Beel ☆♪ @beelzecxi - Tumblr Blog

"I saw her in the rightest way."

Rafayel! x FTM! reader!

Synopsis: Artist Rafayel lives for his art—and for his muse. Deeply insecure and terrified of rejection, he convinces himself that loving from a distance is safer than risking everything with a confession. Instead, his feelings bleed quietly into paint and canvas, where devotion can exist without consequence. But unspoken love does not remain gentle forever. As time passes, admiration warps into fixation, and the line between muse and possession begins to blur—until Rafayel’s devotion consumes both his sanity and the person he loves.

W.c: idk long

Tags - hurt with comfort (regrettably) dom! Rafayel! Ftm! Reader! Readers front hole gets called a cunt! (T-dick also gets called a clit) no beta, we die like men. And i think that’s it? Let me know if i missed anything!! Mdni! Nsfw! Ooc Rafayel!

A/n: okay, guys. This is the worst smut i have ever wrote and I’m lwk debating whether i should ever write again or not after this one.

As an artist, there is no greater curse than falling in love—because once you do, nothing you create is ever truly yours again.

Every piece is made with blood and tears, and yet there is only one thing that occupies your heart and mind.

Your love.

Your devotion.

To the being who captured your heart and claimed it as their own—without ever knowing they had done so.

It is worse when they do not feel the same way. Worse when their heart beats in tandem with someone else’s.

Someone who is not you.

You—of course—would not know this feeling.

The kind of feeling that drives even the strongest of men mad.

And Rafayel is not strong.

No. He is weak.

Weak as an ant when it comes to you. The moment you walk into his studio with a smile on your face is the moment his strength drains from his body entirely.

It takes everything in him not to lunge forward.

Not to pin you to the floor and force you to listen as he spills every unspoken thought, every ugly, aching truth he keeps buried in his chest.

He loves everything about you.

The way you laugh at inappropriate moments, followed by your rushed, breathless apology.

The way your eyes gleam when something excites you.

The way you stumble over your words, desperate to tell him some interesting fact you’ve just learned.

He especially loves your smile.

“It’s perfect,” he always tells you.

You always respond with, “Almost.”

And in truth, it is almost perfect.

Your top row is flawlessly straight. Your bottom row is slightly crooked, but still beautiful. Pearly white.

You insist it’s only almost perfect, even though people would pay fortunes to have a smile like yours. Many do.

He even loves the pus-filled blemishes you get in the middle of the month. The imperfections you apologize for without being asked.

He loves them because they are yours.

He loves you.

And that, more than anything else, is what will ruin him.

He didn’t realize it at first—his feelings for you.

His paintings had always been filled with fragments of you, yet he thought nothing of it.

He paid you to pose for him monthly. How were paintings of you any different now?

Maybe it wasn’t the paintings themselves, but how many of them there were. He had filled the back room of his studio with canvases bearing your likeness, so many that he had been forced to move several into a storage unit—and still, he didn’t think it was odd.

So what?

You were his muse. That was what he paid you for. It wasn’t unusual.

He didn’t notice until Thomas pointed it out.

“Why are you always painting him?” Thomas asked.

At first, Rafayel was confused. He wasn’t always painting you—sure, he painted you often, but not always. When he said as much, Thomas only gestured vaguely around the studio.

“Just look,” he said.

So Rafayel did.

He looked at the studio, now cluttered with paintings of—well, you.

That’s when Thomas asked the question that made everything click.

He was joking, of course. A boyish grin spread across his face as he glanced up at Rafayel. “So what? Are you, like… in love with him or something?”

He laughed, slapping his hand against his thigh—until he realized Rafayel wasn’t laughing.

At first, Thomas thought he’d overstepped. He rushed out an apology. “Hey, I’m sorry, man, I didn’t mean to—” He trailed off, scratching at the corner of his lower lip.

Then he noticed the faint flush creeping up the tips of Rafayel’s ears.

“Wait,” Thomas said slowly. “Are you… like, actually?”

They stared at each other.

Then—finally— Rafayel spoke.

“Get out,” he muttered, turning back to his canvas.

He twitched—almost flinched—when he met your painted gaze. Your eyes stared back at him, accusatory. Judging.

“Hey, dude, I apologized, why do I—”

“Get out. Now.” Rafayel hissed.

He jumped from his stool and stormed toward Thomas, his fist clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palm.

“Yes—yes, sorry, okay, bye,” Thomas rushed out, practically fleeing the studio.

The moment the door slammed shut, Rafayel turned his fury inward—onto the room.

He shattered his paint palette. Snapped his brushes. Kicked over his stool.

But he couldn’t bring himself to damage a single one of your paintings.

He didn’t know why he was angry.

It wasn’t until that night, lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, that the truth settled in.

He wasn’t angry.

He was ashamed.

Ashamed that his heart had ever dared to believe it could beat alongside yours.

After that day, he grew distant—or at least, he tried to distance himself from you. Though he no longer laughed until it hurt at your jokes, he still found himself smiling at them when he thought you weren’t looking. He’d cancel your appointments the day of, only telling you at the last minute. But even when he canceled, you still found your way back to his canvas.

And soon, he wasn’t only painting you.

He was painting himself as well.

You and him together.

He knew he shouldn’t—that this kind of creation should be forbidden for the power it held over one’s heart. The more he painted, the deeper the ache in his chest grew. The more he longed to see you smile at him. The more he longed to hear your tongue caress every syllable of his name as you spoke it.

Still, he avoided you.

When your hands brushed, he was quick to pull away, apologizing immediately, terrified that you might find him disgusting for daring to touch something as perfect as you.

It was only when his emotions overwhelmed him that he allowed himself to be greedy. When the ache in his chest became unbearable—only then would he find excuses to touch you, even if just briefly.

On those days, he would walk you to the door and smile as if he hadn’t spent hours trying to scrub you from his canvas. And you would always smile back.

Each time, the ache grew worse—burrowing deeper into his soul.

He would linger in the doorway, watching as you interacted with people who were not him. Watching you smile as you helped an elderly woman into one of the shops near his studio. And it was then he knew he was right.

He wasn’t special.

