Summer lowered her hands from her face slowly, watching the way Andy stood there without a shred of self-consciousness, body limned in shadow and warm lamplight. The dress she wore shifted softly against her skin as she moved — light as breath, cool as water. She wasn't used to being the one in control of the reveal.

  "You remember the other week," she began, her voice cautious, almost tentative. "After your, uh..." she coughed delicately, looking anywhere but at his bare body. "Your library rendezvous."

  Andy turned, brows lifted in a quiet question. "The Regency one?"

  "You came back late," she continued. "You didn't say much, just flopped on my couch like you'd fought a war. But I remember what you were wearing. That — " she hesitated, glancing at the floor, then back at him, "that black waistcoat with the silver buttons, the silk cravat, and those — " she half-laughed, shaking her head, " — those ridiculous tight trousers you somehow made look like sin."

  Andy blinked, then his mouth curled in something slow and wicked. "Ah. The forbidden library fantasy."

  Summer flushed. "I wasn't going to call it that."

  "You should've. It's accurate." He crossed to the closet again, still barefoot, his inked shoulders flexing as he reached up. "That look?"

  She folded her arms, partly because she felt cold without his warmth nearby, partly to resist how easily he could fluster her. "It was... dramatic. But beautiful. Romantic. Like something from a dark fairytale."

  Andy's smile softened. "You liked it."

  "I did," she admitted. "Even if I was pretending not to stare when you walked in."

  "Well, in that case." He pulled out a hanger, examined a long dark coat, and discarded it. "No reason to let that energy go to waste tonight." He knelt by one of the lower drawers and drew out the waistcoat she'd mentioned. It shimmered faintly, dark silk brocade with gleaming buttons, already shaped to his lean torso.

  Summer came closer, steps slow, and touched the fabric where it hung from his hand. "Is it okay if I ask you to wear this? Even if it reminds you of work?"

  Andy straightened, letting the waistcoat drape over one arm. He looked at her for a moment, then stepped in and kissed her forehead.

  "I'd wear anything for you," he murmured, "but especially this. Because when you saw it, it wasn't work. It was me, tired and barefoot, curling up on your sofa."

  Summer smiled shyly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "And now you'll be my dark academia date in our imaginary ballroom."

  Andy pulled her in closer, waistcoat still hanging loosely in one hand, the other sliding gently to the small of her back. "All your fantasies are welcome here, Summer. Even the ones you're still afraid to say out loud."

  She leaned into him, heart fluttering under silk and chiffon. "I'll keep that in mind."

  "Good." He kissed her once, soft and unhurried. "Now help me get dressed. I've got a reputation to uphold as the scandalously overdressed consort of a goddess."

  Andy let the kiss linger just long enough to make her toes curl, then eased back with a look of playful purpose. "Alright," he said, stepping back again. "Let's do this properly."

  He moved with the slow, methodical grace she was coming to recognize — like someone used to rituals, to the theatre of transformation. From the closet, he drew out a tailored linen shirt with narrow cuffs and a subtle pearl sheen. "Too much?" he asked, holding it up.

  Summer stepped closer and ran her fingers down the sleeve. "No. That... that's perfect."

  Andy nodded once, pleased, and began to dress — every motion smooth and unhurried. He buttoned the shirt, leaving his collar open, then pulled on the waistcoat. The silver buttons caught the light as he fastened them one by one.

  "What next, darling?" he asked, his voice low, accenting the role with just a touch of aristocratic mischief.

  Summer glanced at the array of accessories tucked into a narrow drawer. "There was a cravat last time. But maybe... not black this time?"

  Andy crouched again and drew out a soft cravat in sea-glass blue shot through with green threads, the silk nearly the same tone as her dress. He held it up with a questioning glance.

  She nodded slowly. "That one."

  He wrapped it around his throat and tied it with practised ease, letting the tails fall artfully against the waistcoat. The colour shimmered like ocean light against the dark brocade, making Summer's breath catch. She hadn't expected how much it would move her, seeing him so carefully dress to match her — not just coordinate, but compliment her, as though she were the star of a painting and he its perfect contrast.

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  Next came the trousers, black and fitted with a faint woven pattern only visible when he turned just so. Then the knee-length coat — a frock style with a high collar, a subtle green lining hidden beneath the folds, and embroidered silver stitching at the cuffs and hem. When he slipped it on, it transformed the whole ensemble into something out of time.

  Lastly, he knelt and pulled out a pair of gloves — also black, nearly-solid lace. Summer bit her lip, watching him slide them on, over those long elegant fingers. It brought back vivid sense memories of those hands on her skin, and she felt her face heat.

  Andy turned to face her, adjusting his cuffs with unhurried grace. "Well, my lady?" he asked, eyes fixed on hers. "Do I look like I belong at your side in whatever opulent, imagined ballroom you've conjured for us tonight?"

  Summer could only nod for a moment. "You look... like a story," she said quietly. "Like the one every girl reads and never expects to meet in real life."

