August hung heavy over the city, air thick with humidity that clung to skin like a second layer. Sally’s loft windows stood wide open, letting in the distant hum of traffic, the occasional siren, the low thrum of bass from somewhere below. No curtains. No pretense. The ceiling fan turned lazy circles overhead, doing little more than stir the heat.
Rafe arrived just after midnight. Door unlocked—she’d left it that way again. He stepped inside wearing the same black T-shirt from their first night, jeans low on his hips, hair damp from the walk through the muggy streets. Sally stood in the middle of the living room wearing only an oversized silk shirt—unbuttoned, slipping off one shoulder. No words passed between them.
She dropped to her knees the second the door clicked shut.
The hardwood
