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“Ian told me you like the rain. Is that true?” I sip my coffee, relishing its heat, the bitter taste.

“That is true,” Eros answers, alert and bright-eyed. He leans toward me, smiling a little, his elbows braced on the kitchen island. “The rain is very romantic.”

Ian turns around from where he’s fiddling with the coffee maker and shoots me an inscrutable look.

His curly hair is sleep-mussed, and dark circles hang heavy under his eyes.

My gut twists at the wild intensity of his gaze.

“Eros is a goddamn flirt,” he says. Then he returns his attention to the coffee, and the tension dissipates.

“Next time you fuck, it’ll be even better than yesterday.

I shift on my stool, crossing my legs. I can’t deny that it’s crossed my mind.

But the memory of Orpheus looms large, distracting me.

I’m here for the book. For my future . But Orpheus gave me so many orgasms last night that I lost count.

And when I woke up at half past ten this morning, instead of leaping out of bed to catch up on time lost, I just laid there for another half hour, wishing Orpheus was still with me.

He had vanished just as stealthily as he’d appeared, sometime before dawn, leaving me wanting more.

Eros watches me patiently, waiting for my next question.

I came down from my guest room to find him here already, helping Ian in the kitchen.

I’ve been asking both man and Pleasurebot pointed questions since I got up, trying to make up for lost time.

Ian is in a mood, his answers either monosyllabic or almost sarcastically wordy, like he’s trying to piss me off.

And there’s a darting, high-energy vibe to him that puts me on edge.

“Kit,” says Eros, startling me out of my thoughts. “Do you like the rain? Wait—” he smiles. “I think you do. I see the way you look out that window. You’re a romantic, like me.”

I study his sweet, open face. Eros is intoxicatingly beautiful, golden and vivid against the backdrop of Ian’s home, but he’s lost something since the last time I saw him. A glow, a sheen. I’ve seen Orpheus now, and I’ve fucked them both. Eros can’t compare.

“I do love the rain,” I answer, smiling back despite myself. Eros is still a ray of sunshine, even in this dreary weather. “Is that a trait Ian shares?”

Ian hands me a fresh mug of coffee. I hadn’t even noticed him taking the empty one from me. My mind has been up in the fucking storm clouds.

“We are nothing alike,” Ian grumbles, going into the living area to face the window, his back to Eros and me. Silhouetted by the view of rainy Los Angeles, he looks like some tortured leading man in a noir film.

Eros and I lock eyes. He raises his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching. “We do share some traits,” Eros admits. “We both love gazing melodramatically out windows.”

I laugh, delighted by the joke. “Did Ian teach you that?”

Eros frowns slightly, tilting his head. “Teach me what?”

“How to be funny.”

Ian snorts. “It’s a natural side effect.”

Eros glances at Ian, then back to me. His expression is suddenly shadowed, like the sun drifting behind a cloud.

“A side effect?” I repeat. “Of what?”

“Of being trapped in here with me,” Ian says in a low voice.

Eros shrugs, smiling. “Ian is very funny. I’ve learned so much from him.”

But I don’t think that’s what Ian means.

Ian sighs, turning away from the window. I watch as he goes to the bar, pouring two glasses of whiskey. He returns to the kitchen and hands one of the glasses out to me. “Go look at the rain or something,” he says.

I hesitate.

“Not you,” Ian says, his sharp tone scraping at my nerves. “Eros. Eros, go look at the rain.”

“I would love to, Ian.”

I watch Eros turn and stride to the wide window, his muscles flexing and stretching as he moves.

His toga is so thin, so anachronistic, that it puts me on edge.

I’d wanted to bring him something more appropriate to wear, but when I suggested it earlier, Ian shot down the idea.

I still can’t help thinking Eros seems separate from us like this. A spectacle.

“Here,” Ian says, setting down the whiskey and sliding it toward me. “Put this in your coffee. Take a break. Take a break.”

“I’m good.”

Ian shrugs, tossing his back in one swig. Then he downs my drink, the crystal glass clinking loudly against the marble countertop. “Suit yourself.”

“It’s beautiful,” Eros murmurs, seemingly to himself. He looks back over his shoulder. “Kit, do you want to watch the rain with me?”

I move to join him, but Ian stops me with a hand on my shoulder. He shakes his head, making a face. “Don’t bother, don’t bother. He’ll try to recite poetry or something. It’s fucking embarrassing. I don’t know why I put poetry in the repertoire.”

Annoyance, and a little unease, tickle at the spot between my shoulder blades. Yesterday, Ian was proud and eager, ready to showcase his creation. He was practically gagging to share Eros with me. Today, it’s like the sight of us pisses him off.