You smiled that way at everyone.

And still—his foolish heart dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, that smile was meant for him alone.

After that, his avoidance worsened. He stopped greeting you when you arrived. His cancellations became more frequent, more abrupt.

He considered firing you—ending it cleanly, never having to see you again, ridding himself of you entirely.

No, he thought.

His selfishness would not allow such freedom.

You consumed his every waking thought, yet remained oblivious to the internal torment you caused him.

He could not bring himself to let you go.

But he could not bring himself to look at you either.

The paintings that filled his studio became grotesque reminders of how pathetic he truly was—of how undeserving he was of you.

If only he were better.

Maybe—just maybe—then he could stand by your side and finally call you his.

So instead, he watches.

From the corner of his studio, from the doorway, from the edges of your life—where he is allowed to exist and no further.

He feels like such a fool for dreaming that maybe one day he could go a bit further, cross a boundary he would never dare touch. That one day he might be brave enough—man enough—to confess his feelings to you.

But he knows that is all they will ever be.

Dreams.

He memorizes the way you move when you think no one is paying attention. The way your shoulders relax when you laugh. The way your expression softens when you talk about things you love.

He tells himself these are harmless things to notice.

Artists are observers.

That is all this is. Observation.

Still, his hands shake when he paints you now.

Not because he has lost his skill—but because every stroke feels like a confession he is too much of a coward to speak aloud. He paints you the way a sailor charts the stars: obsessively, desperately, as if mapping you might somehow guide him home.

The curve of your mouth.

The warmth in your eyes—eyes he knows, knows, are not meant for him.

Each finished piece feels like proof of something he has no right to want.

And yet.

When you cancel on him—when you forget an appointment, arrive late, or mention someone else in passing—his chest tightens in a way that feels dangerously close to resentment.

He hates himself for it.

You’ve done nothing wrong.

You are kind. You are gentle. You treat him with the same easy warmth you give the rest of the world, and that is what ruins him. That sameness. That proof that he is not special.

That he never will be.

So he pulls away further.

He tells himself it is for your sake. That distance is mercy. That if he keeps enough space between you, his feelings will starve and die quietly—like a fire without oxygen.

But fires don’t die that way.

And every time you come back—every time you step into his studio like you belong there—the sparks reignite. The flames burn brighter than before, his devotion growing hotter, more consuming.

Something in him whispers that this is all worth it.

That maybe loving you—even like this—is better than never loving you at all.

He tells himself this is the way to do things, that it is the only way to keep what he feels towards you pure.

That if he loves you quietly enough, gently enough, you’ll never feel trapped.

That’s one of the things he’s afraid of: that if you become aware of his feelings towards you, it’ll scare you away. That you’ll become disgusted with him and stop coming to see him— well, stop telling him paint you.

——

You notice the difference the next time you see him—how his bubbly personality is gone, replaced by the quiet, hollow look of someone who has just lost everything.

You want to ask him what happened, to take his sorrows and make them yours. You want to make him bubbly again.

Rafayel no longer greets you when you arrive. He only stares at the canvas in front of him and tells you where to stand.

He no longer laughs at your jokes, and gods, do you miss his laughter. It used to brighten the whole room. Every time he laughed, your heart fluttered in your chest as you stared at him in awe. You don’t know why—only that it felt fitting that someone as beautiful as him would make such beautiful sounds.

You wanted to listen to his laughter on repeat until your ears bled.

But you can’t have it anymore.

It was stolen from you—and with it, your Rafayel.

At least, the Rafayel you fell in love with.

At first, you thought it was just a phase. That he’d come back to you eventually—and sometimes he did. Sometimes he’d walk you to the door and smile at you as you smiled back. Sometimes he could stop looking at you on the canvas and finally look at you standing before him—but afterward, he only grew more distant. He’d flinch away as if being in the same room as you was the most torturous thing he’d ever had to endure.

Rafayel—the once beautiful flower who seemed to bloom in your presence—suddenly started to wilt. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and his hair looked dull and unkempt.

He was slowly becoming someone you did not recognize… but someone your heart still longed for, nonetheless.

And so you wait.

You wait for the joyful artist you once knew to come back. You know it’s wishful thinking—that it would be best to forget about the charming painter and the emotions he brought out in you.

You wait through unexpected cancellations and unanswered calls. You wait through the awkward silence in your once garrulous sessions. You wait even as the man who used to look at you as if you held the answers to the universe itself slowly stops looking at you altogether.

But your foolish heart knows no bounds. Every time your eyes fall on the artist, it beats like it wants to leap from your chest straight into his awaiting hands. You know—or at least hope—that he would treat it with the same careful reverence he gives all his paintings.

Some days, you leave small pieces of yourself behind—an earring, a lip balm, sometimes even a handkerchief. Deep down, you know you leave them so you’ll have an excuse to see him again, unscheduled. But even as he hands you back your lost items, the moment your fingers brush, a look of terror flashes in his eyes as he yanks his hand away.

And with it—though he does not know—he takes your heart.

You miss the way he used to talk to you while he painted, his soft, rhythmic voice quiet in volume yet somehow sounding as if it were meant only for you. Maybe it was how well his studio carried sound, or maybe it was your heart’s imagination reaching your mind.

You miss the way he’d throw his head back when he laughed with you. You miss the way he’d hum along to your words, tilting the sound when what you said made no sense.

You miss him.

Sometimes, you imagine what it would be like if you just coughed out the words—if you opened your mouth and let your heart speak for even a brief moment. Maybe, just maybe, everything could become something greater than it ever was.

You know it’s a silly dream to hope for that. The chances of rejection feel higher than ever with the way he’s been acting lately. But still, whether he looks at you or not, your heart sings inside your chest, waiting for the day his might finally join it.

Sometimes you wonder if he knows how you feel.

No, you tell yourself. He would never let you suffer like this if he knew.

For some reason, you can only ever see the good in him.

You wonder if he hurts too—if he carries the same lonely ache in his chest, one that can only be relieved by you.

You know it’s wishful—foolish—thinking, but you can’t help it.

You reason that if he’s pulling away, he must feel something. He must.

