With the kitchen clean and the hum of the dishwasher filling the background, a comfortable stillness settled over the room. Summer wiped her damp hands on a towel, then hesitated, chewing lightly on her bottom lip as she glanced at Andy.

  The uncertainty in her eyes tugged at him before she even spoke.

  "I... um." She shifted her weight, looking around her small apartment as if suddenly aware of its quiet simplicity. "I know you probably have, like... more exciting things you could be doing. Or people to see." Her words tumbled out in an awkward rush. "I'm not exactly... exciting."

  Andy blinked, confusion flickering across his face before it gave way to something gentler. "Are you kidding?" He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "I chose to be here, Summer. With you."

  She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, not quite meeting his eyes. "Yeah, but... I don't know. I'm not glamorous or anything. I just — " She let out a breathy laugh, self-deprecating. "I fix bugs and eat snacks and talk way too much about video games."

  Andy pushed off the counter and closed the space between them, reaching out to hook a finger under her chin again, guiding her gaze up to his.

  "I like that you fix bugs and eat snacks and talk about video games." His lips quirked into a half-smile. "I like that I can spend a quiet night here with you and not feel like I need to perform or be anything other than myself." His thumb brushed her jaw lightly. "You're not boring, Summer. You're exactly what I want right now."

  Her expression softened, the tension easing from her shoulders.

  "And for the record," he added, leaning in slightly, "this is already more exciting than half the parties I've had to be 'glamorous' at."

  Summer's lips curved into a shy smile, the lingering doubt in her eyes fading.

  "So," he teased, "what does someone like you do on a wild Tuesday night? More code? Movie? Cuddling with a side of existential dread?"

  She laughed, nudging him playfully. "No code. Work-life balance. But... the other two seem good?"

  "Perfect," he grinned. "Lead the way."

  Summer had just settled onto the couch with a blanket when Andy, scrolling through her streaming options, said with calm authority, "We're watching The Princess Bride."

  "No," she whispered, delighted and incredulous. "You did not just pick my favourite movie."

  Andy gave her an innocent look, settling back on the couch. "It's a classic. Witty dialogue. Swashbuckling. True love. I thought it might appeal."

  Summer launched herself at him without warning, nearly knocking the popcorn bowl off his lap. She pressed quick, ecstatic kisses all over his face — forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw — giggling between each one.

  "Okay, okay, ow — my ribs — " Andy wheezed, laughing harder, trying to get his arms around her. "You're gonna kill me before the Fire Swamp even shows up."

  "You deserve it for picking a perfect movie," Summer said with a dramatic huff, finally settling into his lap like it was her throne. She kissed his nose, then his cheek, and sighed happily. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

  Andy, grinning like an idiot, hit play — but he barely made it through the opening credits. Summer had curled against his chest, warm and delighted and relaxed, and the way she recited the lines she knew by heart was absolutely wrecking him. They tried to focus on the movie, but every time Andy quoted a line just a second before it happened, Summer would kiss his shoulder. When he whispered "as you wish," she turned to look at him, wide-eyed and a little undone.

  "Stop being distracting," she whispered, only half teasing.

  "You started it," he replied, his voice low and amused.

  Still, they made it to the sword fight between Inigo and the Man in Black before Andy completely lost track of the plot, too busy watching her.

  Summer noticed. "You're missing the movie," she murmured.

  He just smiled, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear. "I'm watching my favourite part."

  She poked her tongue out. "You've seen this before, have you?"

  He gave her a guilty look. "Maybe once or twice."

  She grinned, smug. "Then you won't mind if we restart it later."

  "Not at all," he said, tucking her closer. "Especially if I get the commentary track with it."

  Comment: mark time passing?

  Summer's laughter over Miracle Max's antics melted into a soft hum as Andy leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

  "I can't focus," he murmured, voice low and thick with hunger. "You're too beautiful when you're happy."

  Her breath caught — just like he'd known it would — and when she turned to look at him, he could already see her starting to blush, lips parting as though she meant to scold him and forgot the words.

  He didn't wait. He kissed her. Slow at first, reverent. His fingers brushed her cheek, her jaw, the edge of her neck, memorizing the texture of her skin all over again. Her hands gripped his shirt instinctively as he deepened the kiss, and she let out a breathy little moan that undid him entirely. "I need," he whispered against her lips, "just — God, Summer — "

  She pulled him closer. "Yes?"