Eros is still watching me, his expression undeniably hopeful.

I pull away from Ian. I can’t deny the compassion I feel for Eros, alone by the window. Staring out at the rain like that, he seems so tragically human.

Ian settles himself on the sofa with a fresh whiskey while I join Eros at the window. My stomach tightens at the view, at the memory of yesterday’s episode of vertigo. But as I gaze out over the rain-lashed city with Eros, I feel nothing but slight apprehension.

“I don’t mean to ignore you,” Eros says, smiling sadly. “I enjoy answering your questions. But Ian asked that I watch the rain, so I did.”

“And you always do what he says?” I glance sideways at Ian.

Eros lowers his chin. “Of course.”

“Do you really like looking at the rain, Eros? Or is it just part of your—”

“Obviously, it’s part of his programming,” Ian snaps, audibly irritated.

“I do,” Eros answers, ignoring Ian’s tone.

“What do you like about the rain?” I ask, also ignoring Ian. I’m curious to see if I can get Eros to explain the mechanism of his own programming. Ian gave him yearning. But does Eros see it that way? Does it feel like programming? Or is it as ephemeral and unknowable as a human feeling?

Eros frowns slightly, his golden brows drawing together.

“I like the sound of it on the windows,” he says.

“But most of all, I like that it makes the city look beautiful. I imagine the buildings are in some other world. The rain makes everything blurry and distant. Rain is…” he pauses as if forming a thought.

“Rain is a window into a place that’s far away. ”

“Stop,” Ian grumbles, and I turn to see him waving a hand at us, grimacing. “Stop, stop. Goddamn it, Eros, the woman asked you a simple question.”

“He answered it,” I protest. My heart flutters like a captive bird at Eros’s words. He answered it beautifully. Like he really could appreciate the beauty he beheld, like it touched him.

“I’m sorry, Ian,” Eros says, the embodiment of contrition. He looks back at me. “I’m sorry my answer was so lengthy.”

“No, I liked it,” I reassure him. “What else do you enjoy doing?”

Eros smiles broadly. “I enjoy whatever activity I am encouraged to take part in. Singing, poetry, dancing, kissing… all of it. Most of all, though, I’ve enjoyed making passionate love to you, Kit.”

I bite my lip, pulse speeding at the memory.

“That’s more like it,” Ian mutters.

“That’s kind of you,” I say quickly. “I liked it too.”

I allow my gaze to travel over Eros. He’s still beautiful in the ghostly light of the rain-dark city. But his beauty and his readiness to please no longer strike me like a dagger of longing. Even our sex doesn’t seem as mind-blowing in retrospect. Under the shadow of Orpheus, Eros has diminished.

Orpheus . I think of his form in the vault, waiting for me, asleep in the dark.

“Let me know if you want to have me again,” Eros says, taking my hand gently, kissing the back of my knuckles, and letting it fall.

Ian makes a sound of disgust behind me.

I spin on him, exasperated. “Are you good, Ian? You’ve been weird all morning.”

Ian stares back, swirling his whiskey. His eyes are glazed, unfocused from intoxication, and I realize he must have been drinking since before I got up. Those last two drinks just sent him over the edge. He snaps his gaze to the window, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. He’s silent for a few moments.

“I used to keep him up here,” Ian says at last, “in the penthouse with me. There wasn’t a reason not to. He would return to his room at night, recharge, and then come up here in the morning. It was almost like he was a person.” He pauses to take a drink.

Eros listens in silence.

“Almost like he was my friend ,” Ian continues.

“I was in awe of him, my creation. He’s fucking beautiful, as you can clearly see.

And polite. And agile.” A ghost of a smile flits across his lips.

“For a long time, he was my only companion. I could talk to him a little. But when it came to real conversation, to philosophy and quantum physics and the nature of… of beauty , or life , or what the fuck ever, he had nothing to say. He repeated bits of poetry or pre-programmed fucking niceties.” Ian’s tone grows harsh, grinding out the words as he speaks. “He was boring .”

“He feels like a person to me,” I say softly, realizing I’m no longer sure what I believe about these Pleasurebots. I remember the cries I heard in the vault. I remember Orpheus’s voice, lapping at my mind, telling me he’s been watching me .

Ian’s gaze snaps to mine. “He’s a machine, a computer, dressed up in pretty skin and pretty clothes. Nothing but a mechanical whore.”

My breath catches. The word feels like a slap.

Eros’s expression doesn’t change. He’s half-smiling, eyes trained on Ian, like he’s politely absorbing every word the asshole speaks.