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The bullpen was a hum of phones, murmurs, and the occasional clatter of files. You were elbow deep in paperwork when a familiar voice cut through the din, sharp, confident, and just the tiniest bit mischievous.

“Detective,” he drawled, leaning against the edge of your desk with that crooked grin that somehow managed to make you simultaneously annoyed and delighted. “Still pretending you don’t like doing paperwork?”

You didn’t look up. “Someone’s got to keep the precinct from imploding. You’d know if you tried it once.”

He chuckled, tilting his head, eyes glinting. “I’ve seen you in action. Trust me, chaos has nothing on you.”

You finally met his gaze, arching an eyebrow. “Flattery? That’s dangerously close to unethical, Rafeal.”

“Unethical is my specialty,” he said smoothly, sliding a folder across your desk. “But strictly legal when it’s for work purposes.”

You leaned back, smirking, pretending to consider him. “Hmm. I’m not sure if I should be grateful or call HR.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to be a conspiratorial whisper. “Go ahead. Call HR. I’ll be charmingly unrepentant.”

A beat passed. Then, in perfect sync, you both burst out laughing—laughter that drew a few curious glances from nearby detectives, but neither of you cared.

“Fine,” you said, tossing the folder back. “I’ll give you this one. But only because I like being amused.”

“Amused is my favorite state to put you in,” he said, straightening. “And just so you know,” he gestured to the folder, “I’ve got a whole stack of files we’ll be ‘working’ on together later.”

You groaned, hiding a grin behind your hand. “I’m starting to think you enjoy this way too much.”

“I think you secretly enjoy it more,” he replied smoothly, turning to leave, then pausing at the doorway. “Try to stay out of trouble until then, Detective.”

You watched him go, already anticipating the next round of teasing, the back and forth that made the precinct feel a little less like a cage and a little more like… this.

In the Sargent’s office, Olivia and Rafeal were mulling over a case file. Barba explaining the witness timeline, he couldn’t help sneaking glances at you from across the bullpen. “So,” Olivia said, voice casual but pointed, “the detective seems… unusually cheerful today. And you, ADA Barba,” her eyebrows went up slightly “are leaning a little too close to make that ‘just professional’ line believable.”

Rafeal raised an innocent brow, tapping the folder. “Professional curiosity only, Olivia. You know me.”

Olivia smirked, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. And I suppose sliding folders across desks and whispering in confidential tones is part of your professional toolkit?”

He chuckled softly, pretending to shuffle papers. “A man’s got to keep the workflow interesting.”

You glanced over at the scene, trying not to laugh outright as Olivia gave Rafeal a pointed look. “Interesting, huh? I’ve seen you flirt less subtly in depositions.”

Rafeal’s grin faltered just a fraction. “I—uh—strictly procedural. All business.”

Olivia’s smile deepened. “Mmh-hmm. We’ll see how long you can keep that up before someone notices. I’m… watching.”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore, laughter spilling out across your desk, and Rafeal finally threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, yes, maybe there’s a hint of… charm. But it’s still work-adjacent.”

“Work-adjacent,” Olivia repeated, teasing, shaking her head. “You lawyers and your euphemisms.”

Once Olivia returned to her office, you leaned back with a sly smile, tilting your head toward Rafeal. “So,” you murmured, voice low enough for just him, “I guess it’s true… everyone notices when you’re trying to charm me. Even Olivia.”

Rafeal froze for a beat, then quirked that signature half smile. “Oh? And what do you think that says about me?”

You tapped the edge of your desk, leaning forward. “That you’re either very confident, or very reckless. Maybe both. But honestly? I’m entertained either way.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, mock exasperation softening into something warmer. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But watch it, you might make me start thinking this is… personal.”

“Maybe I want you to,” you teased, eyes sparkling. “Keep up the charm, Rafeal. The rest of the precinct already knows your type.”

As if on cue, a few detectives at nearby desks exchanged glances, whispering with barely contained smirks. Amanda nudged Sonny, nodding toward the two of you, clearly in on the silent game. Someone else whistled softly under their breath, making you roll your eyes but grin anyway.

Rafeal caught the glance too, tilting his head at you. “Looks like the office grapevine approves of us,” he murmured, voice low and playful.

