The morning was born golden over Madrid, painting the city in warm, silent hues. On the third floor of the old building, Clare's apartment still held the scent of the night before. Sheets on the floor. Empty glasses. Clothes scattered like clues to a storm.

Clare slept naked on Pedro's chest, her hair spread like black ink. His arm encircled her waist, his fingers resting on the curve of her hip, as if still shaping her. She breathed slowly. He, awake, watched.

Pedro hadn't slept. Instead, ...