This Means War

4. - RAFAEL -

four

- RAFAEL -

A nother morning. Another line. Another game.

Luis would never admit it, but he loves stirring the pot. I’m reminded of this because he shows up at the café the next morning. Worse, I can’t even really complain. It’s his spot, to be fair.

Today, though, I’m ready. He can try to take over my morning, my focus, and maybe even Monica. But I know his moves.

“You’re late,” I say as I spot him scanning the café, probably looking for Monica. He’s wearing that smug grin, the one that usually means he’s just won some bet I didn’t know I was a part of. I can't imagine what he might have done given how little time we’ve both had since last seeing each other.

“Late?” Luis asks, feigning surprise. “Didn’t realize I was on your schedule, Raf.”

There it is, the subtle jab. He knows exactly how to needle me without crossing the line. I just roll my eyes.

The café is bustling as usual, the scent of freshly brewed espresso blending with the chatter of suited professionals. Monica hasn’t arrived yet, but that’s fine. I have a plan.

Luis slides into the chair across from me, a lazy confidence in his movements. “So, what’s the play today? ‘I’m rich and dangerous, let me tell you about in route?”

“Better than your ‘I’m just a humble guy who reads poetry on weekends’ act?” I counter, keeping my tone light. It’s always like this—friendly fire disguised as banter. But beneath it, there’s something heavier, something we never talk about.

Luis laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Please. You couldn’t handle danger if it hit you with a Bentley.”

I smirk. “Let’s test that theory.”

And as if on cue, Monica walks in. She’s immaculate. Today, it’s a tailored white blazer over a soft lavender blouse, her heels clicking confidently against the tiled floor. Heads turn as she moves through the room, but her eyes—when they glance over and meet mine—linger just a second too long.

Luis notices. Of course, he does.

“Looks like she’s still deciding between us,” he says under his breath, his voice laced with mischief.

“Did she even see you?” I reply smoothly.

Monica reaches the counter, and I watch as she places her order. I wonder if she is going to order a wrap. I wonder why I care so much about it.

Luis doesn’t wait. He’s up before I can stop him, striding toward the counter like he owns the place. I clench my jaw, debating whether to let him have his moment or step in and reclaim the lead. The fact that she doesn’t know we are friends keeps me put.

“Miss Monica May,” he says, his voice smooth, his smile practiced. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She turns, surprised but polite. “Luis, I should have known I could find you here.”

He nods, his confidence radiating. “Wonderful I get to see you outside of work.”

Her laugh is soft and polite. “This place is as great as you said. It’s like I’ve stumbled into a... community?”

Luis grins, but I see the flicker of wonder in his eyes. Monica’s phrasing alone throws him off balance. I take my chance and stand, closing the distance between us.

“He might sing this place’s praises,” I say as I approach, my tone light but firm. “Making it a shame that he is hardly a regular here.”

Luis raises an eyebrow, the challenge clear in his expression. Before he finds the words Monica tilts her head and asks him, “Why is that?”

"More of a night owl," he answers honestly. It’s almost stunning to see him lead with the unfiltered truth. “If this place were open past 8 PM I’d be here nightly.”

I chuckle, stepping into the space between them, just close enough to make Luis shift slightly to the side. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Luis claps me on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Spoken like a man who’s allergic to sitting still.”

Monica shakes her head as she laughs, a sound that’s both genuine and disarming. “You two seem to know each other well.”

“Maybe this cafe is a real community at times,” I say, meeting Luis’ gaze. The tension is palpable, but Monica doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does, and she’s just too skilled at navigating situations like this.

She glances between us, her curiosity evident. “I’d stay and eat, but I’m running late. Snuck in another meeting before our’s on Tuesday.”

Luis steps aside with a charming smile. “Wouldn’t dream of keeping you.”

Monica nods, her gaze lingering on him for just a moment before she turns and heads for the door.

The silence between us is deafening once she’s gone.

“Well,” Luis says, breaking it with a smirk. “Looks like you’ve got some work to do.”

I exhale, shaking my head. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it,” he says, his voice low, almost teasing.

The words hang in the air longer than they should, and for a split second, the playful edge in his tone feels like something more. But I push the thought aside.

“You’re delusional in the mornings,” I say, grabbing my coffee and heading for the door.

Luis follows, his grin unwavering.

The rest of the day is a blur of standing around and nodding at people I recognize so well that I’d be able to sketch them with my eyes closed. So my mind keeps drifting back to that moment in the café. To Monica’s smile. I do think Luis likes her more than most people. He only shortens or extends past a full name when he is being friendly.

By the time evening rolls around, I need a distraction. Something to clear my head.

Luis texts me as I’m heading home.

Luis: Game night. Usual bar. Don’t chicken out.

I almost don’t respond. Almost. But then I think of the way he looked at Monica this morning, the spark of more than competition in his eyes. And I can’t say no.

Me: Be there by 9

When I arrive, the bar is its usual mix of charm. It’s a small place that only locals visit. There’s a bottle of expensive whiskey on the counter and a stack of cards in front of Luis. He looks relaxed, even in his suit. The jacket hangs off the back of the chair as he sets up some sort of strategy game I don’t recognize.

“Ready to lose?” he asks without looking up.

“You wish,” I reply, dropping into the seat next to him.

We play for hours, the competitive banter flowing as easily as the whiskey. But beneath the surface, there’s a tension neither of us addresses. Touches linger—a hand on a shoulder, a knee brushing against mine as we lean over the table. It’s all so casual, so easy to dismiss.

Until it’s not.

At some point, Luis leans back, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “You know this thing with Monica... it’s not just a game, right?”

I freeze, unsure of how to respond.

He continues, his gaze locked on mine. “I mean, sure, it’s fun to mess with you. But if she’s someone you’re serious about, I’d back off.”

The sincerity in his voice throws me off balance. I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat.

Because the truth is, it’s not Monica I’m thinking about.

Not really.

“I don’t know,” I say finally, my voice quieter than intended.

Luis tilts his head, studying me. “What don’t you know?”

I shake my head, standing and grabbing my jacket. Glad I don’t have to drive home given how much I’ve had. “Forget it. It’s late. I should go.”

He doesn’t have muscle on me, but he does have speed. And as fast as a dart his hand is over mine I reached for the bill. “Raf.”

I meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s holding its breath. I pulled my eyes away from the game we're playing and managed to count the score.

I won.

“You can tell me,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. The air between us is charged, the distance too small, too intimate.

But instead of saying what I want to—what I’m afraid to—I force a laugh and step back. “Better luck next time, Luis.”

He doesn’t stop me, but I can feel his eyes on me as I leave.

And as I walk home, the night cool and quiet around me, I can’t help but wonder if the game we’re playing is one we’re both destined to lose.