When Andy finally stirred mid-morning, sunlight slipping lazily through the curtains, he lay still for a few moments, disoriented. Something felt... wrong. Or not wrong, exactly — just empty.

  It took him longer than usual to figure it out. Then it hit him, a quiet thud in his chest. He missed her. The warmth of her small body tucked against his. The faint scent of her hair, some kind of mint. The way she'd breathed against his collarbone in her sleep, like she'd trusted him.

  He turned onto his back with a low sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. 'Get a grip, Knight,' he thought. 'It's been one night.'

  But the ache was still there, stubborn and real. He reached for his phone without thinking, thumb hovering over the camera button. A moment later, he snapped a picture — messy black hair, sleep-soft blue eyes, a faint smile curving his mouth — and attached a caption.

  andy ? thinking of you ?

  He hesitated only a second before sending it. Then he tossed the phone onto the bed beside him, heart thudding a little harder than it should have. Maybe she was thinking of him too. Maybe, just maybe, this was real, unlike everything else he had.

  Andy's phone buzzed beside him, lighting up against the rumpled sheets. He grabbed it instantly, like a man starved, and opened her message. Just two words, simple, but they punched all the air out of his lungs:

  summer ? hello handsome ?

  A slow, unstoppable grin broke across his face. He turned onto his side, phone clutched loosely in one hand, staring at the screen like he could somehow pull her closer through it. He started typing a response, erased it, tried again. Finally he settled on:

  andy ? miss you already, beautiful ?

  He hit send before he could second-guess himself. Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was fast.

  But nothing had ever felt more right.

  * * *

  Summer's day flowed in a rhythm of code and new, quiet joy. She propped her phone just beside her monitor, so she could glance at Andy's selfie whenever she wanted a lift — which turned out to be often. Every few hours, without meaning to, her gaze would flick over to it: his tousled black hair, the slight smirk curling his lips, those brilliant blue eyes.

  During a meeting that probably could have been an email, she got a chance to slip a Tolkien quote into the team chat: "A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to."

  Half a dozen approving emoji responses popped in the next minute, and Summer grinned down at her keyboard, feeling lighter than she had in months. It was a small thing, but it felt like being seen — and, in a different, deeper way, Andy had made her feel that too.

  As the afternoon wore on, she found herself imagining Tuesday evening, wondering how many times she could get away with looking at his picture before it officially counted as pining.

  * * *

  Andy leaned closer to the mirror, smoothing black eyeliner into a sharp, immaculate wing. His fingers moved automatically; years of practice made the motions efficient, almost thoughtless. Tonight's look needed to be sharp — clean, dramatic, desirable — but his mind wasn't on it the way it usually was.

  Kimberleigh had requested someone a little dangerous — and Andy knew how to deliver exactly that. Still, as he dusted a silvery shimmer over his eyelids, he caught himself wondering, 'Would Summer like this?' He paused, brush hovering in midair.

  Summer, with her shy hands and her bright, guileless eyes. Summer, who had pushed up onto her toes just to kiss him, as if the whole world might fall away and she wouldn't care.

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  Would she like the sharpness? Would she recognize the artifice — and still want him anyway? Would she touch his face gently, maybe trace the lines he'd drawn so precisely, like he was something precious instead of something purchased? A faint, rueful smile curved his mouth. She'd probably think he was beautiful no matter what. She'd proven that, looking at him with delight whether he wore a velvet coat and corset or nothing at all. But still... these personas he put on for others — it wasn't the man she had reached for in the dark.

  Andy finished his makeup with careful precision, but his heart wasn't in it the same way tonight. He reminded himself: one more evening of duty. Then, maybe, something more real. Something that scared him far more than this painted, polished mask ever could.

  Andy set the brush down and took a breath, grounding himself. He couldn't afford to be distracted — not here, not now. He moved to his closet, choosing with clinical detachment the clothes this persona preferred: tight black trousers, a blood-red silk shirt, and a tailored jacket with subtle silver embroidery at the cuffs.

  Each piece slid over his skin like armour, separating him from himself, layering on expectation after expectation. He buttoned the shirt slowly, methodically, his rings flashing under the soft light. Then the jacket. Softly polished pointed-toe shoes.

  When he looked at his reflection again, the transformation was complete. Andy Knight, courtesan, elegant and untouchable. No trace of the man who had spent Saturday night curled around a warm, precious woman, kissing the crown of her head while she slept.

  Andy tilted his head slightly, adjusted the fall of his hair, and forced his mind into the familiar professional calm. 'Later,' he told himself. 'After this assignation, you can think about her all you want.'

  For now, he had a role to play. And he was still very, very good at it.

  The hours blurred together into soft silk sheets, sharp fingernails, and murmured commands. Andy smiled when he was meant to, listened attentively when spoken to, let Kimberleigh touch and be pleased. He was beautiful and sharp, a fantasy made real, and he played the part flawlessly.

  Only once did he falter. As he poured another glass of wine with a practised, graceful motion, he caught himself wondering, 'What is Summer doing right now?' Was she curled up on the couch, in something soft and comfortable, hair spilling like fire around her shoulders? Maybe she was reading, or watching tv, frowning a little in concentration the way he'd somehow already memorized.

  The thought sent a faint ache through him. He pushed it down, behind the practised walls of his mind, and returned to the moment. But for the first time in years, he realized with a quiet jolt, he wanted more than the part he was playing. He wanted something real. He wanted her.

  It was enough to put a crack in his armour.

  Andy swallowed it down, smoothed his expression into something alluring again, and stepped back into the role contracted of him. The thought lingered, tucked under his ribs, aching quietly with every false kiss he gave afterward.

  Nearly dawn, the city was cold and silent around him as Andy left Kimberleigh's penthouse. The sky had just begun to pale at the edges, a thin, watery blue leaking into the black.

  He pulled his coat tighter around himself, feeling hollowed out and exhausted beneath the expensive fabrics and the remnants of someone else's demands. Every step away from that place felt like shedding a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying.

  He wanted, achingly, to go to Summer. To find her warm and sleepy, to slip into her bed and hold her while the sun rose.

  But he knew she'd be sleeping soundly, needing to wake soon for her job, whatever it was. He didn't know yet, only that it was the kind of normal every-day office job he'd never known. He couldn't steal that from her.

  So Andy shoved his hands deep into his pockets, set his face against the biting air, and walked to his Dodge Charger, carrying her memory like a secret lantern in his chest.

  This — this wanting, this longing — was exactly the kind of entanglement he'd learnt to avoid. Rule number one of his old lessons: never let yourself need anyone. It made you vulnerable. It made you foolish. It made you weak. Personal attachment blurred the lines.

  And yet, every time he thought of Summer's shy smile, the stubborn bravery in her voice, the way she'd kissed him like he was precious, not purchased... Andy knew he was already in too deep.

  Back in his apartment, Andy stripped off his coat and let it fall over a chair. The silence felt cavernous. He moved on autopilot — washing the make-up from his face, pulling his hair back loosely, trading fine clothes and expensive shoes for soft, worn sweats and bare feet. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused, studying the faint smudges under his eyes, the weary tilt to his mouth.

  Andy pressed his palms to the edge of the sink and dropped his head between his arms, exhaling slowly. He should be worrying. He should be pulling away.

  Instead, he found himself reaching for his phone, scrolling to Summer's name almost without thinking. Just seeing it there made his chest ease a little. He didn't type anything. Just held the phone in his hand for a long moment, before finally crawling into bed and falling into a restless, longing sleep.