The moment Andy heard his own words, he stopped cold.

  His bare feet planted on the cool wood floor, heart abruptly hammering in his chest. He blinked once. Twice. Then just stood there, stunned by the echo of his own voice in the quiet apartment.

  I'm going to marry her.

  It wasn't a joke. It hadn't sounded like a joke. His voice had gone soft, sure, almost reverent. The same tone he used when whispering her name against her shoulder, when watching her stretch in the morning light, when brushing her hair back from her temple as she read on his couch.

  But marriage?

  He hadn't even thought about that yet — had he?

  Except maybe he had. In a dozen unconscious ways. He'd bought her a bookcase. He'd started keeping her favourite kind of tea stocked in the cupboard, picked up the shampoo she liked without asking, memorized the settings on his shower so she wouldn't have to fiddle with it. He had created a quiet little space in his life where she belonged, and she had walked into it like she was always meant to.

  And he hadn't run from any of it.

  He swallowed, slowly. One hand ran through his hair, then dropped to hang loose at his side.

  "I'm going to marry her," he said again, this time quieter, testing the weight of it.

  And oddly... it didn't feel like a panic. It didn't feel like too much.

  It felt like knowing.

  Just then, his phone buzzed with a text. His heart jumped. He snatched it up, grinning before he even looked.

  summer ? Leaving now. The little purple rocket is fuelled and loaded with books and irrational hope. See you in 25. ?

  Andy pressed the phone to his chest and exhaled a quiet laugh. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, sweetheart.”

  And then he went to brush his teeth again. Just in case.

  When he finally caught sight of the little purple coupe gliding up the street, his pulse jolted like a drumline going off in his chest. It wasn't the car — it was her, the way it moved as if it knew she was in it, vivid and a little shy and unpredictable. His throat went dry. He stepped back from the window, suddenly overtaken by a ridiculous urge to fix his shirt, or change it, or vanish entirely.

  He felt anxiety flood his chest, a tight, electric buzz under his ribs. He took one involuntary step back from the window, then braced a hand on the sill, breathing through his nose. His heart was hammering. His palms were sweaty. Every single thought in his head was a chorus of What if she hates it? What if she thinks the bookcase was too much? What if I'm too much?

  He shut his eyes for a moment and willed his breathing to slow. Come on, Knight. Get it together.

  But then another thought struck him, low and insistent, slipping beneath all the noise like a secret truth:

  Is this how she feels about me all the time?

  He imagined her, small hands gripping the steering wheel on her first solo drive to his place. Wondering if he'd still want her after seeing the books she bought. Trying to remember he might not be free every Friday. Asking, so carefully, if she could stay the weekend. As if it was something she had to earn.

  Andy's throat went tight. His hands relaxed their grip on the window frame.

  If this was what it felt like to love someone so much their opinion of your space, your effort, your existence could unmake you for a moment — then he owed her even more care than he'd already given. Because she must have felt this, and still come anyway.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The car door opened. She stepped out, shoving her sunglasses up into that familiar red hair, catching the sun like copper fire.

  Andy smiled, already moving for the front door. He took the stairs two at a time, barefoot, heart still doing a metalcore solo in his chest. He told himself it was just in case Summer needed help carrying something — bags, books, that fancy dress. Or maybe her self-confidence, he thought dryly, remembering how she sometimes masked nerves behind quick sarcasm and shy smiles.

  She caught sight of him and smiled — small, crooked at the corners, a little breathless. She looked radiant and composed in that slightly frazzled way she had when she wasn't sure how she looked at all. Mischief glinted in her eyes, but so did something softer, almost shy. That particular blend of expressions did something catastrophic to his insides.

  Summer pulled the driver's seat forward and retrieved the boutique bag with deliberate care. She held it out to him like a secret offering, and when their eyes met, she gave him a glance that was both shy and mischievous — a flash of self-awareness in the curl of her lips, like yes, this is ridiculous, yes, it's also a little romantic, yes, I'm letting you carry the thing you bought me because it means something.

