

"You tuck your hair when you're thinking," he says, tone flat, like it's a fact.

My hand freezes mid-motion. I lower it, pulse tripping harder. "Do I?"

His mouth tilts. "You did it in Lit last term. Right before you gutted Carter's argument."

Heat pricks my neck. I fold my napkin into crisp, pointless shapes. I hadn't even noticed he'd been there.

The waiter drops menus. Adrian doesn't bother with his—he snaps it shut after a glance, which means I get to hide in mine longer. Each time I peek over, he's still watching. Not like Pembroke's smug appraisal. More like I'm a rare study and he's refusing to rush.

We order. His voice is low, smooth, way too at ease for a boy who wasn't supposed to be my dinner companion at all.

"So," he says once the menus vanish, "you didn't expect me tonight."

"Not exactly. I thought I was meeting someone else."

"And instead you got me." His tone tilts—half tease, half challenge. "Lucky you."

I arch a brow. "Is that what you call it?"

His eyes catch the candlelight, molten gold. "Depends. Do you?"

The pause stretches. My glass feels heavier than it should.

"You look..." his voice dips, low and certain, "different tonight. Sharper. Like you finally stopped hiding."

Heat prickles up my neck. I cover it with a sip of water. "You must need new glasses."

His mouth curves, slow. "No. Just a better seat at the table."

My chest squeezes tight. He says it too casually for it to be casual.

The conversation drifts—teachers, Houses, the Founders' Ball. It's easier than I expected. Too easy.

"So," he says eventually, tilting his glass, "are you going to win Lit's essay prize again?"

"That was a fluke."

"You beat me," he says simply. "Which means I've got something to prove."

"You want a rematch?"

"A wager," he corrects, eyes glinting. "Loser buys the other coffee for a month."

I blink. "Coffee? That's your big Sinclair-level gamble?"

His mouth twitches. "Starbucks, Ashbourne. That's what's on the line. Try not to panic."

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. "Nothing screams high society like frappuccinos on the King's Road."

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping. "It's not about the coffee. It's about who you'll owe it to."

Heat darts through me, traitorous and sharp. I mask it with a roll of my eyes. "Fine. But when you lose, I'm ordering the most ridiculous drink they sell. Extra shots. Extra syrup. Extra everything. Every single day."

"Then I'll just have to win," he says softly—like he isn't talking about coffee at all.

Small things accumulate. His sleeve brushes mine. His fingers graze when he pours water. He cuts into my steak without asking—polite but presumptuous. Every moment feels like a test of how close we'll let the other come.

Time slips. The restaurant empties until it's just us and candles. He rises first, waiting for me to stand, escorting me past silver and crystal with quiet certainty.

Outside, the night is crisp, river air sharp. The car waits. So does he, until I'm inside.

"Good night, Ashbourne," he says, closing the door with deliberate care. Streetlamps catch his eyes—softer now, gold caught in the dark.

I meet his gaze with the same smile I use on Pembrokes and patrons alike. "Good night, Sinclair. Thank you for the evening."

Polite. Safe. Forgettable.

And yet, as the car pulls away, the words between us feel less like goodbye and more like a ribbon neither of us has untied yet.