Chapter 5: Gloss & Glam After Hours
The bedroom smelled like him—smoke and cedar and something darker underneath, something that clung to the sheets no matter how many times she washed them. Amber lay still for a long time, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, feeling the weight of his arm draped across her waist like a chain she wasn't sure she wanted to break.
He was deep under. The kind of sleep that came from exhaustion so complete it bordered on unconsciousness. She'd seen him sleep before, but never like this—never with his face relaxed into something almost boyish, never with his guard so thoroughly down. He looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like the man he might have been if the world hadn't chewed him up and spit him out.
She slipped out from under his arm, careful not to jostle the mattress. He stirred but didn't wake, his hand reaching for her in his sleep, finding only empty sheets. She stood beside the bed for a moment, watching him, her heart doing something complicated in her chest.
Then she walked to the kitchen.
The clock on the stove read 2:47 AM. The groceries he'd sent were still scattered across the counter, waiting to be put away. She started with those first—the apples in the crisper, the brie in the cheese drawer, the wine in the rack beside the stove. The caramels went in the cabinet above the coffee maker, the one she could barely reach without a step stool.
Then she opened the fridge and started cooking.
His favorites. All of them. She'd learned them over the years, the way you learn a language you never expected to speak. Oxtails, slow-braised with butter beans and rice. Collard greens with smoked turkey, the way his grandmother used to make them before she died. Cornbread with honey butter. Mac and cheese with four different cheeses, the kind that got crispy on top and gooey in the middle.
She worked in silence, her hands moving on autopilot. The knife against the cutting board. The hiss of the pressure cooker. The smell of garlic and onion and thyme filling the kitchen, pushing back the shadows.
She kept looking into the living room.
His gun sat on her dining room table. A Glock, matte black, unremarkable except for the fact that it was there at all. He'd set it down when he came in—she remembered now, the way he'd moved through her house like he owned it, dropping his weapon on the table like it was nothing. Like it was just another accessory.
She'd been so caught up in him—in the kiss, in the fuck, in the desperate way he'd held her—that she hadn't really registered it. But now, in the quiet, the gun was all she could see.
It could have been there to protect them.
That was the generous interpretation. The one she wanted to believe. He was a man with enemies, a man who lived in a world where violence was currency. Of course he carried a gun. Of course he'd want it close. Of course he'd want to protect her.
But.
The other interpretation sat in her stomach like a stone. He could have brought it for her. Not to protect—to silence. She'd seen enough true crime documentaries to know how these stories ended. The girlfriend who knew too much. The loose end that needed tying. The body in the river, the missing person report, the mother on the news begging for answers.
She valued her life more than waiting to find out.
The oxtails simmered. The greens wilted in the pan. She stirred the mac and cheese, watching the cheese melt into something creamy and rich, and she made a decision.
Two weeks.
That was how long she'd need to get her affairs in order. To pack up the townhouse, to settle things at the shop, to figure out where she was going. Two weeks to disappear.
She wasn't running from him—not exactly. She was running toward something. Toward a life where she didn't have to check the peephole before opening the door. Toward mornings that didn't start with fear and end with exhaustion. Toward a version of herself that didn't need to be saved.
She was going to give him the number. A new number, one she'd set up with a prepaid phone, one that couldn't be traced. He could use it—but only if all the shit was over. Only if he was free. Only if he could come to her without bringing the chaos with him.
If he was still in the game, she was gone.
She plated the food while it was still hot. Oxtails with the gravy soaking into the rice. Greens with a splash of pepper vinegar. Cornbread golden and steaming. Mac and cheese bubbling at the edges. She set it on the island with a glass of sweet tea and a cloth napkin folded into a neat triangle.
Then she went to wake him.
He was already stirring when she pushed the bedroom door open—the smell of food had reached him, pulling him out of whatever dream he'd been lost in. He blinked at her, his eyes hazy, his expression confused.
"What time is it?"
"Almost five."
He sat up slowly, running a hand over his face. His locs were tangled, his shoulders stiff, but he looked more human than he had a few hours ago. Less like a man who was falling apart. More like the Kash she remembered.
