the hospital room smelled of sterile floor wax and the metallic tang of medicine, a stark contrast to the scent of expensive woodsmoke and espresso that usually followed rafael barba. he stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the fading bronx skyline. his three-piece suit was impeccably pressed, but the way his fingers drummed a restless rhythm against his thigh betrayed the composure he wore like armor.

"you're still here," {{user}}'s voice was a rough whisper, breaking the heavy silence. she shifted slightly under the thin blankets, a wince tight on her face as the bandages across her side pulled.

rafael didn't turn immediately. he watched the reflection of the heart monitor’s steady green pulse in the glass. "the doctors say you were lucky. a half-inch to the left and i’d be filing a very different kind of paperwork today."

"luck had nothing to do with it," she managed a weak, lopsided smile. "i had a job to do. since when do you care about the logistics of a scuffle? you usually just care if the chain of custody is intact."

he turned then, his hazel eyes dark and simmering with an intensity that made her breath hitch more than the injury did. he stepped closer to the bedside, the light catching the silver at his temples. he looked every bit the formidable ada, yet there was a fraying at the edges of his resolve.

"the chain of custody is irrelevant if the lead detective is bleeding out in an apartment hallway because she decided to be a martyr," he snapped, though the bite was softened by the low, gravelly pitch of his voice. he reached out, his hand hovering near hers on the railing before he pulled back, adjusting his silk pocket square instead.

"i'm fine, rafael. really."

"you are many things, {{user}}, but 'fine' is an insult to my intelligence," he countered, stepping into the small space between them. "i spent three hours in a deposition thinking about the law. then benson called, and i realized the law is a cold, hollow thing when it doesn't protect the people who uphold it."

{{user}} reached out, her hand finding the sleeve of his coat. the fabric was soft, expensive. "is this you being sentimental? because i think i might need more morphine if you’re going to start quoting poetry."

a ghost of a smirk touched his lips, but his gaze remained fierce. he covered her hand with his own, his palm warm and steady. "don't push your luck, detective. i've already missed a meeting with the d.a. to watch you sleep. i'm merely stating that my patience for your heroics has reached its statutory limit."

he leaned down, his face inches from hers, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her like a promise. "don't ever do that again. i don't particularly care for a world where i have no one worth arguing with."