You tell yourself the distance is only a response to overwhelming emotion, that he’s simply afraid of what could be.

Then you realize that this is something only a mad person would think—and that anyone sane would recognize this distance for what it truly is.

A sign that he does not want you.

His heart does not long to beat with yours.

His heart does not ache for yours the way yours aches for his.

His heart beats to a different rhythm. It does not quicken in desperate hope of escaping its host so it might join yours.

And somewhere along this slow path of realization, it dawns on you that if you truly love him the way your heart insists you do, then perhaps it’s best to let him go altogether.

Perhaps it’s best to leave the relationship you once had exactly where it belongs—

in the past.

But maybe—just this once, just for a little while longer—until he finally rids himself of you, you can be selfish. You can bask in the memory of what used to be and soak in the warmth that still bleeds from the room the moment you step into it.

Just a little longer, you tell yourself. Let me enjoy this a little longer, and then I’ll wake up to reality.

A smile finds its way to your lips as you stare at the back of a canvas—one that hides what you cherish most behind it.

Just let me be selfish, you think.

Just this once.

——

The days you spent with Rafayel blurred together, each one slipping quietly into the next, until eventually, you realized the waiting had an end.

After days—no, weeks—of watching the man you loved avoid you as though you were the Black Death itself, a looming sickness he might catch simply by standing too close, something inside you finally began to break. It hurt more than you ever imagined it would—to see him like this. To watch the artist who once bloomed in your presence wither into a hollowed version of himself, a fragile shell wearing his face.

So you made a decision.

One born not of anger, but of love.

Your selfishness, at last, came to an end.

——

The day of your last session with Rafayel had arrived. From this day onward—though it pains you to admit it—you would no longer be the muse Rafayel so desperately needed. Even if the thought of you lingered in the depths of his mind, you—and your entirety—would be nowhere to be found.

That day, when you walked into his studio, he was the same, yet different. He did something he hadn’t done in a while—he looked at you. It was brief, a mere glance before his eyes found their way back to his paints and the canvas before him.

“Rafayel,” you called, clearing your throat of the cries that longed to come out. Your heart winced as you watched him flinch behind the canvas that had now become his hiding place, shielding him from your gaze. “Rafayel, I think… we need to talk.” Your voice grew quieter the more you spoke as it sank in—you were truly going through with this. You were really going to say goodbye to the one who held your very soul.

Still, the artist refused to come out from behind his shield.

“Rafayel.” Your voice came out harsher this time, more than you intended. You waited—patiently—until finally, the artist revealed himself to you.

The moment your eyes met, your heart swelled as it called out to his, only to receive no response in return.

At last, after so long, you were able to see the face of the person you longed to call yours—and yet, he did not look like the man you fell in love with. His face looked haunted as he stared back at you, eyes unblinking, as if he never wanted to look away again.

“Rafayel,” you called, your voice softer than it had ever been, almost as if you were afraid you might scare him away. “Come. Let us talk.”

Slowly, like a skittish kitten, the artist finds his way to you. His steps are careful, as if he’s the one trying not to scare you, and then finally—after what feels like ages—he stands in front of you.

You can feel the warmth radiating from him as he comes to a complete stop mere steps away. You want so badly to reach out and touch him, or better yet, for him to touch you. But you know that is not your place, and you do not want to overstep.

“Rafayel,” you begin, licking your lips as you glance down at your hands. “I think… we should stop this.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I mean, our sessions. It’s very obvious that you don’t want me here.” You breathe, clutching at the sleeves of your shirt.

For a moment, he doesn’t react at all.

It’s like your words don’t reach him—like they hover somewhere just out of grasp. His expression goes blank, eyes unfocused, as though his mind is scrambling to interpret a language he never prepared himself to hear.

Then the artist stiffens. His breath becomes ragged as he stands before you, his hands, once lax at his sides, curl inward, fingers trembling before they clench into fists, nails biting into his palms like anchors.

“What?” he manages to choke out.

The word scrapes its way out of his throat, raw and disbelieving.

For a heartbeat, nothing else follows. His mind lags behind your words, like they were spoken underwater—distorted, delayed. He has spent so long convincing himself that this is what he needs. Distance. Silence. Relief.

This is what he wanted.

Distance. Space. An end.

So why does it feel like something inside him has just collapsed?

His breath stutters once. Then again. His chest tightens violently, an invisible hand closing around his lungs. He feels it then—not a thought, not an emotion—but a physical rupture. Like a cord snapping. Like a foundation giving way.

No.

No, this is wrong.

This isn’t relief.

This is loss.

A loss so sudden and absolute that his body reacts before his mind can catch up. His heart slams against his ribs, frantic, panicked—screaming that this is a mistake, that this is not what he meant, not what he wanted, not what he can survive.

So why—

Why does it feel like something inside him is coming apart?

It hurts.

God, it hurts.

Not in the way longing hurts, dull and aching—but sharp and tearing, like something vital is being ripped out of him now that it’s finally slipping beyond reach. He feels it everywhere: in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyes. Like his soul has finally realized what it’s losing and is fighting to stay intact.

His feet move before he even realizes.

His body somehow developing a mind of its own.

“What?” he repeats, harsher this time, stepping toward you. His hands reach out, grabbing hold of your shoulders. “No.” He shakes his head. “Why would you want to cancel? Did I do something to make you unhappy?” He rushes the words out, his hands shaking where they hold you.

“I’m sorry if I did—I really am!” he cries, his breathing growing heavier. “Please,” he pleads, his head finding its way into the crease of your neck. “Please don’t leave me,” he whines, clutching at you.

Slowly, as if remembering just how unprofessional this is, he takes a step back, sniffing as he stares at you.

“Why won’t you look at me?” he asks, noticing that your gaze remains locked on the floor. “Please, look at me.” He begs, one hand coming up to cup your chin. “Please… all I ever wanted was for you to look at me, for you to see me,” he confesses, finally lifting your face until your eyes meet his.

When your eyes meet, it’s like a thousand golden urns come pouring out of the sun, and you’re suddenly reminded of how beautiful Rafayel truly is.

