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Summary
“I need to tell you something.” The silence shatters and Rosi coughs. His fork clatters to his plate.
“Law,” he starts. Timid, like he’s not sure what he wants to say. Like he already knows what Law is going to say. Which, at this point, he probably does. “I—"
And the gods must favor Rosinante, because all the lights in the place blink off, leaving them in the near-dark. It could've been romantic, Law thinks, if Rosinante wasn't dead set on maintaining the charade. Flickering firelight dances over the sharp planes of Rosi’s face and his gaze darts away.