"You cooked," he said.
"You need to eat."
He followed her to the kitchen, still wearing just the towel she'd wrapped around him earlier. He'd lost some weight—she could see it in the hollows of his cheeks, the way his collarbones stood out more than they should. He'd been running himself ragged. Running from something, running toward something, running himself into the ground.
He sat at the island and picked up his fork. She stood on the other side, watching.
He ate the way he did everything—methodically, without wasted motion. But there was something different in the way he tasted the oxtails, the way his eyes closed for just a second when he took the first bite. Like he was remembering something. Like he was saying goodbye.
He got halfway through the plate before he noticed her staring.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
She didn't answer right away. She just watched him—the way his jaw moved, the way his fingers curled around the fork, the way he sat in her kitchen like he belonged there.
"I have a plan," she said.
He set the fork down. His eyes found hers, and something in them hardened—a wall going up, a guard coming down.
"What kind of plan?"
"I'm leaving in two weeks."
The words hung in the air between them. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stared at her like she'd slapped him.
"I'm not going to tell you where I'm going," she continued. "I'm going to pack up my things, get everything in order, and then I'm gone. New number. New city. New life."
"You're running."
"I'm leaving." She crossed her arms over her chest, her nails pressing into her own skin. "There's a difference."
"Amber—"
"I'm not finished."
He closed his mouth. His hands were flat on the counter, his knuckles white.
"I'm going to give you a number," she said. "A new one. You can use it—but only if all the shit is over. Only if you're out. Only if you're free."
He stood up so fast the stool scraped against the floor. "You think I'm gonna let you just disappear?"
"I'm not asking permission."
"You think I won't find you?"
"I think you could." She held his gaze, steady, unflinching. "But I'm asking you not to. I'm asking you to let me go."
He crossed the kitchen in three steps. She didn't back away. She stood her ground, her chin lifted, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"You're mine," he said. "You've always been mine."
"I'm not a thing you own." Her voice was quiet, but it didn't shake. "I'm a person. And I'm tired, Kash. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm tired of looking at a gun on my table and not knowing if it's there to protect me or if I'm about to become a fucking statistic."
He flinched. Actually flinched, like she'd hit him.
"You think I'd hurt you?"
"I think you're capable of anything." She stepped closer, her chest inches from his. "I've seen what you do to people who cross you. I've seen the bodies. I've seen the blood. And I've been telling myself you'd never do that to me, but I don't know that anymore. I don't know anything anymore."
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
"I was there to protect you," he said. "The gun. It was for you."
"Maybe." She shrugged. "But I can't wait around to find out. That's not a life. That's a gamble."
He reached for her—one hand finding her hip, pulling her closer. She didn't resist. She let him hold her, let him press his forehead to hers, let him breathe her in like he was memorizing her.
"Two weeks," he said. "You leaving in two weeks?"
"Yes."
"And if I fix it? If I get out?"
"Then you can call me."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed—that same broken sound from earlier, half-mirthless, half-hopeless.
"You're the only person in the world who's ever asked me to let them go."
"I'm not asking."
"I know." He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His eyes were wet—not crying, but close. "I know you're not."
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise, even if neither of them knew what they were promising.
Then he let her go.
"Two weeks," he said.
"Two weeks."
He went back to his plate. Ate the rest of the food she'd made. Didn't say a word about the way she watched him, didn't ask her to sit beside him, didn't try to convince her to change her mind. Just ate, quietly, like a man accepting his sentence.
When he finished, he walked back to the bedroom and got dressed. The suit was rumpled, the shirt untucked, but he didn't care. He pulled on his shoes and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.
"I'm gonna fix it," he said without turning around. "I'm gonna fix everything."
"I hope you do."
He opened the door. The darkness outside was heavy, waiting. He stepped into it without looking back.
The door closed behind him.
Amber stood in her kitchen, alone. The plate was empty. The glass of sweet tea was half-full. The gun was gone from the table.
She picked up her phone and texted Jayla.
Girl. I need you to help me pack.