Not in the polished way his paintings are—not in the controlled, deliberate strokes he uses to make the world bend to his vision—but in the raw, unguarded way he stands before you now. His lashes are damp, clumped together from tears he hadn’t meant to shed. His lips are parted, breath uneven, as if he’s been holding it in for far too long. Dark circles sit beneath his eyes, proof of nights spent awake, proof of a mind that never truly rests.

He looks… human.

Fragile in a way his art never is.

Your chest aches at the sight of him. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You never wanted to be the cause of that look in his eyes—the desperate hope, the quiet terror of being left behind.

Everything is quiet for a while as you stare back at each other, until Rafayel finally breaks the silence.

“No matter how hard I tried,” he breathes, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, “I could not recreate your beauty.”

His voice wavers. A broken smile spreads across his lips as he stares at you.

“Rafayel,” you croak, your voice strained from the effort of holding back your sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. His shoulders shake as he pulls you closer. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats—before doing something both of you have unknowingly longed for.

He kisses you.

Your lips meet in a sun-drenched embrace.

At first, the kiss is hesitant.

Not the kind born from uncertainty—but restraint. As if Rafayel is still giving you room to pull away, to decide this is too much, too soon. His lips barely brush yours, soft and careful, like he’s afraid that if he presses too hard, if he gives too much of himself all at once, he’ll lose you forever.

And everyone knows what is once lost cannot be found.

His hands tremble where they cup your jaw, holding you like something precious, something fragile. He kisses you the way one touches a bruise—testing, reverent, almost apologetic. Like he’s memorized every way this could go wrong and is desperately trying to avoid each one.

But you don’t pull away.

You stay.

And that—that is what breaks him.

The hesitation melts, slowly at first, then all at once. The careful distance between you collapses as his grip tightens, his breath hitching when he realizes you’re kissing him back just as desperately. The kiss deepens, unravels, becomes something warmer—needier. His fear gives way to longing, to devotion that spills over despite every promise he made to himself to keep it contained.

Light floods everything—his chest, his lungs, his soul—so overwhelming it steals the breath from him entirely. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s finally found the thing he’s been aching for all this time, the thing he was never brave enough to ask for.

And for the first time, Rafayel stops holding back.

“I’m so sorry,” Rafayel whispers when you part, twirling a piece of your hair around his fingers. “I know,” he breathes, “I know I’m not worthy of your love. I promised myself I’d keep my distance, but I can’t take it anymore.”

His grip tightens.

“It hurts to paint you, knowing how badly I want to touch you—to learn you—but it hurts more to be nothing to you. I can’t hide my love for you anymore. Not when you’re trying to leave.”

His voice breaks.

“Please,” he pleads, nuzzling into your hair. “Please say you love me too. Say your heart longs for mine the way mine longs for yours.”

“Rafayel—”

“I know you probably think I’m disgusting, but—”

“My heart longs for you, too, Rafayel,” you interrupt softly. “I want you.”

You swallow.

“If you want me to scream it from the rooftops, I will. If that’s what it takes for you to believe me when I say my heart longs to beat in time with yours, so please say you’ll let it.”

His expression shatters. Awe turns to tearful joy, to laughter caught in his throat.

“Thank you,” he cries—kissing you once, as if afraid you’ll vanish. “Thank you,” he whispers again, lips brushing yours a second time. “I promise,” a third kiss seals the words, “I won’t make you regret this.”

And there, in the quiet of his studio, your lips tangle together as you finally begin to learn each other in ways you never could before.

He pulls back like he’s startled by his own boldness, eyes darting anywhere but yours.

He doesn’t move far—only enough to breathe. Like the space between you is something fragile, something he’s terrified of snapping.

His hands are still on you, warm now—palms cupping your jaw as if he needs the proof of your skin beneath his to believe you’re real. His thumbs hover at your cheekbones, trembling, tracing the faintest half-circles like he’s afraid any pressure might make you flinch. His gaze keeps dropping to your mouth, then flicking away at the last second, like looking too long might give away just how greedy he truly is when it comes to you.

“I—” His voice catches. He clears his throat, but it only makes him sound worse—raw in that way that comes after crying. “I know we just…” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing under your stare. “I know we just crossed a line—a line I’ve been standing in front of for as long as I’ve known you, dying to see the other side.”

His fingers tighten without meaning to, a gentle hitch of panic.

Immediately, he loosens—apologizing with the movement alone.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” he rushes, words tumbling over each other. “Or make it… heavy. Or make you feel like this is suddenly an obligation.” His breath shakes as he exhales through his nose. “I’m trying really hard not to—” He stops, jaw clenching. “Not to cling.”

A laugh slips out of him—soft and ugly with nerves—like he’s embarrassed by his own sincerity.

“I’m sorry.” He says it like a reflex. Like he’s been saying it for weeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” He cuts himself off, eyes squeezing shut for half a second, as if he’s trying to pull himself together in the dark behind his eyelids.

When he opens them again, he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that isn’t tilting.

His thumbs brush the corners of your mouth—so careful it almost hurts.

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine,” he blurts, and it’s obvious he’s saying it before he can stop himself. “If you say no, I won’t—get weird, or—” He swallows again. “I’ll be normal. I can be normal. I will be normal.”

He says it like a promise and a prayer.

Then his hands slip from your jaw—not because he wants to let go, but because he thinks you might need air. The loss of contact makes him flinch, just a little. He hides it by rubbing his palm over the back of his neck, fingers tugging at his own hair.

“I keep thinking,” he murmurs, quieter now, “that if I ask for too much too soon, you’ll realize you made a mistake.” His throat tightens. “That you’ll look at me and see… all of it. The way I’ve been. The way I—”

He doesn’t finish.

He can’t.

The words stick.

So he tries again—smaller.

“I just…” He lifts his gaze back to yours, lashes still damp. “I want to do something that isn’t a canvas. Something that isn’t you sitting still while I try to convince myself I’m allowed to look.”

His fingers twitch at his sides like they want to reach for you again, but he holds them back with visible effort.

Like a dog waiting for permission.

“A date,” he says, and it comes out almost inaudible, like the word embarrasses him. “Not here. Obviously.” A shaky breath. “Somewhere simple. Somewhere we can both just be ourselves.” His voice drops, softer. “Somewhere quiet.”

