He pulled her upright again and wrapped her into the soft press of his chest, resting his cheek against her temple. For a long moment, they simply swayed — no roles, no fantasy — just warmth and closeness in the quiet hush of an apartment turned ballroom.

  Then Andy murmured into her hair, "Next time, I'm lighting candles. And bringing a book of scandalous poetry."

  She smiled against his collar. "Victorian poetry?"

  "Is there any other kind worth whispering in your ear?"

  Summer let out a soft breath of laughter, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric at Andy's shoulder. "Actually," she murmured, voice muffled against his coat, "I was thinking Rumi."

  Andy leaned back just enough to see her face, brows lifting in surprise. "Rumi?" he echoed, tilting his head with genuine curiosity. "You mean 'The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you' Rumi?"

  Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she gave a shy, slightly crooked smile. "The very same."

  Andy let out a low whistle laced with admiration, then grinned in earnest. "I see. You're not just dangerous — you're a romantic philosopher in disguise."

  She shrugged, though the gesture was softened by the way her dress shifted like mist around her. "I just like the way he makes longing sound like an element — like fire or water. Something that just... is."

  Andy's expression softened further, the playful glint still there but tempered with something deeper. "That's beautiful," he said simply. "And fitting, since you've set me adrift like a lovesick sailor."

  Summer snorted, unable to stop herself. "A sailor, now?"

  "A rakish lord and a sailor. I contain multitudes." He leaned in, lowering his voice theatrically: "'I would trade every inheritance for a single glimpse of the moon on your shoulder — '"

  She smacked his chest lightly, laughing. "That's not even Rumi."

  "True, but he would have said it. Probably better." Andy beamed at her, still holding her close. "Say something else. Give me your favourite line."

  Summer hesitated, then, quietly: "'Don't you know yet? It is your Light that lights the worlds.'"

  Andy's grin faltered — not from lack of joy, but from the way it reached too deep for a clever response. He stared at her for a breath, then another, something unspoken and reverent gathering behind his eyes. "God, Summer," he said softly. "You always know how to knock the wind out of me."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She looked down quickly, but he brought his hand up to lift her chin with two fingers, eyes steady on hers.

  "You could ask me to build you a temple out of empty wine bottles and I'd do it, if you said it with that look in your eyes."

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Would you whisper poetry in it?"

  "I'd read every damn line of Rumi to the cracks in the plaster until the walls believed they were in love." A pause, softer now. "And then I'd read them again. Just for you."

  And then he kissed her — not as a rogue or a lord or a courtesan playing pretend — but as himself.

  When the kiss broke, it left them suspended in something warm and quiet, like the pause between verses. Andy lingered, his eyes half-lidded and unreadable for a heartbeat. Then the corner of his mouth curved — not into the gentle smile she was growing used to, but the sly smirk of the character he’d set aside.

  He straightened, brushing invisible dust from the cuff of his coat as he slid effortlessly back into the skin of the rakish Regency lord. "I should warn you," he said in a tone thick with mischief, "I’ve been accused — unjustly, of course — of corrupting impressionable ladies with poetry and candlelight."

  Summer narrowed her eyes, playing along. "And how many impressionable ladies have fallen victim to your... literary inclinations, my lord?"

  Andy’s grin sharpened. "Ah, none as clever as you. Most swoon far too easily. You, on the other hand, are proving delightfully resistant. It’s maddening. Irresistible."

  She stepped back just a half-pace, lifting her chin in mock defiance. "Maybe I’m simply unmoved by theatrics. Silk cravats and dark velvet do not a seduction make."

  He circled her again, slow as a tide, gaze lingering at her throat, the dip of her collarbone, the way the dress clung to her. "No," he agreed. "But longing and proximity do." He stopped behind her, close enough for his words to skim her shoulder. "And perhaps the promise of sin whispered between the pages of a forbidden book."

  Summer turned her head, feigning a yawn. "Hmm. Is that your best line?"

  Andy stepped in fully now, his chest against her back, the crisp front of his waistcoat brushing the softness of her gown. "Not even close," he murmured. "I’m saving the best for when you’ve run out of reasons to say no."

  She bit her lip, fighting a grin. "And if I never run out?"

  He leaned down, his lips barely grazing the shell of her ear. "Then I’ll make resisting me your favourite vice."

  Summer exhaled shakily, still pretending not to melt, though her fingers had curled around the edge of a chair for balance.

  Andy caught her hand and kissed her knuckles again, more slowly this time. "Shall we test your resolve, lady of the sea?"

  She tugged her hand away, haughty. "Only if you swear not to touch the poetry shelf."

  He gasped, scandalized. "Madam, I live for the poetry shelf."

  She turned, sweeping past him as though she hadn’t a care in the world, hips swaying beneath the chiffon. "Then you’ll have to earn it."

  His voice followed her like silk dragged across skin. "Oh, I intend to. Verse by verse, until your spine bends like a well-loved binding."

  Summer paused mid-step, choking on a startled laugh, cheeks flushing hot. "That is appalling," she managed.

  Andy only grinned wider. "And effective."

  She shot him a look over her shoulder, her eyes alight. "You’re impossible."

  He bowed, hand to heart. "And yours."

  This time, she didn’t pretend not to smile.