Summer's fingers fumbled with the key as the chill crept into her bones. The quiet between them had settled, thick with everything unspoken. She barely noticed the way Andy kept the umbrella tilted just right, sheltering her from the worst of the rain.

  When she finally got the door unlocked, she stood there for a moment, blinking against the sudden warmth of her apartment. Her mind caught up with her actions, and she quickly said, "Um, if you want to, you could come in for a minute. Just to dry off, I guess. Not — uh, not like that. Just... " She trailed off, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, mortified by how she'd blurted it out.

  Andy didn't laugh or tease her, though. His smile was warm, almost fond, and there was something gentle in his eyes. She saw now, in the light, that they were blue. Almost startlingly so. "I'd like that," he said simply, his voice low and calm. He stepped inside after her, the umbrella closing with a soft snap as he set it aside.

  He paused just inside the door. He hadn't really seen her before — not truly. The garden had been shadowed by cloud and leaf, colours mostly faded to indistinct shades of grey. But now, the soft golden light from a modest lamp spilled over her.

  Her eyes were the first thing he noticed: hazel-green and luminous, ringed faintly red from crying, but still fiercely intelligent. They flicked up to meet his, shy and awkward but without judgment. That hit him harder than he expected — how she looked at him as if he were a person, not an object or an idea.

  Then there was her hair. Copper, long enough to brush her knees, damp and waving even caught in a fraying braid. She didn't seem to notice how striking she looked — she was pulling off her shoes, apologizing for the mess, trying to be a good hostess when she was the one who had been crying in the rain. That contrast — between wild beauty and humble kindness — stilled something deep in him.

  And there, just under all that, was something he recognized in her: loneliness. The kind that matched his. Not in the tragic, performative way he saw so often, but something quieter. Like an ache neither of them had words for.

  That was the moment he knew he couldn't just walk away from her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Summer's heart raced. She hadn't expected it to be this easy, this natural — having him here, in her space, when all she'd ever wanted was to retreat from the world. The awkwardness she felt was starting to settle around her like an uncomfortable cloak. She wasn't sure how to make him feel welcome without letting her own nervousness show too much. "Let me grab a towel," she mumbled, her voice a little too high as she stepped into the bathroom.

  Andy watched her go.

  When she returned, she held one towel out to Andy, avoiding his gaze as she did. "Here. You can use this."

  Andy took it with a small smile, clearly sensing her discomfort but not pressing on it. "Thanks," he said, his voice warm. He stood there for a moment, towel in hand, before glancing around her apartment — small, but cozy, with soft lighting, overstuffed seating, and walls lined with shelves. "You've got a nice place," he remarked, as he started to dry his black hair, his movements slow and careful.

  Summer shrugged, glancing at the towel still clutched in her hands. "It's... home, I guess." The space felt so different now that he was in it. She wasn't sure what to say next. Instead she fled again, into her bedroom, grateful for an excuse to escape the sudden flutter of nerves. Hurriedly she pulled off her damp skirts and swapped them for a pair of soft, dry, wide-legged pants.

  When she returned to the living room, she found Andy sitting cross-legged on the floor, a book in his hands and a slow smile playing on his lips. He looked up as she entered, eyes bright with curiosity.

  "You've got quite the collection," he said, nodding toward her crowded shelves. "I can see why you like rainy days."

  Summer bit her lip, feeling warmth spread through her chest. "Yeah, they're... quieter. Easier to get lost in something else."

  Andy closed the book gently, replacing it where he found it. "If you ever want someone to get lost with, I'm pretty good company."

  She managed a laugh, the tension easing between them. "Maybe I'll hold you to that." She sat cross-legged on the rug a few feet from him. She watched Andy quietly, her eyes tracing the way he rested so easily among her things — as if he belonged here. As if it was normal, this strange, rain-drenched evening with a stranger who was far too beautiful to be real.

  His words lingered, though. If you ever want someone to get lost with, I'm pretty good company.

  She twisted a loose thread at the edge of the rug. "How would that even work?" she asked, her voice quiet, uncertain. "This was just... luck. A random night. You could disappear, and I'd never know how to find you again."

  Andy tilted his head, watching her with a softness that didn't feel practiced. "Do you want to find me again?"

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  Her breath caught in her throat. "I don't know," she whispered honestly. "I want to believe in... things like this. That someone would want to stay. But it's hard to trust it when it feels like maybe you're just being kind. Just passing through."

  He didn't speak right away. Just looked at her, really looked. "Maybe I was meant to be passing through," he said at last. "But maybe I'd rather stay. If I'm wanted."

  "I want you."

  The words slipped out before she could stop them — bare, breathless, true. Her eyes widened as they hit the air between them, and then she groaned and grabbed the nearest throw blanket off the back of the couch, pulling it over her head like a shield against her own mortification.

  Andy blinked, and then laughed — soft and delighted, not mocking. "Well, that's one way to say it."

  A muffled groan came from beneath the blanket. "I meant — company. I meant — ugh. Never mind."

  "You meant you want me," he teased gently, leaning an elbow on the arm of the couch like he might coax her out with charm alone. "You could've said it worse. You didn't, like, trip and fall into my arms dramatically or something."