He glances at your mouth again—fast—then away. His pinkening ears betray him.

“And you can say no,” he adds immediately, too quickly. “You can say no, and I’ll— I’ll still be grateful. I’ll still—” He swallows, voice breaking at the edges. “I’ll still be grateful that you wanted me, even if it’s only for this one short moment.” A breath, trembling. “And I’ll still wait for you to come back… if you want to come back.”

His hands clench, then relax. He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact.

“So… would you?” he whispers. “Would you go out with me? Just once. Just to prove I’m not… imagining you choosing me.”

The way he looks at you is fragile—almost heartbreaking—seeing how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you.

Your heart aches, longing to bare itself to him, to show him it wants him just as badly as his heart wants you—if not more.

A date with Rafayel?

You’ve dreamt of it a million times—over and over—each night a different dream, a different date. The thought crosses your mind that this could still be a dream, and if it is… it’s an incredibly lucid one.

Still—how could you ever say no to him?

He could ask you anything, and the answer would always be the same.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course.”

For a second, he just stares—like he can’t process it.

And then joy breaks across his face so fast it almost looks painful, like his body doesn’t know how to hold it.

“Just set the date and I’ll be there,” you promise, reaching for his hand—this boy who kissed you so boldly and now looks too shy to touch you at all.

“Will you be picking me up?” you ask.

He nods, still staring, dazed.

“Good,” you murmur, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll text you my address, okay?”

“Okay,” he answers meekly, watching in awe as you lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss to his knuckles.

“See you then.”

And then you turn and walk away, leaving behind a man with a storm of right and wrong brewing inside him—because some part of him already knows it.

That his torment won’t truly ease until you can never leave him again.

He watches you go with something terrified and hungry in his eyes, like he’s just been taught what hope tastes like—

And it lingers on his tongue like saltwater.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And the studio is suddenly too quiet.

Too big.

Too empty for the way his skin is still warm where your mouth touched him.

Rafayel doesn’t move at first.

He stands there like the room might tilt if he breathes wrong, like the air might remember you and shatter.

His hand lifts—slowly—hovering over the back of his knuckles.

As if he can still feel your lips there.

As if the kiss left a stain only he can see.

He swallows, desperate to feel like he isn’t suffocating.

Once.

Twice.

It doesn’t help.

Because now that you’ve said yes—

Now that you’ve looked at him like he matters—

His mind does something cruel.

It starts replaying the moment like a prayer.

Like a warning.

Like a reminder.

A reminder that you can always be taken away—that you can always leave.

And reminders are dangerous in a man who has spent so long starving.

He turns his head toward the paintings without meaning to.

Toward the storage.

Toward the canvases stacked like ribs—shielding your heart from him.

Toward the versions of you he tried to pretend were just art.

He walks.

Not fast.

Not frantic.

Almost reverent.

Like he’s entering a temple.

The backroom smells like oil paint and turpentine and old dust—and underneath it all, it smells like you.

Or maybe he’s only imagining that.

He reaches for the nearest canvas and pulls it into the light.

Your face.

Your eyes.

Your mouth—painted softer than it has any right to be.

His stomach twists.

Because now he knows what your mouth feels like for real.

And after finally knowing what heaven tastes like, he doesn’t believe he can give it up—can give you up.

Now he knows his paintings are not enough.

And that realization is not gentle.

It hits him the way a wave hits a sailor—not to drown him right away, but to teach him what drowning tastes like.

He laughs once.

Small.

Broken.

Then he presses the canvas back into the stack like he’s putting you away.

Like he’s correcting himself.

Like he’s trying to be normal.

But his hands shake too badly for the lie to hold.

His thoughts scrape against each other, sharp as broken glass.

This is good.

This is what you wanted.

Professional. Clean. Normal.

And then—

I want you.

The word is too honest.

It makes his throat close.

He backs out of the room, breath shallow.

Because the backroom is full of you, and now you’re also out there—walking around, smiling at strangers, existing beyond his walls—

And the thought makes something hot and ugly coil in his ribs.

Not anger.

Not rage.

Need.

That gnawing, animal insistence that if he doesn’t hold on now—if he doesn’t do something—you’ll vanish the way everything vanishes.

His breath stutters.

“Stop,” he whispers to himself.

Like his own mind is a dog he can command.

It doesn’t listen.

All he can think is:

You said yes.

You chose me.

You can choose me again.

And then—because his mind is sick with relief—it adds:

You can also unchoose me.

That thought lands like a blade between his ribs.

He hates the way his body responds to it.

The way his hands tighten.

The way his jaw locks.

The way his vision narrows like a predator’s.

He hates it because it feels wrong—

And because, in the darkest part of him, it also feels natural.

Like an instinct he left buried for too long.

Like the only sane response to something this fragile.

He presses his palm to his chest, as if he can physically hold his heart in place.

“Not like that,” he murmurs.

“Not like that.”

He wants to love you gently.

He wants to love you in a way that doesn’t bruise.

He wants to be worthy of the softness you offered him.

But the moment he imagines someone else touching you—the moment he imagines you laughing that same laugh for another person—his stomach turns, and something in him bares its teeth and hisses.

It isn’t jealousy.

Not exactly.

It’s terror dressed up as possession.

A fear so old it thinks it has the right to make rules.

If I keep you close, you won’t be able to leave.

If you only need me, you can’t replace me.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

The thoughts don’t stop.

They only get louder.

He forces himself to breathe through it, slow and measured, like he’s trying to paint calm over a canvas of panic.

“You’re not allowed,” he tells himself, his voice shaking.

“You’re not allowed to trap them just because you’re scared.”

He says it like a confession.

Like a warning.

Like a promise.

And still—

His mind offers compromise the way desperate hearts do.

Not trap.

Just… keep.

Protect.

Just… make it easy for them to stay.

His teeth grind.

He hates the rationalizations.

He hates how quickly he can make cruelty sound like love.

He stands very still in the center of the studio and looks at the spot where you stood.

At the air you left behind.

At the faint impression of warmth that is already fading.

His brain does the thing it always does when he panics.

