He hides his battle scars well, buries them behind raised eyebrows and sharp retorts. Some days it's hard to imagine that this impeccably dressed man could possibly belong to any other world; that there was a time when he smiled with reckless abandon, a time when his future was filled with loud children and not the silence of murdered ones.
Then there's the other days, the times she catches the ghosts dancing in his eyes, when his hand curls into a fist whilst watching abusive fathers deny their fault, when his eyes flick to Yelena and Alejandro on television and he folds in upon himself. And she thinks that maybe this job will not break him as it has so many before him; that they've simply taken a fighter and put him in a new ring.
She watches him around her son, the confident lawyer giving way to this awkward uncomfortable man with a nervous smile and terrified eyes. Sees him second guess every instance of physical contact, revels at the shaky hands running anxiously through the once neat hair. But each visit he grows more and more secure in their home, now content to ruffle the boys hair or return his uncoordinated hug. And she knows why – had overheard his secretary talking about the parenting books that had been delivered to the office – but she bites her tongue and watches them with a secret grin. That was how Rafael worked best, within strict guidelines, where he knew the rules, knew what was expected and what boundaries could be pushed.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise then when he snaps away from their friendship, walls suddenly thrown back up. She should have known better, should have anticipated the ramifications, but it had been a long week. Her eyes were heavy, her brain sluggish, and his arm beside hers just so warm. Noah was asleep on his lap and she instinctively curled towards them as their conversation lulled, head falling against his shoulder. He wasn't there when she woke.
It cuts deeper than she'd dare admit – the blanket wrapped around her; the note in his scrawl saying Noah was tucked into bed, he'd see her at work; the glasses drying on the sink rack – but he didn't stay. And at work the next day he just offers up a shuttered smile before delving into the case. She lets him shove them neatly back into a box he can safely categorise, because who is she to ask for anything more.
She's healing but she's fractured and she can't take him back there with her. All the nights she wakes breathless, ready to pounce for her gun and ward off men long dead; all the times she looks at her body in the mirror and turns away in shame – he can never know. There's a look in his eye every time she cringes away from the sounds of the beach, or jumps at a mystery hand upon her, and she wishes it wasn't guilt she sees there, but it eats at her in the fraction of a moment before he schools his features.
So she lets him stand a little further away, and pretends to not notice when their meetings over take-away and Noah's toys revert back to coffee at his office.