Andy moved slowly, like the hush between them might shatter. He folded one leg beneath him, then the other, and crawled close across the rug — close enough that the rain against the windows faded to something unreal.

  Summer's breath came shallow, but she didn't move away.

  He reached out gently, his fingers brushing her jaw with careful reverence, and then tipped her chin up with the lightest touch. Her eyes met his — wide, uncertain, wondering. This close, he could see tiny golden dots seeming to shimmer in the irises. Andy's voice was barely audible. "May I?"

  She nodded, just once.

  He leaned in — not sudden, not demanding. His lips brushed hers with a softness that felt more like a question than an answer. He didn't deepen it. Didn't push. Just stayed, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath, until she leaned a fraction closer. The moment their lips met, Summer made a soft, startled sound — half-whimper, half-sigh — as though the feeling had stolen her breath before she had time to decide what to do with it. It wasn't fear. It wasn't resistance. Just... overwhelmed.

  Andy stilled. He drew back barely an inch, just enough to see her eyes. His fingers stayed cradling her jaw, warm and steady. "Too much?" he asked gently.

  She shook her head, breath catching. "N-no. Just... not used to being treated like I matter."

  Andy's thumb brushed her cheek, tender. "You do." He kissed her again, slower this time, and stayed close enough to anchor her if she needed it — offering the kind of presence that asked for nothing but gave everything.

  The second kiss ended too soon for her.

  Something in Summer surged — need or ache or maybe just the years of silence catching up to her all at once — and before she could think herself out of it, she leaned forward in a rush, burying herself in the warmth of Andy's arms. Her hands fumbled against his chest, unsure where to land, but her mouth found his like she'd been waiting years.

  It wasn't graceful. It wasn't measured. It was clumsy and hungry and filled with a kind of aching honesty only the unpractised can bring — like she wanted to memorize the taste of kindness before it disappeared.

  Andy made a quiet, surprised noise against her lips, and then melted into it, one hand sliding around her back, the other threading into her copper hair as if to steady the rush of her. He didn't lead. He didn't take. He let her kiss him like she meant it, let her shiver and press in and lose her balance. Let her want him.

  And when they parted, breathless and pink-cheeked, he stayed close. "God," he murmured, smiling a little. "You're going to undo me."

  Summer felt the heat rush to her face, but this time — this time — she didn't retreat behind a throw blanket or an apology. The kiss still lingered on her lips, and the way Andy had melted into her made something fierce rise in her chest.

  Maybe this would never happen again. Maybe he'd vanish into the rain and shadows by morning. Maybe this was her only chance.

  So she leaned forward again, emboldened by that fleeting spark, determined not to let the moment slip through her fingers. But Andy pulled away, just a little. Her heart seized — panic flaring sharp and bright. Had she misread him? Had she done too much, been too much? Already?

  Then he smiled, soft and utterly unbothered, and leaned back against the couch with a slow, elegant sprawl — long legs stretched out, arms open, posture utterly at ease. "I'm just getting comfortable," he said lightly. "Didn't think I'd be staying, but you're very persuasive."

  The panic in her chest crumbled as a half-laugh caught in her throat. She sat back on her heels, blinking at him. "Comfortable?" she echoed.

  Andy's grin widened. "Well, you were making a rather strong case for it."

  Summer's flush deepened, blooming down her neck as her eyes dropped — but Andy didn't let the moment hang too long. He reached out, gentle as gravity, and drew her into him — half into his lap, her knees tucked beside his thigh, his arms settling around her like shelter.

  One hand cradled the curve of her waist; the other trailed in slow, thoughtful strokes down the length of her back, over the curve of her spine, the rise of her ribs. The touch wasn't sensual. Not quite. It was appreciative. As if reminding her she had a body worth holding. He didn't speak for a few heartbeats.

  Then, soft as falling dusk, he murmured into her hair, "When was the last time someone touched you like this — not to take, or use, or fix — but just... in love?"

  She shook her head, mute. Not in refusal, not in protest — just... because there wasn't an answer. Because she couldn't remember. Not really. Maybe someone once. Maybe a long time ago. But not like this.