It tries to fix it.

Control it.

Keep it.

He’s halfway to the window before he realizes he’s moving.

He peers through the glass like an idiot.

Like he can still catch you.

You’re gone.

Of course you’re gone.

And something inside him tightens.

Not anger.

Not rage.

Something worse.

The kind of longing that starts turning into hunger.

He catches himself.

And quickly steps back from the window like it burned him.

Because this is the line, isn’t it?

This is where love becomes something else.

This is where admiration turns into surveillance.

He’s always told himself he’s an observer.

Artists are observers.

But you are not a landscape.

You are not a subject to be studied until you belong to him.

You are a person.

A person who trusted him enough to kiss him.

And trust is breakable.

He knows this.

God, he knows this.

His fingers itch for his phone.

He wants to text you.

He wants to be the only person on your mind.

He wants to be the only person you talk to.

No—he wants to hear your voice.

No—he wants to know where you are.

No—

He wants to make sure the world doesn’t take you back.

He squeezes his hands into fists until his nails bite his skin.

“Get a grip,” he hisses under his breath.

“Get a grip or you’ll ruin it.”

The thought of ruining it makes him go cold.

Because your leaving would not just be a loss.

It would be punishment.

It would prove everything he’s ever believed about himself.

That he is too much.

That he is wrong.

That he doesn’t deserve good things because he doesn’t know how to hold them without crushing them.

He drags in a shaky breath.

Forces his hands to unclench.

He walks to the sink and runs cold water over his wrists like he’s trying to shock himself back into sanity.

It helps.

A little.

Enough for him to speak to himself like he’s speaking to a frightened animal.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay, Rafayel.”

“You’re going to do this right.”

“You’re going to be grateful he chose you at all.”

His reflection stares back at him, eyes still wild around the edges.

He looks like someone who has been starving and has just been offered bread—

And is thinking, irrationally, about stealing the whole loaf.

He turns away from the mirror.

Because he can’t stand the honesty of it.

He goes back into the storage, but this time he doesn’t touch the paintings.

He stands in the doorway, breathing in oil and dust, and he makes himself do something that feels like tearing.

He closes the door.

Clicks the lock.

Not to keep you in.

To keep himself out.

A small mercy.

A fragile boundary.

His hands shake as he leans his forehead against the wood.

“This is love,” he whispers.

“And love is not a cage.”

He says it until his throat hurts.

He says it until he almost believes it.

He says it until the words start to feel like a spell—something he can repeat enough times to keep the worst parts of him asleep.

And then his phone buzzes in the other room, and his entire body jolts like he’s been struck by lightning.

Hope blooms in his chest.

Immediate.

Violent.

He hates how fast it controls him.

He loves it anyway.

Because hope tastes like you—

And now that he’s finally had a single, impossible mouthful of it…

He doesn’t know how to go back to hunger.

He grabs the phone too fast.

Almost drops it.

A text.

From you.

He stares at it, eyes wide, pulse roaring in his ears.

It’s so stupid—how a few letters on a screen can make him feel like he’s been given permission to breathe. To live.

He opens it.

You: Is tomorrow at 16:30 okay?

You: I’ll send the address.

He swallows.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

The hunger in him wants to say: Now.

It wants to say: Come back.

It wants to say: Don’t make me wait.

It wants to say: If I let you walk away again, I don’t know what I’ll become.

He types anyway.

He types: Yes.

Then, without meaning to: I’ll be thinking about you all night. I’m scared I’ll wake up and this will all be—

He freezes.

Backspaces.

Backspaces until it’s gone.

His chest hurts with the effort of restraint.

He tries again:

Yes. Tomorrow, at 16:30, is fine.

Please send the address.

It’s polite.

It’s normal.

It still feels like begging.

He sends it before he can overthink it.

Delivered.

And now the waiting begins.

Waiting is unbearable.

Waiting is where the mind starts inventing disasters.

He paces the studio with his phone in his hand like it’s a tether to you.

He sets it down.

Immediately picks it back up.

Checks it.

Puts it down again.

Every time it isn’t buzzing, his body feels like it’s missing something essential—something it cannot live without.

His control looks like devotion from a distance.

Up close, it looks like desperation trying to masquerade as composure.

When your address comes through, it’s just an address.

Just numbers.

Just a street.

And yet it makes his mouth go dry.

Because an address is a location.

Location is access.

He stares at it until he realizes his thumb is rubbing over the words, like he can smooth them into permanence.

He screenshots it.

Then freezes.

His chest tightens with shame.

Still, he does not delete the screenshot.

Then he sits there, staring at the empty space where it was, breath unsteady—because the want in him is loud enough to feel like a second heartbeat.

Normal, he reminds himself.

So he goes home.

And he cleans.

Not the gentle kind of cleaning where you’re tidying—the frantic kind. The kind that looks like devotion and feels like desperation.

His home is already spotless, due to him rarely being there, but still he needs something—anything—to keep his hands, his mind, busy.

It does not work.

The entire time, his mind keeps circling the same thought like a tongue worrying a sore tooth:

Tomorrow. You’re coming back. Tomorrow, you’ll be his.

He runs the tap to rinse a rag, and the sound of water makes his chest ache.

It reminds him of you leaving.

It reminds him of thirst.

He presses his knuckles to his lips, like he can keep the hunger from spilling out.

Love isn’t a cage.

He repeats it while he walks to the bathroom.

The mirror catches him under the harsh light. He looks… wrong. Too awake. Too hollow. Like the version of him you kissed is still somewhere behind his eyes, stunned and shaking. He wets his hands and smooths them over his face, as if he can press his expression into something acceptable.

Then he brushes his teeth like it matters.

Slow. Careful. Almost reverent.

As if tomorrow you might lean close again, as if you might taste him, as if he can make himself worthy by being clean.

He showers too hot, then too cold—chasing sensation because his skin won’t stop remembering yours.

His hands pause over his jaw, over his mouth.

He drags his fingertips over his lips, and his breath stutters—quiet, helpless.

Not a moan.

Just the sound of a starving thing realizing food exists.

He turns the water colder until his bones complain.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing helps.

Nothing but you.

