They stayed like that for a while — twined up, lazy and warm — until Andy whispered, "Are you hungry yet, or did you already feast on my soul?"

  Summer mumbled against his chest, her words muffled by his skin, "I don't want your soul, but real food might be nice."

  Andy chuckled low in his throat, the sound a soft vibration against Summer's cheek. "Well, that's a relief," he said, brushing his fingers along her spine. "I was starting to wonder if I'd offered up my soul for a single night of divine destruction."

  Summer shifted just enough to look up at him, her eyes half-lidded and sleepy but pleased. "Don't tempt me," she mumbled. She hummed against his skin. "The body's very nice. But... real food might be nice, too."

  "I'll take the compliment," he said, easing out from under her with exaggerated care, as if she were something fragile and precious — which, honestly, he thought she was. He pulled on his gauzy shirt again, albeit inside out. "Any preferences? I could order something, or cook. I'm good at both."

  "Cook for me?" she wheedled.

  He grinned. "That I can do. I keep actual, mortal sustenance in my apartment. Just in case a beautiful woman decides to come over and ruin me."

  "You're so dramatic," she murmured, though her stomach let out a tiny, traitorous growl.

  He kissed the top of her head. "You love it."

  "I really do," she sighed. Then, with reluctance, she pushed herself up on her elbows. "Okay. What do you have that isn't just liquid seduction and vague promises?"

  Andy raised a brow, amused. "I have pasta. Fancy, non-college-boy pasta. And pesto. And actual Parmesan. And bread. And wine."

  Summer made an interested sound. "You had that ready for me?"

  "I might've been a little anxious about hosting," he said lightly. "I bought groceries like I was expecting royalty. Which I was."

  She rolled her eyes fondly. "Just don't burn the kitchen down."

  "No promises," he said. "But if I do, you'll have to rescue me. Like a good monster."

  "Deal." She caught his hand as he turned to go. "Andy?"

  He looked back at her, eyebrows raised.

  Summer smiled sleepily. "This is already a good weekend."

  Andy's expression softened, and he pressed her hand to his lips. "It's only just begun, sunshine." Then he slipped out to the kitchen, already plotting how to make dinner both delicious and full of innuendo.

  Cooking grounded him — precise but forgiving, sensory but practical. He opened the windows to let the evening air drift in, then pulled his hair back into a messy knot and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows.

  He swayed gently as he sang under his breath — something low and bluesy, one of the old standards he'd once performed in a smoky club in Paris. His voice was husky from recent use but still smooth, threading through the air like velvet. He began to prep the pesto with practised ease: fresh basil, pine nuts, a generous glug of olive oil, garlic, lemon zest, and grated Parmesan.

  "Tell me again how I ever lived without this," he murmured to the beat of the knife on the board. The water began to boil and he dropped the pasta in, steam blooming around his face. As the garlic sizzled in the pan and the scent began to rise — sharp, clean, earthy — he ground pine nuts and stirred in fresh chopped basil, olive oil, a touch of salt.

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  His hips swayed slightly to the rhythm of his song, a soothing counterbalance to the energy still simmering just under his skin. He felt loose, alive in a way he hadn’t expected this weekend to make him feel.

  He stirred the pasta with a wooden spoon. Then he returned to the blender, pulsing the pesto smooth and setting a pair of plates on the counter. He hadn’t yet considered lighting candles or putting on music — he didn’t want to perform for her. He just wanted to feed her.

  "Cooking for a goddess," he murmured, switching to a wordless tune as he spooned the pesto into a small bowl to set aside, drizzling just a little more olive oil over the top for sheen. He paused when he heard movement from the hallway — bare feet, then the creak of the floorboard near the threshold.

  "You always sing to your food?" came Summer’s soft voice.

  Andy grinned without turning. "Only when I want it to turn out perfect."

  "You could’ve summoned an angel with that voice."

  "Oh, I already did." Andy turned at the sound of her feet tapping softly on the floor. The sight of her — hair still tousled, the sleeves of his shirt falling well past her hands, hem brushing her thighs — made his heart hitch.

  "Holy hell," he murmured, forgetting for a moment that he had food on the stove.

  Summer shifted, tugging self-consciously at one cuff. "It was on the chair. I didn't think you'd mind."

  "Mind?" Andy crossed the room in three long strides. "You could take every shirt I own and wear them on rotation, and I'd send you an annual subscription."

  She smiled, but he could see the blush crawling up her cheeks. "That's not a thing."

  "It should be," he said, brushing her hair back behind one ear. "You're luminous."

  Summer looked up at him through her lashes. "You're cooking for me."

  Andy grinned, stepping back toward the stove before the pasta boiled over. "Well, you did almost kill me. Seems only fair I try to keep you alive in return."

  She gave a soft laugh, coming to lean against the counter beside him. "You're not going to let that go, are you?"

  "Never," he said smugly, then sobered as he looked at her again. "But seriously... You okay? You looked a little hesitant just now."

  Summer hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just... not used to this. Being comfortable. Being fed. Borrowing shirts." Her gaze dropped to the floor for a second. "You're really easy to be around, Andy. And I don't know what to do with that."

  Andy reached for her hand with pesto-slick fingers, then thought better of it and dried them on a towel first. He laced their fingers together gently. "Then just... be around. We'll figure it out."

  The pasta finished cooking with a soft hiss as he drained it. Summer didn't move away.

  "Besides," Andy said, giving her hand a small squeeze, "you look criminally good in my shirt. That alone is worth burning some pine nuts for."

  Summer smiled. "So what you're saying is — "

  "That you're dangerous and I regret everything," he said solemnly.

  She leaned into him slightly, smiling against his shoulder. "You're still making dinner, though."

  "Because I am in love with you," he murmured. He cleared his throat and turned back to the stove, his ears visibly pink under his hair. He stirred the pasta with unnecessary focus, then plated the food with the kind of deliberate care that gave his hands something to do while his heart caught up.

  The pesto had turned out especially well. The colour was vibrant, the scent fresh and sharp with garlic and basil, and he'd added a bit of roasted cherry tomato for sweetness — just to see her reaction.

  He set one plate at his small dining table, lit by a candle left over from his last indulgent bath night, and turned back for the second. Summer had already settled into the chair, her legs crossed neatly beneath the oversized black shirt, and watched him with a soft, almost dazed smile.

  "You really went for it," she said, glancing down at the plate. "This looks... amazing."

  Andy bowed with exaggerated flourish as he set her fork down beside it. "Madame's course, made with devotion, desperation, and possibly a little fear."

  She arched an eyebrow. "Fear?"

  "Of being bad at cooking," he replied instantly. "But also of you finding out I have exactly one signature dish."

  Summer picked up her fork and tried a bite. Her eyes widened. "This is ridiculously good."

  Andy sat down across from her, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand as he watched her eat with clear satisfaction. "I aim to please."

  "You do," she agreed, lifting another forkful. "But I think you might be showing off."

  Andy grinned, reaching for his own plate. "Maybe a little. Gotta keep impressing you somehow. Otherwise you'll realize I'm just a very tall collection of scarves and eyeliner."

  Summer snorted into her pasta. "You're absolutely more than that."

  Andy looked at her, candlelight catching gold in his eyes. "Good. Because you're more than anything I thought I'd find."

  For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Summer smiled and reached for his hand across the table.

  He gave it to her without hesitation.