Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden. Summer was still curled in a deep, content sleep, her cheek resting against Andy's pillow, a hand tucked under her chin. The covers were half-twisted around her, and the oversized shirt she'd stolen from him had slipped down one shoulder.

  Moving with the quiet precision of someone used to leaving a bed without rustling the sheets, Andy slid out and pulled the blankets gently back over her shoulder. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep and rolled into the warm space he left behind. He smiled, standing still a moment just to watch her: copper hair spilled across the pillow, brow smooth, the faintest hint of a smile still playing on her lips from dreams he hoped he had something to do with.

  It was Memorial Day. No alarms. No obligations. And Summer, he'd quickly learned, liked to sleep in whenever she could. He wasn't about to interrupt that.

  Padding quietly across the bedroom, he pulled on a pair of soft lounge pants until he reached his wardrobe. A flicker of thought — no, not just thought, inspiration — rose to the surface. He remembered the books tucked low on one of Summer's shelves: Pride and Prejudice, The Grand Sophy, A Duke in Disguise. That little smile she got when she talked about the long glances and ballroom banter of regency stories. The longing tucked into those fantasies — not just for drama and gowns, but for a kind of power, a kind of choice.

  He'd teased her a little, playfully, but only once. Because truthfully? He got it. She liked yearning. Restraint and longing and the ache of brushed fingertips before everything finally unravelled into passion. It was all theatre, all story, and he loved story more than nearly anything.

  A slow smile curled across his lips.

  Friday, she'd requested his Regency persona. He'd gladly given it to her, for the joy on her face.

  He found what he needed with practised hands: cream linen shirt with billowy sleeves; deep emerald waistcoat with gold embroidery; tailored black trousers, narrow at the ankle. He dressed slowly, carefully, buttoning and layering, adjusting his cuffs just so. A cravat completed the look — tied deliberately loose, a whisper of dishevelment in an otherwise princely ensemble.

  He checked the mirror. With his tousled hair and a few rings left on for mischief, he looked like a rakish marquess who'd just stepped from the pages of one of her dog-eared novels — maybe the reformed scoundrel type, with too much charm and a secret fondness for poetry.

  Exactly right.

  But he thought of Summer's face, the way she looked at him when he let fantasy breathe into life, and he knew this wasn't for show — it was a gift. A gesture.

  He slipped back into the kitchen to pour a glass of her favourite juice blend. He arranged fruit and muffins on a little wooden tray, with one absurdly perfect rosebud in a slim vase (a leftover from a bouquet he'd used in a photo shoot last week), and set it on the dresser by the bed.

  Then, and only then, he sat on the edge of the mattress beside her and brushed a thumb lightly over her cheek.

  "My lady," he murmured in his most honey-smooth accent, pitched like something out of Austen. "The world awaits your grace. Or at least breakfast does."

  Summer stirred, groggy and warm and slow to open her eyes. "Mmm?"

  Andy leaned down and kissed her temple. "You're in no rush. But I've taken the liberty of preparing a scandalously early nineteenth-century morning for you."

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  She blinked up at him. And then her eyes widened. And her jaw dropped. "...Oh my God," she whispered.

  Andy smiled, all mischief and fondness. "Lord Ashbourne, at your service. And he's brought muffins."

  Summer stared, unblinking, mouth slightly open as her eyes travelled from Andy's tousled black hair — still damp at the edges from a quick rinse — to the loosely tied cravat, down to the precisely snug waistcoat and the linen shirt beneath, the sleeves rolled back just enough to reveal his forearms in a way that made her throat go dry.

  "Are you..." Her voice was scratchy with sleep. She blinked again. "Are you real right now?"

  Andy smirked, tilting his head as he folded his hands neatly behind his back in full Regency fashion. "I certainly hope so, or I've slipped into your dreams and now I'm merely a figment conjured by longing and too many late-night novels."

  She sat up slowly, dragging the blanket with her. "Oh my God, you even sound like one. This is illegal. I said this was illegal."

  He rose and offered a courtly half-bow, his smile softening. "Then I suppose I am once again guilty, and at your mercy."

  She reached out and ran a fingertip along the edge of his waistcoat, not quite believing what she was seeing — or feeling. "You're warm. That means you're real, right?"

  "Quite. I even warmed muffins and sliced strawberries. I fear no ghost could manage both."

  Summer bit her lip, eyes roving over him with awe and appreciation so clear it made Andy's breath catch. "You're in a whole outfit," she whispered. "You got up early and dressed like this... for me."

  He dropped the accent for a moment, voice quiet and honest. "Of course I did."

  And that was the part that undid her more than the cravat, more than the brocade, more than the dark gleam in his eyes. That he meant it.

  She threw herself back against the pillow with a groan. "You are such trouble. How am I supposed to recover from this?"

  Andy leaned down, kissed the side of her neck, and murmured, "You're not. That's rather the idea."

  Summer laughed, dazed. "Am I still dreaming?"

  He offered her a muffin half like it was a sacred offering. "Test it with carbs, my love. If it tastes real, I must be, too."

  She took the muffin, still staring at him like she was unsure if she should eat it or just cry from overwhelmed joy. "You read my bookshelf."

  "Carefully," Andy said, straightening again. "And I plan to read the rest. But first, I thought we might live a chapter or two."

  She reached for him without thinking, and he let her tug him down onto the mattress beside her. The linen was soft under her fingertips. He was warm, solid, ridiculous, and hers.

  Andy stayed reclined beside her, propped up on one elbow, watching her with that slow-burning gaze that always made Summer's breath catch just a little. She still hadn't stopped touching him — fingertips trailing along his sleeve, her palm resting lightly against the embroidered lapel like she wanted to memorize the texture. She looked both enchanted and deeply suspicious.

  "So," she said slowly, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion. "Lord Ashbourne."

  Andy raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving. "Yes?"

  "Is he a recurring figure in your... repertoire? Or did he spring fully formed from your brain just for me?"

  Andy made a thoughtful noise and glanced toward the ceiling. "Hmm. Lord Ashbourne... libertine of impeccable manners, devastating cheekbones, rumoured to have seduced a duchess in the conservatory — twice..."

  Summer grinned. "I see. Definitely fictional. But that’s not what I asked?"

  "I’ve worn him for others," Andy said. "Rarely. But he is tailored fiction, I assure you. By request. I think... now, only for the one woman who still calls me dorky after I've buttoned twenty-three decorative fastenings."

  "I don't recall asking you to button anything," she teased.

  "You didn't." His eyes sparkled. "But I thought I'd give you a choice this time."

  She studied him for a beat longer, the playfulness in her expression softening to something warmer. "Is this what you meant... last night? When I asked what happens when you lose control?"

  Andy stilled. Then, his smile deepened, slow and wicked, before he leaned closer and murmured against the shell of her ear, "No."

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  "This," he said, drawing back just enough to meet her eyes, "is me very much in control. Polished, theatrical, every gesture deliberate. This is a gift wrapped in a bow. But what I promised you?" His voice dropped a register, rich with quiet heat. "That's something else entirely."

  Summer swallowed, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came out.

  "Don't worry," he whispered. "That's still coming."