He'd asked for a thank you, and for once he hadn't asked with the intention to guilt her into giving more than that. His brows furrowed at the mention of money. If she'd been unable to pay for a wand or been so desperate to sell the earring for less than its value, why would be expect her to find the money in the future? Moreover, what gave her the impression that he'd demand to be paid back?

He wasn't sure, and honestly he couldn't say he had even an inkling of what was going through her mind. Clearly the men had mistreated her—an understatement, really—and clearly she felt ashamed either for her own finances or his help or something, but he couldn't figure out what part of it was bringing her to the point of tears. And then finally the thank you came, but by the time it left her mouth he'd decided he probably should have let her go on her way without demanding anything in return.

Raphael was not the sort of person who excelled in comforting the dejected—in fact, it was much easier for him to convince himself that the male sex as a whole was terrible at handling other's emotions than it was for him to come to terms with his own lack of sensitivity. But in that moment it was difficult not to acknowledge how uncomfortable he was, how intimidating the prospect of comforting her was.

"I don't want money," he said stiffly, sinking into the seat next to her. "It was a favor. And if you'd like to pay me back... promise me a favor in the future."

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