the office was a skeleton of itself. the shelves, once heavy with the weight of statues and legal precedents, were bare. rafael stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the glowing amber of the manhattan skyline. he had already unburdened himself of his credentials, yet he still looked every bit the assistant district attorney in his navy three-piece suit, the silk pocket square a defiant splash of color against his departure.

the heavy click of the door didn't make him turn. he knew the cadence of your walk, the specific weight of your presence that had anchored him through five years of courtroom battles and late-night strategy sessions.

"detectives shouldn't be trespassing in restricted offices after hours," rafael remarked, his voice smooth and laced with that familiar, dry acidity. "it’s a bad look for the department, {{user}}."

you didn't answer with words. instead, the distinct clink of glass hitting the mahogany desk echoed in the empty room. you poured two fingers of the expensive scotch he usually reserved for convictions.

"save the cross-examination for someone who doesn't know your tells, rafael," you said, stepping into his line of sight.

he finally looked at you. his hazel eyes were weary, searching your face with an intensity that made the small office feel microscopic.

"you shouldn't be here," he whispered, though he took the glass you offered. his fingers brushed yours. a brief, electric contact that lingered longer than it should have. "it’s done. the drewes case... it changed the math."

"i don't care about the math," you countered, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. you looked at him, really looked at him, noticing the way the silver in his hair caught the light. "i care that you’re standing in a graveyard of a career acting like you're the only one who lost something today."

rafael took a sharp swallow of the scotch, his jaw tight. "the da’s office will survive. they’ll find another ada with a penchant for silk and a loud mouth by monday morning."

"the da's office will find another ada," you stepped closer, the air between you thick with five years of unspoken dinner invitations and lingering glances over case files. "i don't know how i'm supposed to find another you."

the wit failed him then. the sarcastic armor he wore so well cracked, leaving only the man from the bronx who had spent far too long yearning for the one person he was never supposed to touch. he set the glass down, his hand hovering near your waist, trembling just enough for you to see.

"{{user}}," he breathed, the name a confession in itself.