  Summer peeked out from under the blanket just far enough to glare at him with one eye. "That could still happen."

  "Noted." Andy grinned, warm and wicked and oddly tender. "I'll be ready." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming as he watched the blanket tremble slightly with her embarrassment. "You know," he said lightly, "my job is to be wanted like that."

  The shape of her under the throw stilled.

  "How could I be upset with you for reacting the way I'm literally meant to make people react?" His voice was teasing, but not cruel — there was kindness threaded through the laugh beneath it. "It'd be like a musician getting mad that someone liked their song."

  Summer peeked out again, red-faced but slightly less mortified. "... That doesn't make it less embarrassing."

  "No," Andy agreed, "but it does make it kind of sweet." He reached over and tugged the edge of the throw gently, just enough to uncover her face. "And it makes me feel like I'm doing something right."

  Summer blinked up at him, her face still half-buried in the blanket, her voice awkward and rushed as she tried to untangle the swirl of thoughts in her head. "I — I offered to see you," she mumbled. "Not... not to lust after you. That's not the same. It's important to me that it's not the same."

  Andy stilled in his turn, the teasing edge in his smile softening into something quieter.

  "I don't want to be like the people who hire you," she said, pulling the blanket down to her shoulders. "Not because I think they're bad or wrong, I just — I don't want to treat you like you're just something beautiful to look at. I don't want to want you because you're good at being wanted."

  He sat back, lips parted slightly, as if caught off guard — not in a bad way, but in a way that suggested maybe people didn't say things like that to him very often.

  "I'm sorry," she added, gaze dropping. "I just — had to say it. Even if it makes me sound ridiculous."

  Andy leaned forward again, resting his arms on his knees, expression unreadable but intent. "You don't sound ridiculous," he said. "You sound... kind. And like someone I'd like to be seen by."

  Summer's breath caught again, too many feelings too fast, but she made herself meet his eyes. "What do you see," she asked quietly, "when you look at me?"

  There was a beat of silence. Not because he didn't know what to say — but because he didn't want to say it lightly.

  Andy's voice, when it came, was softer than she'd heard it so far. "I see someone who didn't look away when I told her the truth. Someone who cried in the dark and didn't pretend she hadn't. Someone who still offered to see me, even when she thought she had no right."

  He smiled faintly, almost like it hurt to do it. "I see someone I wish I'd met a long time ago."

  She believed him. That much was clear in the way her eyes shimmered, too wide and too raw to be doubting. But she sat there, motionless under the blanket, her hands curled tight in the fabric, like she didn't know what to do with something so gently given.

  Summer swallowed. "I don't... I don't know how to carry that."

  Andy nodded slowly. "You don't have to. Not all at once." He leaned back, giving her space again, his voice quieter still. "You can just... let it sit. Like a candle you don't have to touch, just watch."

  A silence settled between them. Not heavy. Not awkward. Something suspended and cautious, like both of them were afraid to breathe too loud.

  Summer finally spoke, her voice almost a whisper. "Do you... want to stay a while?"

  Andy gave her a soft smile. "I'd like that."

  As the quiet stretched between them, warm and tentative, Andy looked toward her bookshelf again, then back at her. "What's your favourite?" he asked softly. "Book, I mean."

  Summer blinked, momentarily thrown by the simplicity of the question. "Oh. Um... it depends."

  Andy smiled. "That's a good sign already."

  She shifted, pushing the blanket off her shoulders, her voice steadier now. "Right now... maybe Cast in Shadow. Or Elantris. Or Kushiel's Dart — it changes."

  "Do you like stories with magic?" Andy asked, genuinely curious.

  She nodded. "But the kind where it's quiet. Strange. Hidden. Not fireballs or wands — just something... other, beneath the surface."

  He tilted his head. "Like a courtesan in a midnight garden."

  That got the faintest laugh out of her, surprised and soft. "Exactly."

  He ran a finger down the spine of a well-worn book on the shelf. "I like the ones where someone's pretending to be something they're not," he said. "But someone sees through it. Or sees them, anyway."

  Summer looked at him for a long moment. "That makes sense."

  "Doesn't it?"

  Her fingers drifted along the books' edges like old friends, her touch reverent and absent-minded all at once. The way she smiled at the spines — small, fond, private — made the moment feel suddenly sacred, like he was looking into a chapel built out of pages and longing.

  Andy watched her in silence for a few seconds too long, the hush between them shifting again — this time carrying weight, and maybe a little ache. "Can I ask you something?" he said gently.

  She turned, the softness still on her face, though her eyes held a flicker of wariness. "Okay."

  "When was the last time you were kissed?"

  Her breath caught, barely audible, and the warmth on her face changed colour — part startle, part memory, part something tenderer. "A while," she admitted, voice quiet. "Not because I didn't want to be. Just... no one wanted me, that way. Or maybe they did, and I didn't believe them. I don't know."

  Andy nodded slowly, his voice careful. "Would you want to be?"

  Summer hesitated. Then, bravely: "By you?"

  He held her gaze, letting the silence answer before he did.

  "Yes."