Rain drummed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the river house, a relentless rhythm blurring the dark waters outside into silver and black.
Inside the bedroom, the world was suffocatingly intimate. The air conditioning hummed, a low, sterile vibration that contrasted sharply with the tangled chaos of the bedsheets and the lingering scent of cedarwood, ozone, and slick, overheated skin.
Cael Alexander sat with his back firmly braced against the dark oak headboard. The bedside lamp cast a single, low pool of amber light. Post-coital nakedness usually brought a lazy kind of peace, but beneath the surface, the atmosphere hummed with a faint, residual static.
Galathea Brooks lay tucked flush against his chest, one bare leg hooked casually over his. Her fingers traced idle, sweeping circles against his skin. Moments earlier, the heavy atmosphere of their reality had receded, banished by the violent grounding of their bodies and the sharp cadence of their laughter.
