She was infuriating. He'd always known that, and yet he still found himself surprised every time she went out of her way to put herself in danger. He remembered being at Hogwarts with her, knowing she was a Hufflepuff and assuming she would eventually settle down into an easy, boring life once she decided she was tired of bickering him. Hufflepuffs were supposed to be boring, and yet Raphael continued to be appalled at how little regard for her life she had, even well into her twenties.
As she snatched the letter, the tip of his finger tingled at the brief brush of her bare skin against his. It was maddening, really, to be so aware of how his body reacted to hers, even as he stood there thinking than she might be better off in an asylum for the night than being allowed to roam the streets at this hour. She was going to get herself killed, and then he'd... well, he didn't know what he'd do, but the idea of her death caused the muscles in his chest to seize uncomfortably.
He seethed in silence as she tried to explain herself. She wasn't making any sense, and even worse, Raphael didn't think she realized it. It dawned on him how little he knew of her family beyond these casual mentions. He didn't know their names, how many siblings she had, who she was closest to. Hell, he wouldn't recognize any of them in the streets unless they looked exactly like her. He pieced together that her sister was Maisie, and that she'd been threatened by some man who worked with their father, who had also been the man who tried to attack them? His brows knitted together as he tried to follow, but he found himself distracted by her movements.
She approached the mirror, and he turned to watch with concerned eyes. He was hyperaware of her body—how it moved, its dips and curves even under the oversized shirt, the spots where it looked soft and smoothed and the others that were bruised and scarred. He took a step towards her as she began to tug at the shirt's collar, needing to see what she was trying to get a look at, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the scar she'd gotten before their previous encounter.
And then there were the bruises. Her words settled in as he he stared at her reflection, his eyes drawn to the bruises. He stepped closer—one, two, three steps, one after another until chest nearly brushed her shoulder. The bruises were fresh, shadows of purples and blues contrasting against her fair skin, little veins visible around the edges. They looked like fingerprints, he realized, and suddenly his rage at her was directed to another: Walter.
"Is he dead?" he asked, finally breaking his silence as his gaze slid to hers through the reflection.
As she snatched the letter, the tip of his finger tingled at the brief brush of her bare skin against his. It was maddening, really, to be so aware of how his body reacted to hers, even as he stood there thinking than she might be better off in an asylum for the night than being allowed to roam the streets at this hour. She was going to get herself killed, and then he'd... well, he didn't know what he'd do, but the idea of her death caused the muscles in his chest to seize uncomfortably.
He seethed in silence as she tried to explain herself. She wasn't making any sense, and even worse, Raphael didn't think she realized it. It dawned on him how little he knew of her family beyond these casual mentions. He didn't know their names, how many siblings she had, who she was closest to. Hell, he wouldn't recognize any of them in the streets unless they looked exactly like her. He pieced together that her sister was Maisie, and that she'd been threatened by some man who worked with their father, who had also been the man who tried to attack them? His brows knitted together as he tried to follow, but he found himself distracted by her movements.
She approached the mirror, and he turned to watch with concerned eyes. He was hyperaware of her body—how it moved, its dips and curves even under the oversized shirt, the spots where it looked soft and smoothed and the others that were bruised and scarred. He took a step towards her as she began to tug at the shirt's collar, needing to see what she was trying to get a look at, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the scar she'd gotten before their previous encounter.
And then there were the bruises. Her words settled in as he he stared at her reflection, his eyes drawn to the bruises. He stepped closer—one, two, three steps, one after another until chest nearly brushed her shoulder. The bruises were fresh, shadows of purples and blues contrasting against her fair skin, little veins visible around the edges. They looked like fingerprints, he realized, and suddenly his rage at her was directed to another: Walter.
"Is he dead?" he asked, finally breaking his silence as his gaze slid to hers through the reflection.
set by lady <3