  Andy's mouth curved again, a quieter smile this time. "Then it's working." He offered her his hand. "May I have this dance, Summer?"

  She stepped forward, placing her hand in his. "In the library or the ballroom?"

  He leaned in, voice a velvet whisper. "Why not both?"

  Andy's fingers curled gently around hers, warm and steady, but his expression shifted as he looked at her — not into character, not yet. For a beat, he just looked at Summer. As if he were storing up every detail: the way the chiffon drifted like mist around her legs, how the blue-green silk caught the glow of the lamplight and made her eyes seem otherworldly. How she was trying so hard not to fidget in something clearly made for marble mannequins, not warm-blooded women.

  "This doesn't feel like work," he said softly. "Not even close."

  Summer looked up at him, lips parting slightly.

  "Sometimes the patrons want a role," Andy continued. "Sometimes they want a mask." His thumb brushed over the back of her hand. "But you... you want me. That changes everything."

  He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them, not with irony or performance, but with something old-fashioned and unguarded. Then, with a subtle shift of posture and gleam in his eyes, he changed.

  Suddenly, it wasn't Andy in front of her — it was a dangerous kind of lord, born of scandal and shadows, someone who kept secrets in the folds of his coat and sins in his smile. A man who haunted the forbidden wings of ancestral estates and never asked permission before tempting a lady from her senses.

  He circled her slowly, letting his fingertips brush the curve of her waist through the delicate silk. "My lady," he murmured, voice a rich purr. "You shouldn't be here after hours. The library is closed to visitors. Especially those dressed like sirens."

  Summer shivered, smiling despite herself. "Perhaps I got lost."

  "Oh no," he said, coming to stand behind her. His breath stirred her hair as his hands ghosted down her arms, stopping just above her elbows. "I think you came looking for trouble. The kind that turns pages into moans and dust into candlelight."

  She turned her head slightly, pulse fluttering. "And are you trouble, my lord?"

  Andy leaned closer, his mouth a whisper from her neck. "Ruin, more like. But the sort that asks very politely before undoing your corset."

  Her breath caught as he slipped an arm around her waist and turned her into a slow spin. He guided her gently, letting the dress fan around her like a wave, the cravat at his throat catching in the air. Then he pulled her close again, hand at the small of her back, the other cradling her fingers.

  "I'll never tire of this," he said quietly, tone suddenly breaking from the role, just for her. "Of seeing how you look when you let yourself believe in a little magic."

  Summer met his gaze, her voice a murmur. "You make it easy."

  His lips brushed her cheek, reverent and slow. "Then let me be your scoundrel prince tonight, sunshine. Just until morning."

  And with the hush of silk and velvet between them, Andy began to dance with her, the two of them alone in an imagined ballroom — one born of dusk and dreaming, where no one else would ever be invited.

  The music, if there was any, lived only in the hush of fabric and breath — the swish of her hem brushing the floor, the faint creak of floorboards beneath their feet, the rustle of his coat as he turned them slowly, deliberately, around the room, down the hall, through the apartment. Andy moved with an elegance born of muscle memory, but his touch was present, immediate — every movement shaped for her, not performance.

  His hand stayed firm at the small of her back, guiding her with studied grace, while the other curled protectively around her fingers. He didn't lead so much as invite, pulling her gently through an invisible rhythm that matched the heartbeat in her ears.

  Summer's voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper. "Have you ever done this before?"

  He gave her a roguish glance, chin dipped slightly. "Danced in a fantasy library with a goddess wearing the sea? Can't say that I have."

  She smiled, but he caught the doubt that flickered beneath it. Andy slowed their steps and brought her hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. "You think this is just another costume. But it isn't — not tonight. This isn't for anyone else. No patron. No curtain. Just us."

  Her eyes searched his, uncertain, caught between enchantment and disbelief.

  He bent his head slightly, the tip of his nose brushing her temple. "I meant what I said. You're the first person who's ever wanted me at the centre of the dream. Not just the mask. Not just the illusion." A pause, then, quieter, "I don't want to be a fantasy with you. I want to be real."

  Summer's throat tightened, the softness of his voice threading into something tangled and warm behind her ribs.

  Andy took a slow breath, then straightened a little. The mischievous gleam returned, but it was gentler now, as if he were offering her a secret rather than a seduction. "Now. Shall we resume our scandalous waltz before the footmen return and find us in breach of at least five decency laws?"

  She laughed, breath catching on it. "Five? I assumed at least eight."

  Andy arched a brow. "Ah, you are a dangerous woman."

  "You brought me here."

  "And I regret nothing."

  He spun her then, not fast, but enough to make the skirt of her gown flare in a shimmer of moonlit silk. When he caught her again, he dipped her low, one gloved hand firm behind her back, the other steady in hers.

  Summer clutched his shoulder, half breathless. "If this is what your galas are like, I might survive one."

  He leaned in, lips brushing her jaw. "My dear, they'll be dull in comparison."