  Andy didn't answer in words. His hand slid beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the dip of her spine. His praise came in murmurs and sighs, in the way his mouth lingered at her throat and collarbone. "Look at you," he breathed when her eyes fluttered open. "You're unreal. You feel everything so beautifully. Do you know that?"

  Her eyes went wide and dark with longing, and her only reply was a soft sound, helpless and aching, as she arched into his touch.

  Andy needed it. Needed her. Not just the passion — though that simmered hot between them — but the look in her eyes when he touched her gently, adored her without hesitation. And every sigh, every moan, every tremble he drew from her only deepened his awe. She gave so much with so little prompting. Trusted so deeply. "I'm not trying to rush anything," he whispered. "I just... can't help needing you."

  Summer blinked up at him, lips kiss-marked, her hands still tangled in his shirt. "I don't understand," she whispered, confused but not pulling away. "You... need?"

  Andy softened at the question — how earnest she was, how open. Gently, he framed her face in his hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Intent. "You let me see you," he said. "Every time you look at me like that, with trust and... and wonder, it does something to me. Not just lust, Summer. It's need. To give. To be everything you don't even know you deserve."

  She was still frowning faintly, trying to process, and so Andy leaned in and kissed her again — slower this time. Not trying to ignite heat, but to show her: the gentleness, the reverence, the ache that had little to do with arousal and everything to do with her. He kissed the corner of her mouth. Her cheek. Her eyelid. "See?" he murmured. "You let me do that. You trust me enough to stay soft. That's... rare."

  Her breath stuttered. "It's not — I mean, I'm not — "

  Andy kissed the spot beneath her jaw, cradling her against his chest now. "You don't have to be anything but exactly this. That's what I mean. I need to be near it. Near you. You give so much, and I want to meet that, not take it for granted. Even when all we're doing is watching a movie."

  Summer was quiet for a long moment. Then, very quietly: "Oh."

  Andy smiled into her hair, arms snug around her now. "Yeah. Oh."

  She didn't speak again right away — but the way she curled closer, letting her head rest over his heart, told him she understood better than she thought.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Andy didn't let go of her right away when the credits started to roll, their bodies still entwined on the couch. He brushed his fingers through her hair, smiling softly down at her, eyes half-lidded with affection. "I know we missed at least half the movie," he murmured.

  Summer smiled against his chest. "You've seen it before."

  "Still," Andy said, "I wanted to watch it with you."

  Her face tilted up, amused and warm, and Andy leaned down to steal one last kiss before the spell of the movie completely broke. Then he let her sit up, stretching as the final notes of music faded from the screen. He hesitated, watching her reach for her mostly-forgotten cup of soda.

  "I... was wondering," he began lightly, but something in his voice caught, earnest again. "Could I stay over? Tonight, I mean."

  Summer blinked, surprised, then a little regretful. "I have to go into the office tomorrow," she said. "Need to get up early. Commute, real clothes, face people." Her tone was wry, but her fingers curled into his shirt like she wasn't quite ready to let him go.

  Andy nodded slowly, but he didn't mask the disappointment. "I understand," he said, and he did. Still, it made his chest ache a little. Not because she was saying no — just because he already didn't want to be apart from her. That quickly.

  Summer tilted her head to look up at him. "I mean, you could stay," she said, uncertain. "But I'll have to be up early. And I probably won't be very exciting company. There'll be a lot of muttering at my closet."

  Andy grinned. "I like your muttering."

  That got him a sceptical look, though it lacked real suspicion. "You like it now," she teased, "but wait until it's 7 a.m. and I can't find a matching sock."

  "I'll help you find it," he said simply. "And if I can't, I'll offer you one of mine."

  She laughed, caught between touched and amused, and wriggled up to kiss his cheek. "You're very good at this."

  "Staying the night?"

  She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. "Being... kind. Romantic. Understanding."

  Andy leaned in, his voice suddenly quieter, more serious. "I'm not doing it to impress you. I'm doing it because I like you, Summer. Really like you. And I want to make this work. Even the mornings with mismatched socks."

