Across the room, my father didn’t hesitate. His head turned first, his focus shifting toward the door in one smooth, immediate motion that had nothing to do with curiosity and everything to do with instinct. That was what caught me—the fact that he moved before I did, that whatever this was, he was already reading it while I was still catching up.
The door opened without pause, a rush of cold air spilling across the floor and curling into the warmth of the apartment.
Alois stepped, his presence settling into the room in a way that was quiet but impossible to ignore. Snow clung faintly to the edges of his boots, melting into darker patches against the floor, his coat still holding the outside in its fibers, that crisp, metallic edge of cold following him in.
He didn’t look at me.
His attention landed on my father immediately, steady and deliberate, taking him in with the kind of focus that didn’t rush, didn’t skim, didn’t miss anything it needed to understand. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t reactive. It was measured.
And my father met it just as evenly.
There was no awkwardness, no hesitation. They simply… assessed each other. Fully. Quietly. Like men who were used to walking into rooms and knowing exactly where they stood before anyone said a word.
“Rafeal Ribeiro,” my father offered first, extending his hand like this was scheduled, like nothing about this moment had caught him off guard at all.
Alois crossed the space without breaking eye contact, his hand coming up to meet it. “Alois Müller.”
Their grips locked—firm, measured, neither of them pushing, neither of them giving anything away.
“I’ve heard about you,” my father continued, releasing his hand. “You’ve been…difícil.”
“I don’t know if difficult…” Alois let the word slide out and didn’t finish.
A swift brow raise and a subtle nod was high praise from Rafeal Ribeiro and Alois seemed to take it for the compliment that it was.
I stepped forward then, inserting myself back into the space before it could shift any further without me.
“Coffee,” I announced, pulling out mugs.
They didn’t look at me.
I poured anyway, the liquid hitting ceramic in steady, controlled streams that didn’t reflect the way my pulse had started to climb.
“You’re handling his communications?” my father asked. Still not looking at me.
“Yes,” I answered.
Alois’s gaze flicked to me then—brief, precise—and something in it shifted instantly.
My father took the mug from my hand, fingers brushing mine ever so delicately.
“You’re good at it?” This time, he was looking at me. And I felt it—the way he was measuring something that had nothing to do with my actual job.
“I have to be,” I replied.
My stomach dropped again. I turned away before it could show, bracing one hand lightly against the counter, my fingers spreading just slightly as I forced the reaction down, forced my breathing to stay even.
Alois moved toward the coat rack, shrugging out of his jacket, grounding himself in the space like he always did—controlled, deliberate, never taking more than he was given.
“Practice moved,” he offered, finally. A line thrown back into the version of reality we were supposed to be standing in.
“I saw,” I answered, keeping my voice level, turning back to face him, forcing everything back into place.
We held eye contact for half a second longer than necessary.
And in that half-second—everything sat there.
The lie.