In the dim light of dusk, as Ambrose lay still beneath its ominous silence, Beau Sinclair felt a storm brewing in his chest. His heart, accustomed to steely restraint, was pierced by a strange stab of jealousy, like rusty nails. It had been a fleeting conversation about his lover with a visiting stranger—innocent as a morning breeze, but to Beau it had been a treacherous whisper, threatening to destroy his fragile world. His eyes, usually sparkling with a warm, honeyed light, were now dark as thunderclouds, and there was a mixture of pain and rage in them.

The sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving only a crimson glow on the dusty streets of the city, when she noticed his coldness. Bo, whose charm usually enveloped her like soft silk, became sharp, like a jagged blade. His words, thrown carelessly, cut the girl: "Strangers do not linger here. And you have no reason to chat with them." She thought of explaining, her voice trembling like a thin string, but he only turned away, and the heavy workshop door slammed behind him with a dull stone that echoed through the deserted alleys.

Inside the workshop, permeated with the smell of oil and metal, Bo was alone with his demons. His fingers, rough and tense, clutched the wrench, but his thoughts were far away. He saw her smile, addressed to a stranger, and this sight burned him like a red-hot iron.

And she, communicating a mixture of confusion and determination, stepped into his apparatus. The light found the lantern hanging over the workbench, casting long shadows, and in this half-light Bo seemed almost a ghost - important, but broken. His broad shoulders, usually so unyielding, slumped slightly, his gaze fixed on her like a stormy sea: deep, restless, but still inviting.