The sound of thunder pulled Cole awake.
For a second, he didn't know where he was. Rain roared. His heart stuttered. Cold hands seemed to close around his throat in memory—warmth pressed against his back.
Amber.
The room sat in dim gray, lit only by storm light leaking around the curtains. Rain hammered the townhouse windows, steady and insistent. Amber's arm lay draped over his ribs, her bare legs tangled with his. The air smelled of rain, sleep, and the fading edge of sex.
Their night together came back in fragments. Her laugh when he dropped his keys. Her mouth on his. Hours when the rest of the world stopped mattering.
He pushed carefully upright and folded his arms over his knees. Muscles ached in a good way. His head, less so. He had hoped the storm would pound his mind quiet, grant him dreamless sleep.
The nightmares had come anyway.
Amber shifted behind him and leaned into his back, her skin soft and warm against the cooler air. She pressed a kiss into the hollow beneath his ear and let her mouth trail down his neck.
"I hope you slept well," Cole said, a smile tugging at his lips.
"I did," she murmured.
Her arms looped loosely around his shoulders. They sat like that for a while, listening to the rain hammer the glass. Her fingers traced idle patterns across his chest and down his forearms. Her lips brushed his ear again.
"I had a rapturous time," she whispered.
Why did it always have to be nightmares afterward?
He rested his hand over hers. For a few quiet minutes they just breathed together, the storm filling in all the words neither of them wanted to touch.
Amber's gaze drifted around the room. The townhouse was small—low ceilings, narrow walls, furniture from three different lives that had never learned how to match. She hugged him tighter.
"Can I offer personal criticism?" she asked.
"Oh good," he said. "My favorite kind."
"Why are you still in this place?" she asked with genuine bafflement in her voice. "I mean, yes, I helped you find it when you first moved, but that was supposed to be temporary. It's been a year, Cole. I remember your apartment in Alexandria. The view, space, and the plants you murdered."
He huffed. "Low blow."
"Don't you miss it?"
"I do," he admitted. "Sometimes."
"You're a man who enjoys living in a space he actually chose," she said, chin resting on his shoulder. "Not something you grabbed because it was available and cheap."
"You're right," he said. "But I'm not sure I want everyone in Purgatory knowing I have money. Can you imagine the gossip if I moved into an 'upscale' place overnight?" He glanced back at her. "Do we even have upscale apartments here?"
"No," she laughed. "We don't. But you could buy a house. Easily."
He shook his head. "I thought we agreed we're both against public income reports."
"Well," Amber said, smile curving against his shoulder, "you're not wrong there."
Her dark hair, rumpled from sleep, fell forward as she hugged him again. Lightning flashed, sketching the room in brief white lines. Cole's gaze snagged on the covered canvas in the far corner.
The easel stood where he had left it, half-hidden beneath an old sheet. He had pulled the cloth over it before Amber arrived. He'd been working on that painting over and over lately—whenever the nightmares got too sharp to hold.
Truth was, the storm hadn't woken him.
The painting had.
Amber followed the line of his gaze, then kissed his cheek. "Will you ever show me your paintings?" she asked quietly. "I know that's not just a random dust cover."
"Really, you don't want to look at them," he said. "I'm not actually any good. It's just something I do so I don't climb the walls."
"They're a part of you," Amber said. "That makes me very interested."
He winced. "We've been… doing this… for a while now. You've never complained about me hiding them before."
"I didn't say I was complaining." Her fingers squeezed his shoulder. "I'm asking. Please."
He hesitated.
Then sighed, slid out of bed, and started hunting for his black boxer briefs in the tangle of clothes on the floor. Amber watched him with an exaggerated pout.
"You're no fun," she said.
"Don't worry," he replied, stepping into the briefs. "I'm sure you can ravage me again later."
"That is the current plan."
"May I look?" she asked, nodding toward the covered canvas.
Normally, he would have said no.
This time, he nodded.
She reached for his hand. He gave it, pulling her gently up from the bed. She wrapped the surrounding sheet, tucking it over her breasts, and they crossed the room together.
Cole took a corner of the cloth and pulled it away.
Amber drew in a small breath.
The painting glowed in the dimness—an oil nightscope heavy with black and bruised blue. A little boy stood near the center, small and alone, his body picked out in stark pale strokes. Exhaustion and hollow fear lived in the tilt of his shoulders, even though his features blurred.
Around him loomed shapes. Half-formed, half-rotted, their limbs too long and faces wrong. Ghosts rendered as smears of bone and shadow, mouths open in soundless screams. Behind them, taller still, rose a dark figure—only an implied silhouette, more absence than presence. It towered like a rip in the night itself.
Amber lifted a hand, not quite touching the canvas. Her fingers hovered over the boy, then over the nearest ghost.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "And terrifying."
Cole crossed his arms over his bare chest, suddenly cold.
"I knew you painted," she went on. "But I didn't know you painted like this. Chase does accurate portraits and logos, sure. This is…" She shook her head slowly. "This feels like something. The boy's sadness. Those things around him. You can feel them. It stirs the blood."
He shifted his weight. "Don't discredit Chase. He has proper technique."
"You have emotions," Amber said simply. She leaned in, trying to parse the tall, dark figure in the back. "And him. The shadow. Will you tell me who that is?"
"No," he said.
She turned toward him. No hurt on her face—only understanding and a small thread of worry.
"It's one thing about me I'm not willing to share," he added, moving past her to pull the cloth back over the canvas.
The painting vanished. The room felt a fraction lighter with it hidden.
"I understand," she said softly. "If you ever change your mind… I'd be more than happy to listen."
He believed her.
That might have been part of the problem.