  Not the way Andy held her now, as if she were something fragile and rare and worthy of a gentleness the world rarely offered. She blinked hard, swallowing down the sting in her throat. He just held her, like he had nowhere else to be. He didn't rush her. His fingers kept moving, slow and steady over her back like the passing of time didn't matter.

  After a while, he asked quietly, "Do you have family nearby?"

  She shook her head again, slower this time. "Far away," she said, voice soft. "Different state."

  He nodded against her hair. "Friends?"

  Summer gave a half-laugh, brittle and uncertain. "What friends."

  Andy's hold shifted slightly — closer, tighter, warmer. He didn't fill the silence right away, just waited.

  She hesitated. "There are workmates I like. They're nice. We laugh at lunch." Then, barely audible, "But I'm scared they'd hate the real, true me."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Andy sighed through his nose, a sound full of knowing, and rested his cheek gently atop her head. "The real you is the loveliest thing I've seen in weeks," he murmured. "But I know that doesn't fix the fear."

  She breathed in, shaky. The rain tapped steadily on the windows. Her body tensed under Andy's hands, as though she'd been caught in something she didn't understand, didn't trust. She began to lean away, small movements, instinctive retreat. Her shoulders hunched. Her eyes darted without landing.

  Andy saw it. Felt it in her muscles. The storm of panic, sudden and wild, trying to pull her out of her own skin.

  He didn't say anything. He just leaned in and kissed her again — softly, reverently. Not to deepen things, not to trap her. Just to remind her: 'I'm here. I see you. I'm not leaving.' His hands stayed where they were. His breath was steady. He waited — quietly, gently — holding still so she didn't have to.

  "I don't care," Summer whispered, her voice cracking, and the confession sounded like surrender.

  Andy tilted his head, about to ask — 'what don't you care about?' — but she was already moving.

  She kissed him. Not like before. Not soft. Not shy.

  It was sudden, wild, desperate — a tangle of heat and ache and fear. Her hands fumbled against his chest, her mouth claiming his like someone trying to memorize the shape of something that would be gone come morning. Like she was certain this was all she was allowed. All she'd get. And she was going to burn herself into it anyway.

  Andy didn't resist.

  He let her kiss him as though the world might end. But his hands never pushed. He let her lead, his body curved around her panic like a shelter. Letting her take whatever she needed from the moment. When she finally pulled back, breath ragged, eyes wide, her mouth trembling slightly — Andy just looked at her, steady and unshaken. "Tell me what you don't care about," he asked quietly. "Please."

  Summer's voice shook. "I don't care if you're using me," she said, barely above a whisper. "If you're lying. If this is just a game to you. If none of it's real." The words tumbled out, raw and hollow. She couldn't look at him.

  "I don't care," she said again, like if she said it enough, it might become true. "I just — " Her voice broke. "I want something. For once. Just for me." The silence afterward was unbearable. She waited for him to pull away, to laugh, to confirm all her worst thoughts. To vanish. Or worse — stay, but colder.

  But Andy didn't move. He just looked at her, expression unreadable for a moment. Then — softly, "Summer." He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear with slow fingers. "You're allowed to want something real," he said. "You're allowed to want me."

  Summer shook her head, her eyes shining. "I'm not," she said quietly. "I'm not." Her voice was steady, but there was sorrow in it — an old, familiar ache worn into her bones like a childhood lullaby. Not dramatic, just true, the way gravity is true. "Not girls like me. Not the ones who fall apart in public gardens and drag strangers home in the rain."

  Andy's breath caught, but she went on.

  "But... right now," she whispered, curling her fingers into the fabric of his coat, "I'll pretend I am." She leaned into him again, slow this time, not with desperation but with a shaky kind of grace. Like someone stepping into water they knew would be cold, but doing it anyway.

  Andy's arms came around her, steady, sure. Not possessive — just present. Anchoring.

  Her hands found the buttons of his coat — hesitant, trembling slightly. Her fingers brushed over dark lapels, undoing each button like a countdown. The fine stitching, the sharp lapels — none of it made sense in the context of her living room, and maybe that's why it worked. He didn't belong here, not really, and yet he chose to stay.

