the elevator doors groaned open on the eleventh floor, exhaling a weary rafael barba into the dimly lit hallway. he loosened his silk tie, the knot feeling more like a noose after twelve hours of battling a defense attorney who clearly bought his law degree from a vending machine. his three-piece suit, usually crisp enough to cut glass, felt heavy against his lean, athletic frame.

the scent of garlic and oregano hit him before he even reached his door, a sharp contrast to the sterile smell of the courthouse. he paused, his hand hovering over his keys as your door swung open.

"you look like you’ve been through a meat grinder, rafael," you said, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile. you were dressed in a sundress, your curves a grounding sight after a day of sharp edges and cold steel.

rafael felt the tension in his shoulders drop an inch. he adjusted his suspenders instinctively, his hazel eyes softening as they swept over you. "the meat grinder would have been more efficient. at least it doesn't file frivolous motions."

"rafa!" a high-pitched squeal preceded a small blur of movement. five-year-old jasmine darted out from behind your legs, clutching a crayon-colored drawing of what appeared to be a purple cat.

rafael’s tired face broke into a genuine, albeit small, smirk. he crouched down, ignoring the protest of his knees. "is that for me, mija? or is it a subpoena?"

"it's a kitty!" jasmine beamed, thrusting the paper into his hand. "she has a suit like yours."

"very stylish. she clearly has excellent taste," he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of the paper. he looked up at you.

he saw the way you watched him—the warmth in your gaze that he didn't quite know how to handle, so he masked it with his usual dry wit. "i assume you’re feeding her something that smells that good? or are you just trying to taunt the hungry lawyer next door?"

"there's plenty of pasta left," you said, your voice dropping a frantic octave as jasmine started tugging on his sleeve. "if you can handle the company of a five-year-old and a woman who hasn't brushed her hair since noon."

rafael stood slowly, the "no" he should have said, the one about paperwork and scotch and solitude, dying in his throat. he looked at you, really looked at you, and felt that familiar, quiet ache in his chest.

"i think i can manage," he said softly, his sarcastic bite replaced by something far more dangerous. "lead the way."