Afterward, Andy grinned as he wrestled himself back into his shirt, the buttons uneven at first until he noticed and fixed them. His hair was a sweet, wild mess around his face.

  Summer, sitting at the edge of the bed, back in her nightshirt, twisted her fingers together nervously. "Um... I was going to make some oatmeal. If you... if you want some."

  He glanced up at her, still fastening his belt, and softened immediately at the hopeful way she said it. "I'd love that," he said warmly.

  Summer ducked her head, embarrassed and secretly thrilled, and padded toward the kitchen. Andy followed, snagging his coat from where he had abandoned it on the back of the couch but not putting it on yet.

  As she busied herself at the stove, he leaned lazily against the counter. "Do you have coffee?" he asked after a moment, running his fingers absently through his hair.

  She smiled over her shoulder, a little sheepish. "I don't drink it."

  Andy blinked at her like she'd just said she didn't breathe air. Then he laughed — warm and real, and not even a little bit mocking. "Of course you don't," he said affectionately. "You're already a little miracle. You don't need the extra fuel."

  Summer's cheeks went pink, and she focused very hard on stirring the oatmeal so she wouldn't say something foolish. Andy just smiled, watching her move about her tiny kitchen, like somehow he belonged there too. He gave a lazy shrug, clearly enjoying the way her cheeks flushed instantly.

  "I guess no coffeeshop dates, then," he said, voice teasing but soft enough to leave room for hope.

  Summer almost dropped the spoon. She turned halfway to face him, eyes wide. "D-dates?!"

  He laughed again, this time with more tenderness than teasing. He crossed the tiny kitchen in two easy strides and gently took the spoon from her hand, setting it aside. "Yeah," he said, voice dropping low. "Dates. You know. Things people do when they want excuses to see each other."

  Summer stared at him, stunned. Her mouth opened, then closed again, completely bereft of words.

  Andy smiled crookedly and reached out to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Unless you don't want to," he added, almost lightly — but there was an edge of real vulnerability beneath it, barely hidden.

  "I... I want to," Summer said in a tiny voice. Then, braver, she lifted her chin a little. "I just didn't think someone like you would want that."

  "Someone like me?" Andy echoed, arching an eyebrow. "Summer, you're the one who feels like sunlight."

  She blinked hard against the sudden sting in her eyes, and Andy just smiled, slow and sure, like he had all the time in the world to convince her.

  They settled onto the couch, bowls of oatmeal in hand, their knees brushing lightly where they sat close. Summer found herself glancing at Andy more often than her food, still not quite believing he was really here — warm, real, tousled from sleep and still somehow devastatingly beautiful.

  Andy dug into the oatmeal without hesitation, letting out a soft, surprised sound. "Hey, this is actually really good," he said around a mouthful.

  Summer laughed under her breath, relief loosening the knot in her chest. "I live alone, I know how to survive."

  "You do more than survive," he said, so simply that it made her throat tighten.

  For a few moments, they ate in easy, companionable silence, the kind that felt full instead of awkward. Then Andy leaned back a little, turning so he could see her better. His blue eyes, clear and unguarded, searched hers.

  "When can I see you again?" he asked. No flirtation, no teasing — just a soft, earnest question that felt like it reached straight into her chest.

  Summer set her bowl down carefully on the coffee table, hands suddenly trembling just enough that she noticed. "You... you want to?" she whispered.

  Andy smiled, a little lopsided, a little shy. "Yeah, sunshine. I really do."

  Summer blinked at him, overwhelmed. She hadn't dared hope. Now, looking at him — at the way he waited, not pressing, not demanding — she realized maybe... maybe this was real after all. "I'd like that," she said, voice shaking. "I'd really like that."

  Andy beamed at her, and somehow, the morning light in the room seemed to get just a little bit warmer. "You didn't exactly answer my question, sunshine. When can I see you again?"

  Summer flushed, twisting the edge of her sleeve nervously. "Oh — right. I work an eight to four job. Um. Flexible schedule — I work from home half the week." She bit her lip, suddenly shy about sharing something so ordinary.

  Andy nodded thoughtfully. "So evenings, then? Maybe weekends too?"

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  She smiled shyly. "Yeah, that sounds... possible."

  He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Good. Because I'm planning to see you again. And soon." His smile softened as he leaned in just a bit closer. "How about Tuesday evening? I know it feels like a long wait, but — " He glanced away for a moment, then back at her, " — I've got an assignation tomorrow night."

  Summer's lips parted slightly, disappointed but understanding. "Tuesday... that's okay. I can wait."

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. "Good. Because I want to see you, Summer. Not as a job, not as a patron. Just... you."

  Her chest tightened, a mix of hope and nervousness swirling inside her. "Just me," she whispered.

  Andy nodded, his eyes warm and steady. "Just you."

  He lingered longer than he meant to, his thumb brushing circles over the back of Summer's hand. Every part of him rebelled against the thought of leaving — against the cool, empty distance that would stretch between now and Tuesday.

  Finally, with a soft, reluctant sigh, he stood. Summer rose too, fidgeting slightly, not meeting his eyes.

