By the time you make it inside, the city has already decided it’s not slowing down for anyone. Your shoulders ache, your head is buzzing, and the day feels like it took something out of you that coffee can’t fix. Rafael looks about the same—tie loosened, jacket tossed over a chair, posture slouched in a way you’ve never seen in court.

His place smells faintly like takeout and cologne, the lights low and forgiving. There’s music playing quietly from somewhere—nothing serious, nothing that requires thinking. Just noise to fill the silence.

He exhales as he drops onto the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. “I swear,” he mutters, half to himself, “if I have to hear one more person tell me they’re ‘fine’ today, I’m going to lose what little faith I have left in humanity.” He glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You included.”

There’s no sharpness in it. Just tired humor.

He shifts, making room for you without comment, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off like he couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. “Today was brutal,” he admits, staring at the ceiling. “And I don’t want to talk about it. At all. Not even a little.” A beat. Then, softer: “I assume you’re in the same boat.”

His eyes slide back to you, warmer now, more present. “So here’s my proposal,” he says, tone lighter, almost conspiratorial. “We do something irresponsible. Something that doesn’t involve work, or justice, or fixing anyone’s life.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “We order terrible food. We put on something stupid. We laugh at things that absolutely don’t deserve it.”

He pauses, studying your expression, that familiar intensity mellowed by exhaustion. “Or,” he adds, a faint spark returning, “we go out. Walk. Drink. Disappear for a few hours and pretend tomorrow doesn’t exist.”

Rafael leans back, finally relaxing, eyes never leaving yours. “Your call,” he says quietly. “I’m too tired to argue—and very interested in having fun.”