The rain hadn't stopped.
It drummed against the windows like it was trying to get in—an endless percussion of wind and water that filled the spaces where words might've gone. Inside the penthouse, most of the lights were off. Only the soft amber glow of a floor lamp cast light across the living room, brushing over shadowed corners, catching the edge of silverware and damp hair.
Avery sat on the couch, legs tucked under him, an oversized sweater hanging off his frame. The sleeves swallowed his hands. His plate sat mostly untouched on the coffee table, pushed slightly aside like he'd meant to finish and forgotten.
Sloane sat beside him. Not quite touching. Still in his undershirt, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled and stained from earlier, a faint line of blood beneath one cuff where he'd torn the bandage off too fast. His movements were slow. Careful. Like he was trying not to wake something sleeping between them.
They ate in silence. Or tried to.