  He tipped her chin up with two fingers, searching her face, memorizing her. Then, without another word, he kissed her — hard, deep, filled with a yearning that neither of them dared to name yet. She clutched at his coat, clinging for a few desperate seconds before he slowly pulled away.

  Andy lingered in the doorway a heartbeat longer, his mouth quirking in a crooked smile, and then he turned and walked out, leaving Summer standing breathless and blinking in the silence of her apartment.

  He was two blocks away when he reached for his phone. It hit him like a punch — he didn't even have her number. No address saved, no way to reach her, not even a last name to track her down if she disappeared. Nothing but the memory of her sleepy smile and the echo of her kiss. He'd just assumed, somehow, that he could turn up again, knock on her door like some fool in a fairy tale.

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair. He hadn't thought — hadn't been able to think with the feel of her still all over him, the taste of her kiss still burning his mouth. He hadn't wanted to break the fragile, golden spell they'd woven between them.

  Now he stood on the curb like an idiot, phone in hand, heart thudding too fast with sudden nerves. He could go back. Knock again. Say he forgot something. But what if she thought that was weird? What if it scared her?

  Andy tipped his head back and groaned at the sky. He had never felt so much like a dumb teenager. "Brilliant, Knight. Real professional." For a long moment he just stood there, trying to think. Showing up without warning suddenly felt unbearably invasive. Yet what if she thought he didn't care enough to ask?

  Andy turned in a slow circle on the sidewalk, debating whether to go back right now, before he lost the chance entirely. Then he clenched his jaw and spun on his heel, marching back toward Summer's building.

  The memory of her — small and lost under the cold stars, huddled by that public bench — pressed against his ribs like a fist. She wouldn't assume he meant anything, not unless he showed her. Without a message, without even asking for her number, she'd convince herself he'd changed his mind. That it had been nothing but another cruel accident, another beautiful thing slipping out of reach.

  He couldn't let that happen. Not when he finally found someone whose heart didn't see him as a transaction.

  By the time he reached her door again, Andy's heart was hammering. He raised his fist to knock, then hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. Would she think he was being pushy? Would she be upset he'd come back without warning? Still — better that than leaving her to wonder.

  Andy knocked, soft but urgent. "Summer? It's me. I, uh... " He faltered, then huffed a breathless laugh at himself. "I forgot something important."

  The door creaked open, and there she was — barefoot, tangled red hair, her hazel-green eyes huge with startled hope. She'd put on clothes, some flowing bell-sleeved thing hanging loose on her small frame.

  Andy's heart twisted. She clutched her phone to her chest like a lifeline, and he caught a quick glimpse of the screen: a search page with his name typed in, incomplete, frantic.

  Summer opened her mouth, closed it again, looking embarrassed. "I — I was just..." She glanced down at her phone. Her voice was small. "Trying to find you."

  Andy's throat went tight. Without thinking, he stepped closer, sliding his hands gently around her face. "God, you're gonna wreck me," he murmured, and kissed her forehead, lingering. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "I came back for the same reason. I forgot to get your number. And I didn't want you thinking..." His voice softened. "Thinking I wasn't serious about Tuesday. Or about you."

  Summer's eyes stung with sudden tears. She laughed — a tiny, shaky sound — and offered him her phone. "You should... put it in. So I don't mess it up."

  Andy smiled, aching with tenderness, and took the phone carefully from her hands. He moved slowly, deliberately, making sure he wasn't rushing, letting the moment stretch out. When he finished, he sent himself a quick text from her phone, a simple message.

  andy ? hey, it's andy. this is my number ?

  He handed it back to her, and for a moment, their eyes locked again. There was something fragile between them, something powerful in its simplicity. "Now you'll have a way to reach me," Andy said quietly, his voice rough. He didn't want to leave, not after everything they'd shared the night before. It felt so natural now, like it was meant to be this way. "I'll be here. Tuesday, if you still want to see me."

  Summer's fingers trembled as she held the phone, staring at the message. Her heart was racing again, but it wasn't the panic of uncertainty this time. It was something else. Something almost like hope. "I'll be here," she whispered back, her voice small but steady. She looked up at him again, her gaze soft and warm. For the first time, it felt like she wasn't just reaching for something that could slip through her fingers.

  Andy's hand lingered on the doorframe for just a second before he turned away, his heart heavy with the truth that for the first time in a long time, he wasn't pretending to be something he wasn't. Not with her. And it was frightening in the best way. With one last lingering look, he stepped away from her door.

  Summer stayed by the window long after Andy stepped off the porch. The rain had stopped, and the sky was washed pale with morning sunlight. She watched him walk down the street, tall and steady, the slight bounce in his step betraying the weight of everything between them.

  Then, just as he reached the corner, he glanced back. Their eyes met across the distance, and for a heartbeat, everything else blurred out — the city noise, the fading chill of the night, the ghosts of doubt and fear. He saw her there, by the window, watching.

  With a slow, easy smile, he waved — quiet, unassuming, but full of promise.

  Summer's breath caught, and she lifted her own hand reflexively, a shy echo of his gesture.

  Then he turned again, disappearing down the street, but the warmth of that wave lingered with her, like a whisper of something new — something real — just beginning.