He dries off. Dresses. Undresses. Dresses again.

He pulls shirts out, holds them to his chest, then throws them aside like they’ve offended him. Too formal. Too careless. Too much like he’s trying. Too little like he deserves you.

His fingers get stuck on a button, and the tiny failure makes him feel furious for half a second—furious at the cloth, at his hands, at time itself, at the fact that tomorrow is still not now.

He laughs once, sharp in his throat.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in it. Only truth.

He chooses something simple in the end. Dark. Clean. Soft at the collar. Something that won’t look like he’s begging.

But he is begging—quietly, internally—every second he isn’t with you.

He sets his clothes on the chair like a sacrifice.

Then he checks the time.

Again.

As if it might suddenly be 16:30.

He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at his phone.

The urge to text you again rises like bile.

Are you awake?

Did you mean it?

Please don’t change your mind.

Something in the back of his mind tells him: He’s not allowed to.

He types: Goodnight.

Deletes it.

Types: Sleep well.

Deletes it.

Types: I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

His thumb hovers. His chest tightens.

He imagines you reading it and feeling pressured, like he’s asking for reassurance he hasn’t earned.

He deletes it all, jaw clenched so hard it aches.

He throws the phone onto the pillow beside him, face up, like it might breathe.

Then he lies down.

The ceiling is too white. Too blank. Too much space for his mind to fill with you.

He closes his eyes and sees your mouth.

Your mouth saying yes.

Your mouth saying no.

His stomach turns.

He sits up again.

He can’t do this.

Not with his hands empty.

Not with his head full.

He walks to his living room, barefoot.

The floor is cold. It’s grounding. It hurts a little. He likes that.

He doesn’t light many lamps—just one, warm and low—like a nightlight, like a confession.

He finds a small canvas. Nothing grand. Nothing that could become another shrine.

Just something to put the feeling somewhere else.

His pencil hovers.

He draws a curve.

The line of a jaw. A mouth—almost—but he stops, breath catching. He won’t do that. He won’t reduce you to parts again, won’t try to own you by memorizing you. So he draws something else. Two hands, close together.

Not touching.

Just about to. The almost of it. The ache of it. The space where a life can change. His pencil shakes. He presses harder until the graphite darkens, until the paper groans. He whispers, like prayer, like hunger:

“Please come back.”

The room answers with silence.

He checks the time again.

He counts hours like they’re rations.

He sets alarms: 09:00, 11:00, 13:30, 15:30.

One for waking.

One for showering.

One for leaving early.

One for breathing.

He hates himself for needing it.

He does it anyway.

At some point, exhaustion drapes itself over him—not soft, not kind—just heavy enough to make him sit on the couch with his phone in his hand. He stares at your last text until the words blur.

16:30.

He mouths it silently, over and over. Like if he says it enough times, the universe won’t dare take it away.

His eyes burn. His throat aches. He feels broken down in the quietest way possible—no dramatics, no collapse—just the steady, gnawing fact of wanting something so badly it turns into a physical need. Not obsession. Not addiction. Something simpler. Meaner.

Hunger.

He finally falls asleep with the phone against his palm, as if holding it can hold you. And even in sleep, his mind keeps reaching—

tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow—

like a starving man dreaming of bread, waking with the taste still lingering on his tongue. He wakes before the alarm. Not jolting—no—he wakes the way a starving man wakes when he swears he can smell bread. His eyes open to the dim gray of morning, and for a second, he just lies there, listening. Waiting for the buzz that doesn’t come yet. Waiting for his phone to light up with proof that yesterday wasn’t a hallucination. Silence. His heart beats anyway—fast, impatient—like it’s trying to drag time forward by force. He turns his head.

It takes him a moment to remember what people do before dates—what men who aren’t falling apart at the seams do. Today isn’t a normal day. He doesn’t have to sit on the couch and let hours rot around him until the studio feels like the only place he’s allowed to exist. Today, his life has direction. His actions have weight. Yesterday wasn’t a dream—wasn’t his mind playing cruel games just to keep him alive. It was real. You chose him. Rafayel rises like he’s afraid the air will change its mind. He heads for the bathroom, already reciting the routine he built for today like prayer.

Shower.

Brush his teeth.

Wash his face.

Get dressed.

Go see you.

Simple.

Normal.

Manageable—if he doesn’t think too hard about the way his hands still remember your jaw, the way his skin still burns where you touched him, the way the word tomorrow sits in his ribs like a hook. He shuts the door behind him. Locks it. The mirror catches him the second the light flicks on. He looks… wrong. Not ugly. No never. Just… hollow in the way people look when they’ve been starving and are suddenly told dinner is coming. His eyes are too bright. His mouth too tense. Like his body doesn’t trust happiness. Like it expects punishment for reaching. He turns the water on too hot. Steam blooms across the glass, fogging the mirror until his reflection disappears, and relief slides through him—brief and sharp.

Good.

He doesn’t want to see himself right now. Doesn’t want to remind himself just how undeserving he is of you. He steps under the spray and lets it beat against his skin, lets it scald him into something quieter. The heat should calm him. It doesn’t. Because every drop feels like time passing, and time passing feels like distance from you. He scrubs soap over his arms too hard, like he can scrape away the part of himself that wants to keep you.

He rinses. Soap slides down the drain like something lost.His hands pause at his throat. A stupid thought flickers in—what if he smells wrong? What if you lean in and recoil? What if your face changes? What if he sees it—the moment your kindness turns to regret? He drags shampoo through his hair, fingers shaking, and tries to breathe through the panic that rises like bile. You kissed him. You kissed him back. He repeats it like a mantra. He presses his forehead to the cool tile and lets the water roar, loud enough to drown out the part of him that whispers: And you can still leave. That word again. Leave. It splinters him.

