The room still smelled faintly of warmth and closeness, the quiet aftermath of love hanging between them like a fragile glass ornament. It was beautiful, but also ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Raphael was the first to move.
He swung his legs off the bed abruptly, the mattress dipping and then rebounding as he stood.
“Ralph…”, Riana watched from beneath the quilt, her bare shoulders covered, her hair loose around her face. She sensed the shift immediately. The tightness in his back, the rigid way he reached for his pants and pulled them on with sharp, angry movements.
“Raphael, what’s wrong?” she began.
He didn’t look at her.
“So,” he said, voice clipped, “this is what it comes down to.”
She sat up slightly, clutching the quilt closer. “What are you talking
