Andy lingered in the doorway a while longer, arms loosely crossed, eyes on Summer. She hadn't noticed him watching — she was too deep into her code, brow furrowed in concentration. Her eyes flicked across the screen, fingers tapping in a rhythm that sounded like rain against the keyboard. He could stand there all day.

  But eventually, he pushed off the doorframe and padded into the living room, where his boots sat in a loose sprawl. He bent down to tug them on, hesitated, and straightened instead. Wandered back toward her office. "Hey," he said gently.

  Summer glanced up, blinking as if surfacing from underwater. "Mm?"

  "I should probably go," he said, and hated how much it sounded like a question.

  Her eyes dimmed a little, but she nodded slowly. "Yeah. That makes sense."

  "I need to shave," he said, rubbing at his jaw, suddenly aware of the stubble. "And grab some clean clothes. Unless you want me to look like a half-feral courtesan boyfriend with yesterday's eyeliner."

  That made her smile faintly, at least. "It's a good look on you."

  Andy exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. "You make it hard to leave, Summer."

  She reached for his hand, gave it a light squeeze. "You can come back. Tonight. If you want."

  His fingers closed around hers instinctively, gently. "I want."

  She smiled again, a little softer, a little brighter.

  Andy didn't kiss her goodbye. Not because he didn't want to, but because if he did, he'd never leave.

  * * *

  Andy shut the door behind him with a quiet click and leaned back against it for a second, letting the quiet of his own place settle around him. It felt strange already — too still, too tidy. No faint scent of mint lingering in the air, no click of keys or the soft hum of someone thinking deeply just out of sight.

  He made himself move. Shower first.

  The sensation of water running over his skin was grounding, and it helped separate the desire to rush back to Summer from the rational side of his brain telling him to take things one step at a time. He lathered slowly, then reached for his razor and took his time with it — every angle of his jaw carefully shaved clean, every line precise. Not because he was seeing someone, but because she would see him.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  It wasn't just about looking presentable, though he'd been trained to perfect that — polished, sleek, and alluring. The sharpness of his gaze as he trimmed his stubble, the quick work of the razor, the careful brushing of his hair — everything had an attention to detail to it that felt different now. He was doing it for more than just the job, for the patrons, for the show. Wrapped in a towel, he stood at the bathroom mirror for a while, hands braced on the counter, thinking about the way her hand had felt in his.

  Eventually, he tugged on clean jeans and a soft, dark long-sleeve tee, then sat down at his desk and cracked open his laptop. He should at least pretend to do something productive.

  There were a number of notes from Martin, his assistant. Reminders of upcoming events, completed invoices for assignations, suggestions for the summer season, and one last-minute inquiry: a sleek, upscale garden party on Friday night, hosted by someone he'd been decorative for before. They liked him for aesthetic contrast — ink and cheekbones in a sea of cashmere and golf tans. It was all about being decorative — standing by, looking enticing, mixing with the well-to-do, the patrons who wanted an exotic, unattached allure. The pay was decent. Easy money, really. He accepted with a short, graceful reply.

  Another high-end affair, another chance to wear a mask and play the part. It was a far cry from the quiet moments he'd spent with Summer. But then again, wasn't that part of the allure? The contrast between his world and hers? She had no real idea about the parties he attended, the roles he played. She only knew him for who he was when he was with her. And that was... something entirely different.

  The patrons were predictable. This was... different. He wasn't sure what exactly it was about Summer. Maybe it was how easy it was to talk to her, how she'd shifted something in him that had been dormant for a long time. He thought of her smile, the way she'd asked about him so earnestly, the way she accepted him, all of him, without hesitation. And yet, here he was — so fresh, so new to this feeling, unsure.

  Did he want to tell Summer? About the party? About what he did? Was it too soon?

  Was it already too late not to?

  Finally, Andy shut the laptop and ran a hand through his damp hair. Hiding the details felt wrong, after she'd looked like the world had tilted just because he wasn't in her bed. She already knew what he was. She'd known from the start, and still she'd kissed him like that, clung to him in the dark, made space on her pillow and in her life. Summer was thoughtful, soft, but not fragile. She deserved honesty, not half-truths or omissions.

  He'd tell her in person.

  Not now, not over text. This wasn't a conversation to slide into work breaks or between lunch bites. It deserved presence — eye contact, open body language, a chance for her to ask whatever she wanted and for him to answer fully. Calmly.

  He glanced once in the mirror, saw something uncertain flicker in his expression, and gave himself a crooked little smile. Then he grabbed his keys, pulled on his boots, and headed back to her.