She smiles back at him, and Rafe is pleased. This sort of banter, this level of confident, easy interaction is something he has sorely missed. He had it some with Nyimara, but it was different - she was a Queen in her own right, and by virtue of that fact alone Rafe knew it would never be the same. For them, there was little chance to ever be anything more than close allies; neither would submit to the other, and neither would give up their own right to rule to submit to the other. Vela inspires less banter and more threats, and Viveka just calls up annoyance - especially with her recent flirtations with Dill. This mare, though, reminds him of home.
When her ears prick forward, he matches the movement. Her question has him laughing, because she isn’t wrong - desperation is unbecoming, and Rafe has always been fastidious in the image he presents to the outside world. No room for doubt, no room for hesitation or weakness - if he appears to be infallible then others will assume that confidence is for a reason. He’s always been of the opinion that half of power is developing a reputation strong enough to deter opponents. If he has half the number of fights to manage, he has half as many that have to be won. “Regularly,” he teases, the confidence in his voice and his bearing a direct contradiction to his words. “But not for this,” Rafe drawls. He is desperate for many things - desperate to return home. Desperate to get back to his family. Desperate to hold onto the life he’s built here. Desperate to maintain the reputation he’s fought so hard to create. Desperate for a companion that can come anywhere close to his sisters. Some days, he’s even desperate for a chance to know the son he shares with Nyimara. But he’s never desperate for a mare.
She shifts, sweet and shrinking in on herself, and Rafe can’t resist the urge to track bold, icy eyes over her in open appreciation. He lets out an amused snort when she asks if he’d save her from such a miserable fate and murmurs, “You’re assuming that I’m not one of the sort to watch out for.” Over half his herd is held in the Badlands only by his tenacity, and the carefully cultivated appearance of swift retribution. Her next comment has him laughing, head tossed up as he makes his amusement known. Mirage is a bold little thing, and he could absolutely see her as queen one day. She looks up at him from under her eyelashes, coquettish and sweet and something in him stirs. It’s the same feeling he gets before a sand storm, the knowledge deep in his bones that something dangerous is coming, no matter how unthreatening it seems. “You’re a bold little thing, aren’t you?” he asks her, surprise evident in his voice. “Luckily for you, I’ve always appreciated a woman who knows what she wants.”