The way he said it made my skin prickle.
“I’ll come by,” I said after a moment.
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
The call ended. I lowered the phone slowly.
“He will not mail it,” Raphael said quietly.
“No.”
“He wants you to retrieve it.”
“Yes.”
I didn’t look at him, but I could feel the shift in him again—the tightening, the need to fix it.
With Tripp, it was about control. It always was.
And suddenly the empty metal box felt like more than just missing mail. It felt like leverage. The drive home was quieter than usual. The missing check had settled somewhere under my ribs, a small stone I couldn’t dislodge. I kept replaying Tripp’s tone in my head. I was used to his control, but this had more of an edge than usual. If he mentioned being his personal maid again, I was going to have to find a new job.
Raphael didn’t comment further after the post office. He didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t offer to solve it. He just drove.
When we reached the house, he moved with that same efficient attentiveness that had become routine over the last few days. He held the doors, and his pace matched mine without making it obvious he was matching it.
Inside, the house felt cooler, calmer.
“You sit,” he said gently, guiding me toward the couch.
He helped me lower carefully, adjusting the pillows without asking. Then he elevated my leg and checked my brace. Before I knew it, he was back with an ice pack in hand and a glass of water.
“You are hovering again,” I murmured.
“Yes.”
I didn’t fight it this time.
The shift at the coffee shop had taken more out of me than I’d admitted. And the call with Tripp . . . that had scraped somewhere deeper.
Raphael moved around the room quietly, dimming lights, adjusting the blinds so the late sun didn’t hit my eyes. He settled on the couch beside me, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat from his body.
It was distracting in an intoxicating way that had nothing to do with alcohol.
He smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, clean and solid.
“You are thinking,” he said.
“I always am.”
“About the check.”
“Among other things.”
He didn’t press.
That was becoming his most dangerous quality. The way he let silence stretch without forcing it to break. I reached into my purse, mostly out of habit, and my fingers brushed the small tin I kept there.
I hesitated.
