the door to your apartment didn’t just open; it yielded to the sharp, rhythmic knock of a man who spent his life demanding entry into the truth. when you pulled it back, rafael barba was standing there, looking far too polished for the linoleum hallway of a brooklyn walk-up. he was wrapped in a charcoal three-piece suit, his silk pocket square a precise shock of burgundy against his chest.

“barba,” you murmured, leaning heavily against the frame. “it’s late for a house call. even for you.”

“i was in the neighborhood,” he said, though his office was miles away and his apartment was in the opposite direction. he didn't wait for an invite, stepping past you with a scent of expensive scotch and espresso. his hazel eyes, usually darting with the fire of a closing argument, swept over you with clinical intensity. they lingered on the way you favored your right side.

“i’m fine, rafael. just a scratch.”

“a scratch that required four stitches and a lecture from liv,” he countered, his voice lower than usual. he didn't look at you as he set a leather briefcase on your coffee table. his fingers went to his wrists, adjusting the silver links of his cuffs, a nervous tic you’d only seen once or twice in the heat of a losing trial.

he began to ramble, a rare occurrence for a man who lived for the weight of a well-placed silence. “the defendant’s counsel is looking for a plea. i thought you’d want to know before the morning filing. it’s a standard offer, nothing that should require you to leave your bed, or whatever it is you do when you aren’t playing target practice.”

you watched him. the salt and pepper of his beard seemed more pronounced under your flickering living room light. the athletic frame you’d admired from across the courtroom and the precinct for five years was tense, his shoulders held with a rigidity that looked painful.

“rafael,” you said softly, cutting through his talk of depositions.

he stopped. he didn't turn around. he just kept staring at the stack of papers in his bag, his hands still fumbling with his sleeves. for the first time in half a decade of sharp-tongued banter and shared drinks at the bar across from the courthouse, the air between you wasn't filled with wit. it was heavy with the badge on your hip and the terrifying reality of what almost happened.

“you’re rattled,” you whispered, taking a step toward him.

he finally turned, his expression cracking. the unflappable ada was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he’d spent the last four hours imagining the worst.

“i don't like it,” he admitted, his voice rough. he reached out, his hand hovering near your arm before he caught himself. “i don't like the phone calls that start with your name and end with a hospital address. it’s an inefficiency i can't afford, {{user}}.”