  He let her unfasten him slowly. His gaze never left her.

  She pushed back the coat and found soft, high-collared linen beneath it, laced high at the throat. And then her fingers hit the resistance: the taut, laced structure beneath his shirt. She hesitated.

  Andy inhaled, soft and shallow. "It's a corset," he murmured, voice low and even. "I wear it sometimes. I like the control."

  Her fingers hovered at the hem of his shirt, and then he moved — not forward, but under. His hands, warm and slow, slid beneath her own top, not pulling, not demanding, just... settling. His palms found the curve of her waist, the bare skin of her back. He held her like she might splinter if he pressed too hard — and maybe she would have.

  With gentle fingers, she began unfastening the buttons of his shirt, slowly revealing the lacing beneath. The linen pulled aside, soft as fog, and the smooth lines of the corset came into view, hugging him in careful lines from rib to waist. She exhaled softly. She'd pushed aside linen and embroidery expecting warmth and skin and instead found boning and silk, delicate hooks and taut ribbons.

  Andy watched her quietly, his hands still under her shirt, fingertips resting gently on the soft small of her back. He didn't move, didn't speak, letting her take it in.

  "It's... " Summer whispered, almost dazed, "... beautiful."

  The corset gleamed softly in the low lamplight. Black, embroidered with tiny silver leaves. It didn't belong to the man she thought she'd kissed — it belonged to something mythic, something theatrical, someone far more composed than the girl in her bohemian pants and rain-damp hair.

  But it was still him.

  Andy raised one brow, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips, though his voice was gentle when he asked, "Is it too much?"

  Summer looked up at him, brows knit, lips parted like she had a question but didn't know how to ask it.

  "I thought... " She hesitated, her voice small, unsure. "I thought only women wore corsets."

  Andy didn't flinch. He just smiled, soft and understanding, and brushed his thumb over her side. "A common thought," he said mildly. "But not a rule."

  Her gaze fell again to the corset, the embroidery, the delicate tension of it. It was so unlike what she'd expected. So unlike him, and yet not at all. It was dramatic. Mysterious. Beautiful. Like he was.

  She swallowed. "Is this what people... want?" Her voice was barely audible. "From... people... like you?"

  Andy tilted his head, regarding her with something like tenderness. "Courtesan. Some want illusion. Some want surprise. Some want the whole performance. Sometimes," he added, voice lower, almost a murmur, "they just want to be seen by someone they think understands beauty."

  "And what about you?" she asked, still uncertain. "What do you want?"

  He paused, gaze settling on hers. "You," he said simply. "I want you to look at me and not stop."

  Summer sat frozen, hands curled in her lap and eyes wide, as Andy unfolded himself from the floor. His coat whispered off his shoulders with the sweep of his arms — elegant even in silence. He draped it carefully over the arm of the couch before standing tall again, dark hair falling over one eye, lips curved into something delicate and tentative.

  Then, without a word, he lifted his hands to the front of his corset. Each hook he undid was patient, measured. Not a performance, not a seduction, not a practiced artifice — but something quieter. Honest. The faintest tremble of vulnerability clung to the edges of his grace.

  The fabric slackened. The silk softened. His breath eased.

  And beneath the corset, he was... still Andy. The same expressive eyes. The same lithe lines. The same pale skin, now revealed to be etched in black, tattooed lines. But there was something profoundly human in the slow reveal — not costume, not mystery, just him. His voice, when it came, was quiet. "Still want to see me?"

  A faint smile flickered at the corners of Summer's mouth as she nodded, eyes still tracing the lines of him — now more real, more reachable than before. "I liked the corset," she said softly, a little breathless, a little embarrassed. "It was beautiful. You were beautiful in it."

  Andy's gaze didn't waver, but something warmer settled in his expression, something softening.

  "But this... " she continued, gesturing lightly toward him, her voice hesitant but sincere. "This is beautiful too. Maybe more." She hesitated, then added with a nervous laugh, "Honestly, I think you could wear a sack and still somehow be the most attractive person I've ever seen."

  He chuckled at that, his head tilting slightly. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, amused. "Though I don't think burlap is really my colour."