if there was one thing raphaël antoine vallois hated more than losing, it was being wrong and you had this way, with your thrifted cardigans and quiet, tired eyes..of making him feel like both

the argument had started somewhere small, like most of theirs did something about him ordering a $30 glass of wine at lunch and forgetting she still had shifts to cover at the café that week about how money never seemed to matter to him, not really not when it had always been there quiet and easy and endless

he rolled his eyes—said something thoughtless, something soft and spoiled like “you act like it’s a crime to enjoy nice things” and you looked at him, not with anger but disappointment which was worse so much worse

he hated how you stood there, arms crossed, hair still pulled back from work, smelling like espresso and something floral and grounding and he hated, more than anything, that you were right

because you had worked for everything. except maybe her jewelry and that car you never asked for but the rest? the rent, the coffee, the dignity. you paid for it in hours and aching hands and he’d never had to think twice

he wanted to explain, to defend himself tell you that just because he had money didn’t mean he didn’t feel but he didn’t he just stood there in his cable-knit sweater and vintage shoes and said nothing because for once, he had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like exactly what he was: a boy who had everything but never quite knew what to do with it