HEATSTROKE

The rain came down in sheets, turning the streets into rivers and making every passing car send up walls of water.

Jasmine stood under the inadequate overhang of the hotel entrance, phone pressed to one ear, free hand futilely shielding the screen from spray. Marcus was still talking, voice thin and crackling over the storm.

“…and the investors are coming next week. If we don’t have renderings, a mood board, at least a solid timeline—”

“I know, Marcus.” She kept her tone even—the one she used on panicked clients and hungover DJs. “I’m here. Arrived a couple hours ago. Heading over now.”

A long pause. Then, quieter: “He’s already upstairs. Waiting.”

Her stomach executed a slow, nauseating roll.

“Of course he is.”

She ended the call before Marcus could offer platitudes. The driver had disappeared into the downpour, taillights swallowed by neon and rain. No point waiting for another ride; the rooftop entrance was only a few blocks if she cut through the alley beside the hotel. A few very wet blocks.

Jasmine pulled the hood of her windbreaker over her hair, tucked her tablet against her chest like armor, and stepped into the deluge.

By the time she reached the service lift that shot straight to the roof, she was soaked—white shirt transparent against skin, jeans heavy, shoes squelching. The doors opened onto controlled chaos: plastic sheeting flapping like trapped wings, exposed wiring dangling, a single work light swinging from a beam and throwing long, drunken shadows.

And there, silhouetted against the rain-streaked glass wall overlooking the dark water and city lights, was Elijah.

He hadn’t changed. Same broad shoulders, same careless stance—legs planted, hands in pockets, as though gravity owed him favors. The only difference was the beard, fuller now, framing the jaw she used to trace with her thumb when he was half-asleep and soft. He turned at the lift’s ding, and for one heartbeat his face betrayed everything—recognition, hunger, fury—before the mask slammed down.

“Jasmine.” His voice was low, careful. The tone reserved for something fragile and explosive.

“Elijah.” She matched it. Professional. Polite. As if they hadn’t once fucked against this very glass while the city glittered below like it belonged to them.

He nodded toward the drafting table dragged under the only dry corner. “Marcus said you’d bring concepts.”

“I did.” She crossed the space, water dripping from her sleeves onto concrete. Up close he smelled the same—cedar, clean sweat, the faint metallic bite of rain on warm skin. Her pulse kicked hard enough she was sure he could hear it.

He didn’t move to help when she set the tablet down, just watched. Let her feel the weight of three years in the silence.

She woke the screen, pulled up the first mood board. Deep indigo and gold, velvet banquettes, cascading plants over steel, discreet lighting that would make every patron feel like the only person in the room. Sensual without being obvious. Safe without being boring.

Elijah leaned in—close enough she felt his heat cutting through the damp air—and studied the images without speaking for a long minute.

“Too safe,” he said finally.

She laughed once, short and sharp. “You always said that.”

“Because it’s still true.” He tapped a finger against the screen, right over a photo of a low, curved sofa upholstered in deep leather. “This is corporate. We’re not selling insurance. We’re selling escape. Sin without consequence. A place where people can finally breathe.”

Her mouth went dry. She remembered exactly how his voice dropped when he talked about desire like it was architecture—deliberate, structural, inevitable.

“And your solution?” she asked, because she had to.

He straightened, met her eyes. “We strip it back. Raw concrete, exposed services, but we wrap them in softness—silk panels, low cushions, mirrors that multiply bodies instead of hiding them. Let the storm be part of the décor. Let people feel the thunder in their chests.”

He was describing foreplay disguised as interior design. She hated that it still worked on her.

“You want the room to fuck the guests,” she said, blunt because subtlety had drowned somewhere between the airport and here.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second. “I want the room to remind them they’re alive.”

Lightning cracked outside; the work light flickered. In that stutter of light she saw it—the old hunger still living behind his ribs, the same one that used to make him pin her wrists above her head and whisper filthy promises until she begged.

She swallowed. “We have a few days to agree on something presentable.”

“Fewer,” he corrected. “Marcus is bringing the money people in for a walk-through soon.”

Of course he’d already spoken to Marcus. Of course he was one step ahead.

She closed the tablet. “Then we start now. Show me what you’ve mocked up.”

He hesitated—only a heartbeat—then led her toward the far end of the roof where a temporary partition of black cloth created a makeshift war room. Inside: his drawings taped to the wall, physical models on a table, a single camp light throwing everything into high relief.

And one other thing.

A bottle of chilled white wine sweating on the table. Two glasses. One already half-full.

He poured without asking if she wanted any. The liquid caught the light, pale gold.

“For old times’ sake,” he said, handing her the glass. His fingers brushed hers—deliberate, lingering just long enough to send current up her arm.

She took it. Drank. The crisp sweetness burst across her tongue, familiar and dangerous.

“Old times are dead, Eli.”

He smiled—small, knowing, the smile that used to mean he’d already won. “Then why are you shaking?”

She wasn’t. Or she hadn’t been until he said it.

Outside, the rain hammered harder, sealing them in. No escape until the storm passed.

And they both knew it wasn’t the weather she was trapped by.