  "For you," Summer said, dry as anything, but her cheeks were definitely pink. "Since you love it so much."

  Andy grinned, taking the box with exaggerated reverence. "I'll treasure it always. Put it in my will. Here lies Andy Knight — survived by one stunning dress and the woman who tolerated him."

  Her laugh was small and silvery. Then she bit her lip, eyes searching his face, and he didn't miss the flicker of nerves there — the way she hovered a fraction behind herself.

  "You're sure about this?" she asked, meaning me, here, your space.

  Andy stepped in closer. "Only thing I'm more sure of is that you're going to end up taking over my bookshelves and never leaving."

  She tilted her head. "That sounds like a threat."

  "It's definitely a promise."

  And he offered her his free hand — not to carry anything else, but just for her.

  Summer set her bag down gently at the foot of the bed, the leather brushing softly against the wood floor. She took a breath like she was about to say something — probably a wry comment or a question about where to put her toothbrush — but Andy didn't give her the chance.

  He was already stepping forward, arms curling around her waist with purpose. He pulled her in close, the dress bag still dangling from one hand, completely forgotten. She didn't resist. Her hands rose slowly to rest against his chest, fingertips brushing over the line of his collarbone.

  "You're really here," he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.

  She smiled, that quiet, luminous thing he was beginning to crave. "You saw me park, didn't you?"

  "Doesn't mean it feels real." His voice had gone soft. "I've wanted this for weeks. You, here. Just you."

  Summer leaned up and kissed the tip of his nose, making him blink. "You're clingy," she teased.

  Andy grinned without letting go. "I'm in love. It's allowed."

  He kissed her temple, then her cheekbone, then the corner of her mouth, and finally her lips, slow and sweet. She sighed against him, curling in just a little closer.

  For a long moment, they stood there like that — no rush, no performance, just a quiet exhale of wanting and being wanted. Andy didn't say it, but this, right here, was what he'd wanted when he bought the bookcase. When he paced the floor waiting. When he'd dared to say I want forever.

  And in her arms, it felt just within reach.

  Summer slid her hands down from his chest and gently took the dress bag from Andy's hand. He let her, a little reluctantly, his arms falling away but his gaze lingering on her face.

  "I should hang this up," she said, voice hushed like the quiet had settled into her bones. She glanced down at the sleek black bag, then back up at him with something warm in her eyes. "Before we crush it doing something... impulsive."

  Andy's smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

  "I didn't say that," Summer murmured, brushing past him toward the closet. "I just said 'before.'"

  That made Andy laugh, low and delighted. He watched her find a place for the dress like it was a sacred object, her movements careful and composed — at odds with the sparkle of anticipation he could see dancing just beneath the surface. When she turned back around, he was leaning in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed, eyes on her like she was a puzzle he'd only just begun to solve.

  "You're dangerously good at this," he said.

  She raised a brow. "At what?"

  "Keeping me on the edge of my seat."

  Summer smiled as she crossed the room again, slower this time. "That's funny. I thought you liked it there."

  Before she could take another breath, Andy surged forward and swept her right off her feet, arms locking under her thighs and back with startling ease. She gave a startled laugh, caught between surprise and delight.

  "Andy!" she gasped, instinctively clutching at his shoulders as he grinned down at her, wicked and radiant.

  "You were saying something about impulsive?" he said, voice low and velvet-smooth. "Because I'm feeling deeply inspired right now."

  "You didn't even let me take off my shoes," she murmured, mock-scolding, though her arms wrapped around his neck with very little resistance.

  Andy carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed with theatrical flair. She bounced once, hair tumbling across her face, and stared up at him in amused shock as he followed her down with a slow, deliberate crawl.

  "Shoes can stay," he murmured, bracing himself above her. "You, on the other hand..."

  Her breath caught as his fingers brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

  "...are going to be the death of me."