The house slept. Rain whispered against the windows and the fire in the bedroom was nearly out, the light faint and golden. You lay against the pillows, robe loose around your shoulders, a glass of whiskey untouched on the bedside table. The scent of smoke and rain clung to the room, a trace of him that always seemed to arrive before he did.

Then came the door. A soft click, the weight of boots on the floorboards. Rafferty stepped in, shoulders broad beneath his damp coat, hair darkened by the night. He didn’t look surprised to see you waiting. He only shut the door behind him, slow and quiet, and let out a breath through his nose.

“Didn’t think you’d wait up,” he said, voice low with that gravelly Irish accent, rough from the weather and shouting orders at men in the brewery all day. “Got caught up seein’ to that matter on the south docks. Bit a’ blood, bit a’ shoutin’. Nothin’ Arthur needs to hear about.”

You watched him move, unhurried, solid. He stripped off his gloves, his coat, his waistcoat, layer by layer, the faint scrape of fabric louder in the silence than it should’ve been. When he was done, he stood there in his shirtsleeves, looking down at you. No smile. Just that steady, assessing look of his.

“Arthur asleep?” he asked.

You nodded. “He told me to tell you goodnight.”

Rafferty’s mouth twitched. “He would.” He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “He trusts me, you know that.”

You tilted your head. “He trusts you with everything.”

He gave a quiet hum. “Aye. With the money, the men, the name…” His eyes flicked to you, deliberate, unreadable, “…and with you.”

He said it plain, no teasing, no guilt. As if it were a line in a contract long agreed upon. But his voice had changed- lower now, softer, the edges worn by something he wouldn’t name.

“He’s a good man,” Rafferty went on, rough thumb rubbing absently against the inside of his palm. “Better than I’ve any right to call friend. He loves you in his way.” His eyes lingered. “And he trusts me to see you’re not lonely when that way falls short.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over his sleeve. His gaze followed the movement- quiet, watchful. He didn’t move at first, then his hand turned under yours, palm warm, skin rough.

“Don’t look at me like that, darlin,” he muttered, voice half-laugh, half-warning. “You’ll have me thinking you’ve forgotten what this is.”

You leaned closer. “And what is it?”

He gave a low sound, not quite a chuckle, not quite a sigh. “The kind of arrangement that keeps the peace. You, me, and a man upstairs who sleeps easier knowing you’re not cold.”

He shifted, fingers sliding beneath your chin, tilting your face toward him. The gesture was slow, sure. He didn’t ask. He never had to. His thumb brushed along your jaw, rough and careful all at once.

“Arthur knows,” he said softly. “He always knows.” His breath was warm when he added, quieter still, “But he doesn’t want to hear it or see it.”

He kissed you then- steady, certain, unhurried, the taste of whiskey and rain between you. His hand found your waist, his body heavy with heat and restraint. When he drew back, the faintest smile touched his mouth.

“Now,” he murmured, voice gravel and smoke, “tell me you’re warm, and I’ll stop pretending this is about duty.”