  Summer reached for his hand, threading their fingers. "It's not that I don't want you to stay," she said gently. "I just... I don't want to start resenting mornings, you know?"

  That made him chuckle, soft and genuine. "Fair. Mornings are already suspect."

  "Exactly. And I think you're used to more interesting mornings."

  He tipped her chin up, letting her see the sincerity in his expression. "Summer. You're interesting. You're better than interesting. I like you in weird office slacks and no coffee and grumbling about your morning meetings. If you'll have me, I'll set an alarm and be gone before you even have to pretend to be productive."

  Her eyes softened. "You don't have to sneak out."

  "Not sneaking. Just... respecting." He smiled again. "But only if you want me to stay."

  Her smile went soft, unguarded now. "Then... yes," she said. "You can stay."

  She looked down, embarrassed by how much she wanted that too. But Andy just leaned in and kissed her lightly like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  "I'll set an alarm," he said solemnly. "Or five. I'll survive."

  "You say that now," Summer teased. But the warmth in her eyes told him she was glad. Very glad.

  He tucked her tighter into his arms, already content. "Still worth it."

  In the quiet rhythm of bedtime — Summer brushing her hair, Andy folding his clothes neatly over the chair — something in her posture shifted. Slower. Thoughtful. She sat on the edge of the bed, absently running the brush through the last two feet of hair, eyes fixed on the curling ends.

  Andy paused in the act of sliding under the covers. "Hey," he said gently. "Where'd you go?"

  She blinked, then offered him a tiny smile. "Nowhere. Just... thinking."

  He waited.

  "It's only been five days," she said quietly, not quite looking at him. "Feels like longer. Or maybe too fast."

  Andy stilled, then came around the bed to sit beside her. "You're not the only one thinking that."

  She nodded silently, teeth worrying her bottom lip.

  "I know," he said softly. "It feels fast. It is fast. But I don't feel rushed. Do you?"

  "No," she whispered. "Just... attached. Already. And I don't know if that's good or dangerous."

  Andy leaned closer, letting his shoulder press into hers with quiet reassurance.

  She turned to face him, toying with the hairbrush uncertainly. "It's not bad. Just... intense. You're here, and I don't want you to leave, and that's not exactly normal for me."

  "It's not normal for me either," he said, voice low with honesty. "I've spent whole weekends with people and not felt half of what I've felt with you."

  Summer searched his face. "Are we just caught in the moment?"

  "Maybe," he admitted. "But if we are, it's one hell of a moment. And I'm not looking to get out of it."

  Summer looked down at her lap. "I just don't want either of us to get hurt."

  "I don't either," he said. "But I'd rather take the risk than pretend this doesn't feel real."

  After a long pause, she leaned her head against his shoulder. "Okay," she murmured. "Me too. Even though I think you're crazy."

  Andy grinned, kissing her forehead. "Perfect match, then."

  She rolled her eyes, but there was a smile there too, small and real. "Go get in bed before I start overthinking again."

  "Yes, ma'am." He kissed her cheek.

  And when she joined him a few minutes later, Andy had already made space for her in the curve of his body, like it was exactly where she belonged.

  * * *

  Thursday and Friday, Andy slipped back into his old rhythm — the practised grace of his profession. While a part of him lingered at Summer's apartment, her sleepy smile and warm bed still fresh in his thoughts, he gave himself fully to the details of his work.

  He worked with Martin to sift through emails, replying to a photographer who wanted him for an art piece next week and confirming an elegant gala appearance for the following month. Andy declined several assignation requests from new patrons, citing limited availability with polite regret. He accepted one for later in the month from a patron of long standing.

  On Thursday evening, he laid out several costume options for Friday's private party. But in the end, he chose a sinfully cut black ensemble with sheer accents and silver embellishments: just enough allure, just enough mystery. He knew his value wasn't just in the aesthetic, but in the energy he brought. Attentive. Magnetic. Always just enough.

  He packed his bag with essentials, touched up his grooming again with meticulous care, and made a mental note to text Summer after the event. He needed to stay in contact with her, even when he was working.

  The party was held in a sprawling penthouse suite overlooking the city — floor-to-ceiling windows, chilled champagne in crystal flutes, music low and pulsing like a heartbeat. Andy arrived fashionably late, as requested, slipping through the crowd with practised ease. Heads turned. Smiles tilted. Eyes followed.

