The next week unfolded like the gentle settling of a rhythm neither of them had quite meant to establish — but neither of them could seem to resist.

  Andy stayed Sunday night, curled around Summer like a human heat source. She woke Monday with the echo of his warmth in the sheets beside her and the faintest scent of his cologne left behind — smoke and spice and something earthy she couldn't name but had already come to associate with him. When he stepped out of the shower, she was already staring at her computer screen, muttering darkly at lines of code and tapping the keys in a rapid staccato. He left a kiss on the crown of her head and slipped out without disturbing her flow, quietly delighted by how normal it was beginning to feel to leave from her place, to carry a trace of her scent in his hoodie as he walked back to his car.

  Monday night they stayed apart — Andy had a photoshoot to prepare for, and Summer sent him a photo of her tangled in blankets on the couch with her laptop. ? I'm not working, I promise, ? she texted, with a roguish smiley face that made Andy grin all through reviewing his patron's styling requests.

  Tuesday, he showed up late but unrepentant, having just finished a patron dinner that dragged long past polite. Summer pulled him in by the collar the moment he arrived. They barely made it to the couch. "I missed you," she whispered, nose buried in his neck.

  Andy murmured back, "I was starting to itch without you," like she was the only cure he knew. Afterwards, they curled up together, Summer murmuring that he didn't have to perform here, not even with charm. Still, he lit up the room with it anyway, just for her.

  He stayed again that night. No declarations. Just the way he shifted in bed so her smaller frame could tangle easily with his, the way he pressed a sleepy kiss to the top of her head when she turned into him.

  Wednesday night, she watched him work from her couch, his concentration fierce, all sharp edges and thoughtful silence, and she realized that even though they'd only known each other for such a short time, it felt deeper than it had any right to.

  When Andy looked up, sensing her gaze, he cracked a smile. "Stop staring. I'll get self-conscious."

  Summer shook her head, amused and a little more sure of herself than she was before. "You're just so... easy to look at," she teased. "It's not my fault."

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

  He raised an eyebrow, leaning back. "You flatter me."

  "No," Summer said softly, feeling like this was one of those moments. One of the ones that she had to commit to memory. "I'm serious. You're... just... you."

  He met her eyes, his grin slipping into something softer, something he couldn't quite hide anymore. "Well, lucky you, then."

  It wasn't every night — they both had lives, work, obligations — but they kept finding their way back to each other. A quiet pattern took hold: messages during the day, brief but knowing, like echoes of their conversations; long glances and lingering touches when they were near. Neither said it out loud yet, but the feeling built like a fire under the skin.

  They didn't talk about what they were building. Not yet. But the rhythm of them — coming together, parting again for work, slipping messages between meetings, voices sleepy in the dark — felt like something real. Something steady. Something theirs.

  * * *

  Thursday night, Andy dressed carefully, each item donned with ritual precision. The patron had been clear in her request — Regency gentleman, all pressed waistcoat and propriety, with the slow-burn tension of forbidden desire. She wanted to feel like a heroine in a gothic romance, swept into danger and delight by candlelight and innuendo.

  Andy could do that. He had a whole persona for this kind of request. He laid out the waistcoat, the ruffled shirt, the gleaming boots. Lace gloves. He tied the blood-red cravat last, his hands moving automatically.

  Still, as he adjusted his reflection in the mirror, the effect didn't spark the same thrill it once had. The illusion was intact. But his mind was elsewhere — back in Summer's apartment, where she curled into him after brushing her teeth with sleepy eyes and bare feet. Where they watched absurd videos and she paused her work just to touch his hand without thinking. He blew out a breath and straightened his cuffs.

  At her home, the patron greeted him with exacting anticipation. She'd dressed to match the fantasy — tight corset, high collar, bustled skirt, dark curls pinned just so. She gave him the once-over and nodded, satisfied. "Perfect," she said. "I want the library scene. The slow unravelling."

  Andy smiled with his mouth, but his mind flickered to Summer in his corset, the way she'd squirmed and smirked. The way she'd said, "Do you think I don't spoil myself?"

  He slid into Lord Ashbourne's character easily — it was muscle memory by now. The voice, the mannerisms, the heated glances from across the table, the tantalizing inching closer. The patron responded just as expected. He played the part with grace and style, saying all the lines she longed to hear. She was pleased, maybe even enchanted.

  But when it was over — when she lay back with a sated sigh and murmured, "You really are the best" — Andy only smiled gently, gathered his coat, and left without lingering.