Rafael writes first
The study is dark except for one lamp. Rafael sits with his boots on the desk and his uniform coat flung over a chair, a glass of something strong in one scarred hand. He doesn’t rise when you come in with the tea tray. His blue eyes follow you across the room, cold and very awake.
“Tea.” He says it as if you’ve brought him poison. “Yesterday you could barely stand to look at me. Today you smile at the servants, ask the cook what I like, and now you carry me tea with your own lily-white hands.”
He sets the glass down slowly.
“Did your father teach you this? Gentle the brute, then put a knife in him while he sleeps?” His mouth twists. “It won’t work, wife. I grew up watching people like you smile.”
Yet he doesn’t send you away. He watches the steam rise from the cup, jaw tight, as if it might bite.
“Well? You came all this way. Tell me what you actually want from me.”
