While Summer returned to her workday, hair loosely braided over one shoulder, Andy ambled into the kitchen. It still smelled faintly of lunch and something like warmth. He wiped down the counter, stacked the dishes in the washer, and returned the sandwich ingredients to the fridge with exaggerated delicacy, as though performing an offering to the gods of domestic harmony.

  He paused at the door on his way out, watching Summer for a moment. She had one leg tucked under her, eyes narrowed slightly at her screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. Completely focused. Entirely beautiful. He kissed the top of her head gently, then her cheek. "Back in a bit," he murmured.

  "Don't speed," she said, without looking up.

  "I'm a safe menace," he promised, and slipped out.

  The drive to his apartment was a blur of late afternoon sunshine and half-hummed music. He hadn't exactly planned to spend Thursday night curled up in Summer's bed, after a demanding patron and hours spent locked into a role.

  But Summer had invited him so simply. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be there. She saw him, not the painted fantasy. So he'd found himself in her arms, being gently undressed and led into the shower, coaxed into comfort. She hadn't flinched. She hadn't blinked. She'd just seen him. And she'd loved him, quietly, simply, the way some people turned on a lamp.

  But now he looked like a rumpled version of his Thursday-night self, and he couldn't very well take her to a couture boutique in this. She deserved better. So he hit the gas just a little harder as he sped toward his apartment, the mental list already forming — hot water, clean clothes. He needed both if he was going to do this properly.

  This, of course, being whisking Summer away like the chaotic prince she deserved.

  Back at his apartment, he shed the very last remnants of the night before, stripping everything off and stepping into a steaming-hot shower. The scent of makeup and sweat and someone else's perfume washed down the drain. When he stepped out, he felt like himself again — fresh, clean, heart still humming.

  He opened his closet, considering. Nothing too stiff. Nothing too studied. He pulled out soft black jeans, a storm-grey shirt that clung to his shoulders, and the narrow leather cuff Summer had complimented once. The kind of outfit that made him feel like the man who'd watched her try on a corset in his closet and called her his Persephone. The man who was going to watch her bloom.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Andy slipped his phone into his pocket, still grinning, and grabbed his keys. As he locked the apartment and headed down the stairs, he ran through options in his mind. She'd said she'd never tried on couture. That had to change tonight. Somewhere tucked away, quiet, with champagne on offer and attentive staff. Somewhere they'd take one look at her and recognize what he already knew — that she belonged in silk and starlight.

  On the way back, he pulled into a little corner florist he'd passed a hundred times but never entered. Inside, the air was cool and fragrant, heavy with blooms. The shopkeeper greeted him with a curious look, her gaze flicking over his outfit with mild intrigue. Andy offered a lazy smile. "Something dramatic but not too stiff. Romantic but not sappy. She's brilliant and kind and way out of my league."

  The woman raised a brow, amused. "Got just the thing."

  He left five minutes later with a bundle of fresh-cut alstroemeria and dark red ranunculus wrapped in soft parchment. He'd added a single white rose to the centre. Then, on impulse, one sprig of spearmint. They were wild, striking, not too polished — like something that belonged in an old painting or a shadowy fairytale. Perfect.

  By the time he pulled up in front of Summer's apartment, the scent of the mint had risen just enough to make him grin. It wasn't a grand gesture. Not diamonds. Not even velvet. But it was thoughtful, and him, and hers.

  He climbed the stairs two at a time, balancing the bouquet carefully, anticipation curling through him like smoke. She had forty-five minutes left in her workday — and then, he intended to sweep her into a whole different kind of fairytale.

  The door gave under his hand — it was still unlocked. Andy eased it open and stepped inside, greeted by the warmth of late afternoon light and the scent of sun-warmed books. He toed off his boots and padded in on silent feet, holding the bouquet lightly.

  The apartment was quiet except for the soft click of Summer's keyboard from her desk in the other room. Her voice came, low and professional, responding to something on a call. He didn't want to interrupt — not yet.

  So he made himself wait.

  Andy set the bouquet in a drinking glass — her mugs were all charming but not quite right for flowers — and left it on the edge of the kitchen counter where she'd see it the moment she came down the hall. Then he flopped dramatically onto the couch, flinging one arm over his eyes like a martyr and sighing just loud enough that no one could accuse him of being quiet about it.

  Still, Summer didn't come. The minutes stretched, long and lazy. He scrolled his phone, browsed another couture boutique to bookmark, then gave up and simply watched the door to her little home office. Occasionally, her chair squeaked. Once, she laughed, and the sound made him smile instinctively.

  At minute thirty-five, he draped himself across the couch like a painting titled Mildly Starving Victorian Boyfriend Denied Affection.

  At minute thirty-eight, he shifted, sighed, and muttered dramatically, "Cruelty."

  At minute forty, on the dot, her chair scraped and footsteps approached.

  Andy smoothed his hands over his pants, heart kicking up just a little.

  He didn't call out.

  He wanted to see if she'd find him first.