Andy pulled back just enough to see her expression change — uncertain softness hardening into something sharper, brighter. Her hands braced on his chest now, not to hold him close but to hold him off.

  "No," she said sharply, her eyes bright. "Don't do that. Don't shut me up when I'm trying to tell you something."

  He froze, a little startled by the edge in her voice.

  "I'm not talking about clients," she said, voice suddenly hard. "I know the difference. I know they're work. I meant — " She pulled back to look him in the eye, frustration and hurt sparking under the surface. "Other real women. The kind you could date if you wanted. Gorgeous. Confident. Effortlessly put together. I've seen you. I know what you look like. What you attract."

  He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a fierce look.

  "I know I'm not glamorous. Or exciting. I’m weird. I sit in front of a screen muttering to myself half the day, and my idea of a good time is beadwork and watching Lord of the Rings for the hundredth time. I'm not the kind of woman who turns heads. I get that." Summer's throat worked as she swallowed. "And it's fine. I've — I've made peace with it. But when someone like you looks at me the way you do, it's hard not to wonder when you'll realize you made a mistake."

  Andy inhaled sharply, as if she'd struck him. Then slowly, his expression shifted — something soft, unguarded. He reached up and tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. "Summer," he said, voice quiet now. "I may be good at being looked at, but you — you're the first person in a long time who's ever looked at me." He paused. "And you don't need to be glamorous, or exciting. You burn."

  She looked down at him with wide, fierce eyes, as if daring him to flinch away from the mess she was trying to admit. "I've never done this," she said. "Not like this. Not fast, not honest, not with someone who could wreck me if they walked away."

  "I'm not planning to walk away. Not unless you tell me to." He reached up, brushing her hair back from her face with reverence. "I like weird," he said simply. "Look at me, Summer. I'm covered in tattoos. I wear eyeliner and leather even to the grocery store. I've been called dramatic and ridiculous and too much since I was twelve. I'm not trying to be something I'm not — and I don't want someone who's pretending either.

  "I didn't pick The Princess Bride because I thought it'd win points," he continued, his voice steady and true. "I picked it because I love it. Because it makes me laugh, and because it reminds me that love can be ridiculous and brave and real all at once. Because it makes me happy. And when you tackled me in kisses over it? That was one of the best parts of my week."

  Her eyes were still guarded, but she didn't pull away. Her mouth twitched, almost a smile.

  "I've known gorgeous people," Andy went on. "Glamorous ones. I've slept beside them, danced with them, posed with them for the cameras. But I don't want glamorous. I want kind. I want clever and funny and real. You don't try to make me simpler than I am. You don't look at me like I'm some dangerous bad boy who needs to be saved or tamed. You don't romanticize the job or shrink from it, either. You just... see me."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He paused, letting that land. "We're not opposites, Summer. You and me — we're the same kind of strange. That's what I want. And if you think I could find someone better than that, then you're not seeing what I see."

  Her lips trembled. "You think we're alike?"

  "I know we are. We both overthink. We both give more than we admit. We're both a little strange and intense, a lot goofy and weird. And I wouldn't trade that — for cool, or for perfect, or for glamorous."

  Summer let out a breath, unsteady and half a laugh. Her shoulders dropped, some of the tension melting away as she whispered, "God, you're good at this."

  Andy gave a small grin, eyes crinkling. "That one I did say to please you."

  "Jerk," she mumbled, though her smile was warm now, and her voice soft. "Fine. You win."

  "Not about winning." He laid back again. "Just want you to know — you are what I want."

  She pressed her cheek to his collarbone, holding on tightly. "Okay," she said into his chest. "Okay."

  "Still not leaving," Andy whispered into her hair. "Not unless you make me."

  Summer nodded, a quick, jerky little motion that betrayed how much she was still fighting herself — fighting to believe, to accept, to let herself have this.

  "Okay," she whispered. "Okay. I just... I need time. To believe it. To really let it in. So just — " her voice cracked a little. "Just give me that, please? Time. And in the meantime... " She sat up, and looked down at him with eyes that shimmered, desperate and sweet and aching. "... maybe you could kiss me some more?"

  "Oh," Andy murmured, smiling like the sun had just broken through stormclouds. "That I can definitely do."

  And then he leaned up and kissed her, slow and sure, with all the tenderness he hadn't yet had words for. He kissed her like a promise, like patience, like he could wait forever if she needed — but hoped like hell she wouldn't make him.

  She melted into it, threading her fingers through his hair. He held her close and steady, and between one kiss and the next, her hands grew more confident, her breathing steadier. She didn't have to say she was starting to believe him. Andy could feel it in the way she kissed him back.

  He didn't speak again — not with words. He kissed her like he meant every breath of it, every pause and every gentle press of lips a vow. His hands were reverent, sweeping over her body like he could trace her fears and quiet them, like he could map every place she held doubt and replace it with warmth and certainty.

  When he eased her down beneath him, it was slow, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. He held her gaze through it, anchoring her there, with him, as if to silently insist: You don't have to run. I'm not leaving. I want this.

  He moved with her, not for show, not for skill, but with a quiet devotion that underlined every motion. He wanted her to feel it — not just the wanting, but the ache behind it, the risk of already caring too much. He pressed kisses to her throat, her cheek, her shoulder, murmured her name like a litany against her skin.

  He couldn't make her believe with words, not yet.

  So he poured it all into the way he touched her — how his fingers gripped just enough to say don't let go, how his breath stuttered when she looked at him like she saw past the careful beauty he wore like armour. How he whispered broken praises against her lips when she trembled beneath him.

  He was careful with her, but not delicate. There was too much truth in what he gave her, too much hunger threaded with fear. Like if she changed her mind in the morning, it would tear something vital loose inside him.

  When she wrapped her arms around his back and held him close, when she met him with a softness that threatened to undo him, he couldn't help the quiet, shaken sound he made.

  He loved his work. He loved being beautiful, loved control, grace, the elegance of seduction. But none of that compared to this. To her.

  To the simple, terrifying hope that this could be real.