  He greeted the hostess with a kiss on the cheek and a murmured compliment. Madame Laurent — an elegant older woman with silver hair swept into an artful twist — took his arm immediately. She made introductions. Andy sparkled.

  He knew the rhythm of these nights. Touch lightly. Laugh low. Let them feel seen. He did. He saw everything: the way one man adjusted his tie when Andy passed, the way a woman's fingers trembled around her glass when their eyes met. A subtle power, a game of temperature and timing. He played it flawlessly.

  But somewhere around midnight, as he lounged with two patrons on a velvet couch, sipping something expensive and pretending to be utterly enchanted by a story about a gallery opening in Milan, he realized he was measuring time.

  How long since dinner? Since Summer's quiet giggle? Would she be asleep now, curled up in her soft pyjamas? Had she remembered to eat enough today?

  He smiled when he was supposed to. Let his fingers brush where invited. But it didn't reach as deep. It didn't linger the way it once would have. They didn't notice. He was still perfection. Still magnetic. But inside, something was turning.

  By the time he departed — after two o'clock — he'd gracefully declined a pushy would-be patron who was convinced enough money would buy her anything she wanted, a frustration offset by Madame Laurent's praise and warm gratitude. The stars above the city glittered cold and brilliant as he pulled out his phone.

  andy ? Still awake? ?

  andy ? I miss you ?

  He didn't expect an answer until morning. But he sent it anyway, alone in the glossy, echoing elevator, already considering what he'd bring her for breakfast.

  Comment: fill in getting to the car

  Andy laughed softly as the car's dash lit up with Summer's message.

  summer ? selfie ?

  Just that — no punctuation, no emoji, nothing extra. It was unmistakably her, warm and dry at once. And it pulled something loose in his chest.

  Still parked under the hazy streetlight near the luxury tower, Andy flipped his front camera on. He adjusted his angle, checking the background. Soft city lights, a gleam of shadow on cheekbones, slightly mussed hair from the party. The collar of his black shirt lay open, his makeup faintly smudged at the corners. A little decadent, a little tired. He looked like what he was: a courtesan leaving a high-society party at two in the morning.

  He raised one brow and gave her the smallest of smiles — not the sultry, deliberate one he used at parties, but the real one. The crooked, you're-in-my-heart one. He snapped it and sent it with a single line:

  andy ? For you. No filter ?

  Almost immediately, the message was marked as read. Then —

  summer ? you look soft ?

  summer ? i like your face ?

  Andy stared at the words for a long moment, lips twitching. He let his head fall back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

  He was tired. But now... he was also grinning. He typed back:

  andy ? I'd crawl through this whole damn city just to kiss you goodnight ?

  Then, after a pause —

  andy ? Sleep now, beautiful. I'll call you in the morning? ?

  When no typing bubbles appeared, Andy waited another few minutes, the phone warm in his hand. Nothing. No reply, no little dots. He smiled faintly, leaning his head against the cool window now, watching his breath fog a crescent into the glass.

  "She's asleep," he murmured to no one. And somehow, that was comforting. It felt strangely intimate, knowing she'd fallen asleep after asking for a photo of his face. Not a performance. Not a patron. Just him.

  He set his phone down, finally starting the car. The quiet city glided past him on the drive home, neon bleeding into puddles, traffic lights blinking like slow heartbeats. As he drove, he let the night wash over him: the echo of conversations, the expensive champagne fizzing in his memory, the weight of gazes he no longer needed to hold onto.

  By the time he slipped into his apartment, Andy's limbs were lead-heavy with exhaustion, but his heart was warm. He removed his boots and peeled off his jewellery piece by piece, setting it gently on the dresser. Finally, he reached for his phone one more time.

  No new messages. He didn't mind.

  As he turned out the light, he imagined her curled up in her soft sheets, the light sigh of her breath. He didn't need to be there tonight. She'd asked for a piece of him, and he'd given it. That was enough — for now.

  "Sleep well, my code goddess," he whispered, and tucked the phone under his pillow before curling up under the sheets. Sleep came easily, threaded with her voice and the memory of her laugh.