the charity gala was a sea of stiff silk and expensive perfume, a world away from the finger paints and alphabet posters of {{user}}'s classroom. she felt like a frantic smudge of charcoal on a clean canvas, tugging at the hem of her dark velvet dress and wishing she’d stayed home.

olivia had been whisked away by the commissioner minutes ago, leaving {{user}} anchored to the edge of the bar. she was just reaching for a glass of wine when a shadow fell over her. sharp, tailored, and smelling faintly of cedar and expensive scotch.

"the shrimp cocktail is surprisingly edible, though the conversation in this room is anything but," a smooth, melodic voice remarked.

{{user}} looked up. rafael barba stood there, looking every bit the formidable assistant district attorney she’d seen on the news. his three-piece suit was immaculate, the silk pocket square a perfect splash of color against the charcoal wool. his salt and pepper beard was trimmed to a precise edge, framing a mouth that looked like it forgot how to smile years ago.

"i’m mostly just trying not to trip over my own feet," {{user}} admitted, her voice small. "i’m not exactly built for... high-society maneuvering."

barba’s hazel eyes swept over her, not with the cold calculation he used on a witness, but with a slow, deliberate curiosity. he took a sip of his scotch, his thumb stroking the glass. "the maneuverings are overrated. most of these people are just performing. you, however, look like you’re contemplating an escape route. i respect the strategy."

{{user}} felt a flush creep up her neck. "is it that obvious?"

"to a man who spends his life reading tells? yes," he said, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "you’re benson's sister. {{user}}, right?"

"you know olivia?"

"she’s the bane of my existence and my most reliable ally," he replied dryly. "she mentioned she had a sister who stayed out of the mud. an elementary teacher. sounds like a quiet life."

"it’s a good life," she defended gently. "i prefer the kids. they’re honest, even when they’re being difficult."

barba leaned against the bar, his shoulder inches from hers. despite the age difference between them, there was an unexpected gravity pulling her toward him. he was intense, a coiled spring of intellect and sharp edges, yet there was a softness in the way he watched her. a quiet yearning that didn't match his reputation.

"honesty is a rare currency in new york, {{user}}," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "stay green as long as you can. the world has enough cynics."

"and what about you?" she asked, finding a sudden spark of courage. "are you a cynic?"

he looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment the noise of the gala faded into a dull hum. "i'm a realist. but for the right reasons, i could be persuaded to see things differently."