the rooftop lounge smells like late-summer rain and expensive scotch. rafael barba leans his weight against the mahogany bar, the silk of his pocket square a sharp contrast against the charcoal wool of his three-piece suit. his thighs ache slightly from the tension of standing still, his frame lean and athletic despite the decade he has on nearly everyone in the room. he doesn't look at her. he can't. not without losing the carefully cultivated mask of the assistant district attorney.

"you’re brooding, counselor," {{user}} says, her voice cutting through the jazz and the low hum of the svu squad's laughter. she leans her elbows on the bar, the silk of her slip dress shimmering. "even for you, this is a lot of dark clouds for a wedding."

barba doesn't turn his head, but a smirk tugs at his salt-and-pepper beard. "i don't brood, detective. i observe. for instance, i’ve observed that rollins has had three glasses of champagne in twenty minutes, and carisi is one song away from a very public 'mishap' on the dance floor."

"and what have you observed about me?" she asks.

it’s a challenge. she’s standing closer than she ever would at the precinct, her presence warm and undeniable. barba finally turns, his hazel eyes lingering on the curve of her jaw, the way her hair falls over her shoulders. no tactical gear, no blazer, just her. the sarcasm drops, replaced by an intensity that usually belongs in a courtroom.

"that you’ve spent the last hour avoiding this corner of the room," he says softly, his voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register. "i didn't realize my legal opinions were that offensive today."

"i wasn't avoiding the corner," {{user}} counters, her gaze steady. "i was avoiding the person in it. you're distracting, rafael."

the air between them feels heavy, charged with five years of unspoken 'almosts' and late-night paperwork. across the floor, fin catches rafael’s eye, giving him a pointed, 'don't be an idiot' nod before spinning phoebe around.

barba sets his scotch down with a controlled click. he extends a hand, his palm calloused but his touch sure. "detective, if we’re going to be distracted, we might as well do it properly. one dance. no talk of subpoenas or chain of custody."