“Or they’re all betting on how long it takes for you to get flustered,” you replied, leaning back, smug.

He leaned closer, just enough for you to feel the warmth, and whispered, “I’d say the odds are in my favor.”

Minutes later, he gathered his case files, straightening his suit jacket before heading toward the exit. As he passed your desk, he paused, glanced back over his shoulder, and shot you a slow, teasing wink.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Leaving already?”

“Duty calls,” he said, voice low, almost a purr, “but I’ll be back… and I fully intend to win that bet.”

The rain hadn’t stopped, just softened to a persistent drizzle that made the sidewalks shine like wet mirrors. Inside the little corner cafe, the smell of coffee and baked bread wrapped around you like a blanket. Outside, New York City moved in a blur of umbrellas and gray coats, but inside, the world was smaller, warmer.

You stirred your coffee lazily, glancing out the window between bites of a buttery croissant. The hum of conversation and clatter of cups formed a soundtrack you could lose yourself in. And then the door opened, the little bell chiming, sharp and insistent. You felt it before you saw him.

Rafael Barba stepped in, coat dripping lightly from the drizzle, briefcase in hand, expression all calm control and quiet command. Your chest fluttered like a careless note in the wind. You’d seen him before, of course, you were both attorneys, both frequenting this cafe when mornings permitted but something about today made the air between you feel charged.

He glanced around the cafe, and you caught the faintest flicker in his eyes when they landed on you. That small, polite recognition you shared—smiles that didn’t need words, a nod, an almost imperceptible lift of the brow.

“Morning,” he said as he approached the counter, gloves in one hand, briefcase in the other.

“Morning,” you replied, more than a little aware of how your voice carried differently when he was around. “Coffee, same as always?”

He hesitated, just a fraction, before shaking his head. “Black, no sugar. You?”

“Latte,” you said, smiling. “Vanilla today. Feeling indulgent.”

He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching like it wanted to say something else but didn’t. He moved toward the stool across from you, not beside you, but close enough that the space between your tables flickered with possibility.

“So, how’s the merger case going?” he asked, lowering himself onto the stool. His voice was measured, smooth, but there was warmth beneath it, like he wasn’t just asking out of professional curiosity.

“Tricky,” you admitted, stirring your latte. “They’re negotiating like it’s a high stakes poker game, but nobody’s bluffing yet. You?”

He leaned back, hands resting on the briefcase. “Court was… interesting. A lot of posturing. Not much real truth.” His gaze found yours, steady and sharp, and your stomach lurched slightly. “But you’d know about that.”

You laughed softly. “We all play the same games, just different tables.”

The rain outside continued, words flowed easier than usual. You talked about cases, but also the city; the stubborn construction that seemed to move in slow waves, the way coffee tasted better on gray mornings, the music that always seemed to escape from someone’s headphones and wrap around your ears like a secret.

He tilted his head, watching you laugh at some small observation about the city’s chaos. “You have… an energy,” he said quietly, almost offhandedly. “It’s contagious.”

Heat pooled in your chest. “I think you might be enjoying it too much,” you teased, and he let a small, rare laugh escape.

The waitress dropped off a cup filled with coffee, black, steam curling between you, Rafael absently wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup. Your hands brushed briefly, accidental but electric. You both noticed, and neither pulled away.

“You ever think about just… stopping?” you asked, voice softer now, leaning slightly across the table. “Like, letting the chaos wait a second?”

“Almost every day,” he admitted. “But then mornings like this happen. And I remember why I don’t.” His eyes held yours longer than they should have. “You make it… harder to ignore.”

You smiled faintly, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine. “Good,” you said, more to yourself than him, but he caught it.

Later, when you were home, the city muted by walls and windows, you curled up on your couch with a glass of red wine. Your laptop sat open on your lap, half-forgotten, playlist humming quietly. You rested against the soft throw pillow, letting your thoughts drift back to him: the tilt of his head, the slow certainty in the way he moved, the warmth that lingered in his voice even across a table.

You imagined him walking up your street, scarf tight against the drizzle, hands deep in coat pockets, eyes scanning until they found you. You traced a finger over the rim of your wine glass, the city lights refracting gold across your walls, imagining the way he’d smile at you then, that small, almost-shy expression that made mornings feel like confessions.