"I've worked up an appetite," he said, groping for safer ground. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes," she answered at once—and from the look she gave him, the word carried a double edge. The sheet shifted as she adjusted it, then she let it fall long enough to step into her panties. She glanced around, saw nothing within reach, and lifted her brows at him in a helpless little shrug.
"I wouldn't complain if you wanted to run around like that all night," he said.
A wicked smile flickered across her lips. They shared a few slow, lingering kisses in the dark, his hands curving at the small of her back while hers curled around his neck. Then he broke away reluctantly, crossed to the closet, and grabbed a navy tee.
"Here," he said.
She pulled it on. On him it hit at the hips. On her, it fell mid-thigh and swallowed her frame, turning into a dress. It looked better on her than it ever had on him.
They padded downstairs together, feet quiet on the narrow steps. The kitchen was small but functional—white cabinets, black counters, a fridge doing its best. The rain sounded duller down here, a steady background hiss.
Cole opened the fridge and frowned. Leftover takeout, condiments, half a carton of eggs, milk, cheese, one sad tomato.
"What are you in the mood for?" he asked.
Amber leaned against the counter, watching him. "This may sound weird, given the time, but… omelet."
"I can do an omelet."
Her grin warmed. "You're cooking for me. I must be moving up in the world. I don't think I've ever had that pleasure."
He grabbed the eggs and cheese, and then the milk. "You've had other pleasures," he said dryly.
"Masterful in bed and domestic," she teased. "Keep this up, Constantine, and I may fall in love."
He rolled his eyes and pulled a skillet from the rack. The pan clanked onto the stove. While it heated, he went back to the fridge and pulled a bottle of red from the bottom shelf.
Amber arched a brow. "Mr. Constantine, I believe you're trying to get me drunk."
"It seemed to work out for you last time," he said, reaching for glasses.
"True," she conceded, watching as he poured. He filled hers fuller than his own and passed it over.
She took a sip, closed her eyes briefly, then nodded. "Can I help?"
"Of course," he said. "You can whisk."
He cracked eggs into a bowl, glancing up as she worked the fork through the yolks. Amber in his too-big tee, sleeves shoved up, hips resting against his kitchen island, whisking eggs like she'd always belonged there—
It did something to him that had nothing to do with his usual vices.
They chopped ham and grated cheese. The pan hissed when he poured the egg mixture in. The smell filled the kitchen—salt and fat and warmth. It felt absurdly domestic.
After finishing the omelet, he slid it onto a plate and cut it cleanly down the middle. He plated both halves on his chipped red dishes and grabbed forks from the drawer. Amber carried the glasses of wine to the island while he set the plates down and pulled two barstools out.
"This is nice," she whispered as they sat.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not." She nudged his knee with hers. "I just like… this."
They ate in comfortable silence, trading small smiles over their forks. When they finished, Cole stacked the plates in the sink. The dishes could wait until morning.
He came back and held out his hand.
"What's on your mind?" she asked, slipping her fingers into his.
He didn't answer. He just led her into the living room, thumb flicking the stereo on as they passed. Soft, slow music drifted out—a mellow guitar, a low voice.
They didn't talk. Their bodies found the rhythm on their own. Amber pressed close, arms sliding around his middle, face tucked against his chest. For all her declarations of independence and practiced distance, he could feel the way her breath eased when he held her, the way something inside her uncoiled.
He rested his cheek against the top of her head, fingers drifting through her hair. His other hand settled at the small of her back, keeping her anchored against him. They swayed in small circles over the scuffed hardwood, slow song bleeding into slow song.
Once, she tipped her face up to smile at him, then kissed the center of his chest over his heartbeat.
Eventually, the playlist ran out. He clicked the stereo off. They wandered back to the kitchen to refill their glasses. The storm outside had softened into a steady hush.
Amber stepped in close again, lips pressing to his chest, lower this time. He slipped a hand behind her neck, thumb tracing the line of her jaw while she kissed lazily at his skin.
"We can," he murmured, "but let's wait. I don't want to rush."
She paused, resting her forehead briefly against his sternum. When she looked up, something unguarded flickered in her eyes.
"I enjoy being with you," she said. "But I would not usually tell you that." One shoulder lifted. "I feel comfortable with you."
He never quite knew what to do with this version of Amber. Honesty from her usually came wrapped in humor. This was bare.
"Thanks," she went on, "for never turning this into office fodder. I know people talk. I know what they think of me. No matter how much they want a story, I'm not the office tramp."
"I know you aren't," he said. His voice stayed steady. "And even if you were, it would still be nobody's business but yours. The loudest gossips have the messiest closets. I enjoy being with you too," he added, because leaving it unsaid felt cowardly. He normally hated getting attached. Vices were easier when they stayed shallow.
Amber had never been shallow.
"Thank you for the same respect," he said. "I rarely like girls who kiss and tell."
Her lips curved. "Really. I could get you so laid if I told a few of the other girls about your… talents."
He laughed, tension easing. In another setting, the line could have sounded cruel. Between them, it was just honest. They both knew the terms. No promises. No labels. Not yet.
"Seriously, though," she said. "It means a lot. And I'm glad you moved here." She took another sip of wine. "Oh—my uncle wanted me to remind you that the bicentennial is this week. Formal event. He expects you to attend."
Cole groaned. "The editor is sending me reminders through you now?"
"He knows we hang out," Amber said, far too casually.
"He's Brady's father."
"And?" An impish smirk tugged at her mouth.
"You told him?"
"No," she said. "Not really."
"Amber."
She laughed and reached up to pull his face closer. "Maybe Brady got his investigation skills from him. Seamus could sniff out a fart from fifty paces. Relax. He won't say anything. He likes you. Just show up in a tux and don't be weird."
Cole exhaled slowly.
He made a mental note to get his tux cleaned before the bicentennial—and to avoid Seamus Ryan as much as humanly possible.