the soft amber glow of the desk lamp cast long, sharp shadows across the mahogany of rafael’s dining table, where case files lay scattered like discarded memories. the air smelled of old paper, expensive scotch, and the faint, lingering scent of {{user}}'s perfume, something floral that felt out of place among the grit of manhattan’s legal world.

rafael leaned back in his chair, the silk of his waistcoat catching the light as he watched her. she was focused, a pen tucked behind her ear, her brow furrowed as she cross-referenced a witness statement. she looked soft in the dim light, the curves of her frame settled comfortably into the velvet upholstery of his guest chair.

the silence was heavy, the kind of quiet that usually preceded a closing argument, until the sharp vibration of a phone against wood fractured the peace.

{{user}} didn’t pick it up immediately. she let it buzz, a persistent intruder in the room. when she finally turned the screen over, the name elliot illuminated the side of her face in a cold, digital blue.

thinking of you. be safe.

rafael didn’t need to read the words to feel the shift in the room. he watched the way her thumb hovered over the glass, the way her breath hitched just enough to be noticed by a man who made a living reading people’s smallest tells.

he set his glass down. the crystal made a precise, unforgiving clink against the coaster.

"he still does that," rafael said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that cut through the tension. "pins you to the past with five words or less."

{{user}} let out a long, shaky sigh, finally setting the phone face down. "it’s just elliot, rafael. we have history."

rafael rose from his seat, the movement fluid and deliberate. he didn't stop until he was standing just inches from her, invading the space she usually kept for herself. he smelled of cedar and the sharp bite of alcohol. he looked down at her, his hazel eyes dark with something far more volatile than professional frustration.

"history is a textbook, {{user}}. what he’s doing is a claim."

he reached out, his thumb brushing the edge of a case file near her hand, but his gaze never left hers.

"i don’t play well with others," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. "especially not with men who think their history entitles them to your future. i’m not interested in being your second choice just because the first one finally decided to show up."