𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 is your average do-good lawyer on the rise to fame as a representative of young victims. Except her motivations aren't all that innocent. Rayne's only goal is to run from her past, to leave confrontation for the courtroom, no...
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𝗥ueben walked slowly into his walk – in closet at the back of his room. Even though today was start of the trial, there was a feeling in the back of his mind, nagging him – and the events of today weren't the reason. He knew that much. As the bad feeling settled in his stomach, he struggled to figure out why.
He rolled his eyes and leaned down, grabbing onto his pant leg. He pulled it up, watching the green light blink on and off every other second. He let out a breath, well old friend. Today is the day we finally part ways.
He released his grip and stood, padding over to the dresser on the back wall of the closet. He pulled it open and found himself staring at his reflection through the floor length mirror that rested on one half of the tall bureau. He leaned forward, placing his fingers under his eyes; he tugged gently. His eyebags were darker today – he was regretting not sleeping early last night.
Annoyed with himself, he grabbed the white button – up long sleeve hanging next to the mirror. He had a black fleece sweater vest to go on top of it. Rueben didn't particularly like to dress up, especially not formally, but Rayne had told him it was extremely important to look presentable today. Of course he knew he couldn't just waltz into court wearing ripped jeans – but he also didn't think he'd need to wear something similar to a suit. As he pushed his arms through the sleeves, he noticed Emmet walking up behind him in the mirror.
"Hey," he said, buttoning his shirt.
"Hey," he replied, standing beside him.
Emmet leaned against the dresser, silently watching as Rueben pulled the sweater over his head. A small chuckled came from his direction and he shot his father a nasty glare.
"Oh shut up."
"C'mon," he laughed louder, "It's not every day I get to see my son dressed like me."
He rolled his eyes, ignoring his commentary, and turned to face the mirror. He ran a hand through his limp, straight hair. He still needed to style it.
"Do you need some help?" Emmet asked, motioning to his wrists.
"Yeah."
Emmet grabbed the cufflinks from the small drawer at the top of the dresser. He lightly held one of Rueben's wrists, carefully putting them on before moving to the next one. The black jewels shined brightly against the white of his shirt and hair. His father's touch was gentle and soft – it alarmed him. He has never been known for being delicate.
When he was done applying the second cufflink, he placed his palms on either side of Rueben's hand. Now it was time to be concerned. He tried to catch Emmet's eye but he didn't look up.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"What? Oh yeah ..." he looked up; his eyes were soft, "I just wanted to talk to you for a moment."
"Sure. What's up?"
"Just ... uh—" he inhaled.
Before Rueben could react, Emmet grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace. He held the back of his head firmly, gripping the base of his hair gently. The tenderness in his father's embrace shook him greatly. His hug felt genuine – sentimental. He closed his mouth, not sure what to say as he waited for him to say something again. He couldn't lie – in his twenty – three years, his father had never hugged him, never mind displayed any type of affection. He let his arms hang at his side, undecided on if he wanted to return his hug.