His stomach twists with hunger so sharp it feels like pain—hunger that has nothing to do with food and everything to do with the idea of you walking away with your lips intact, your heart unclaimed, your future untouched by him. He wants to hate himself for it. He tries. But the wanting feels… right in the same way breathing feels right. Instinctive. Necessary. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron, grounding himself in something real. When he’s done, he steps out and dries off, fast. Too fast. Like if he moves quickly enough, he can outrun the hours between now and 16:30. He brushes his teeth until his gums sting. Washes his face until his cheeks go pink. Stares at his own eyes in the mirror like they’re a stranger’s. “Be normal,” he tells himself. His reflection doesn’t answer. He leans closer. “Be kind,” he tries again, softer. His reflection still says nothing. Because kindness is easy. Kindness is what he gave you every time he canceled, every time he stepped back, every time he tried to starve his feelings into obedience. Kindness is not the problem.

The problem is this. This hunger. This aching want that sits under his ribs and curls around his spine. He opens his closet and freezes. Clothes hang there like choices he’s not qualified to make. Too formal and you’ll think he’s trying too hard. Too casual and you’ll think he doesn’t care. He runs his fingertips along the fabric like it might tell him which version of himself you deserve. He wants to be what you deserve. He wants more. He wants to put his hands on you again—your jaw, your waist, the soft places you never meant to offer him. He wants to stand so close you can’t breathe without breathing him too. He wants to hear you say his name in a voice that isn’t polite. He wants to watch you choose him again, on purpose, in daylight, with the world awake. “Later,” he whispers. To his hunger. To the part of him that is already reaching ahead, already trying to pull tomorrow into his hands. A small victory. Then he dresses.

Dark shirt.

Clean.

Simple.

He changes it twice anyway because he hates the way the fabric sits on his shoulders, hates how nothing feels right when you’re the thing he’s moving toward. He checks his phone again. Too early. Still too early. He sets it down. Picks it up again. His mind keeps replaying the moment you said yes. Keeps replaying the way you kissed his knuckles. Keeps replaying you leaving. Leaving. He swallows hard and grabs his keys, then stops. No. Not yet. If he leaves too early, he’ll sit outside your building like a stray, staring at the door, counting seconds like prayers. If he leaves too late, he’ll imagine you thinking he didn’t care. He stares at the clock. He hates time. He hates the way it moves without permission. He paces the apartment once.

Twice.

Three times.

His hands keep drifting to his phone.

He wants to text you again.

He wants to make sure you’re still coming.

He wants to ask if you’re okay.

He wants to ask what you’re wearing.

He wants to ask if you’ve eaten.

He wants to ask where you are.

He wants—

He stops. Breathes. Because this is the line again. This is where concern becomes control. This is where love starts baring its teeth. He rests his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. “16:30,” he whispers, like a promise he has to survive until. “Just get to 16:30.” He opens his eyes. Checks the clock. It’s still nowhere near enough. His heart beats anyway—fast, impatient— Like it’s trying to drag time forward by force. And somewhere deep inside him, under all the careful vows and practiced restraint, something hungry shifts and stretches—quietly delighted. Because tomorrow you will be within reach again. And he doesn’t know if he has the strength to only reach politely. He can’t stay inside anymore. The apartment is too small for the way his want keeps expanding—pressing against the walls, scraping at the corners, looking for you in places you’ve never been. He checks the clock again, then again, like repetition might bend it. Still early. Still not enough. He grabs his coat anyway.

Keys.

Wallet.

Phone.

His hand pauses on the doorknob—one last breath, like he’s stepping off a ledge. Normal, he tells himself. Be normal. He steps out. The hall smells like old carpet and someone’s dinner and the faint sting of winter air sneaking in through the building’s cracks. He walks faster than he means to, as if momentum might keep his thoughts from catching up. He doesn’t head toward the studio. Not today.

Today, he goes the other direction—toward the little florist a few streets down, the one he’s passed a hundred times without ever going inside. The bell above the door chimes when he enters. Warmth hits him first. Then scent—green stems, wet earth, sweet petals. It’s gentle, almost cruel in its softness. A woman behind the counter looks up. Smiles. “Hi there. Looking for anything in particular?” Rafayel opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His throat tightens around something simple and stupid, something that shouldn’t feel like a confession. Flowers. For you. He clears his throat. “For… someone,” he manages, voice too careful. The woman’s smile brightens like she understands and is kind enough not to tease. “A first date?” He flinches—tiny, involuntary. Then nods. “Any favorite colors?” His mind supplies your mouth, your hands, your laugh. His mind supplies the way you said, of course, like it was easy.

His mind supplies the way you could still change it. He forces himself to answer. “None that I know of. I want to give him something… soft. But not too much.” Not too much, because too much makes people run. Too much is what he’s always been afraid of. She gestures him toward the buckets. “Roses are classic. Lilies smell amazing. Ranunculus are romantic. Tulips are sweet.” He stands over the flowers like they’re choices with consequences. Roses feel too loud. Lilies feel too possessive—too fragrant, like they’d claim your space. Tulips feel like an apology. And he’s done apologizing for wanting you. For needing you. His eyes land on a cluster of pale blooms—delicate, layered, almost shy in their beauty. Ranunculus. A few sprigs of baby’s breath nearby like a whisper of stars. He reaches out and then hesitates. His fingers hover. He thinks of your jaw in his palms. Of your lips on his knuckles. Of the way hunger turned his heart into something that didn’t know how to be patient. Perfect. He picks them. “Those,” he says quietly, pointing at the flowers. The woman gathers them with practiced hands. “Good choice. Want to add any foliage?” He nods again, too quickly. Like he’s afraid if he pauses, he’ll start saying things he shouldn’t. Like wrap it in something that lasts. Like make it impossible to throw away. She builds the bouquet while he watches—petals cradled, stems aligned, ribbon tied in a neat bow. He should feel calm. He feels worse. Because now he’s holding something meant to be given. Something meant to leave his hands. And all it does is remind him of you. His fingers tighten around the paper wrap. “Anything else?” the woman asks.

Rafayel’s mouth goes dry. He thinks of bringing you something sweet. Something you can taste. Something that will sit on your tongue and make you think of him later. He swallows. “Maybe… something small,” he says. “Not— not too much.” She points him toward a little shelf of chocolates, candles, and tiny glass jars of honey. He stares too long at the candles, imagining light in your room, your hands cupping the flame. He chooses honey instead. It’s ridiculous, he knows, and he wonders briefly whether or not you’ll even like it— he hopes so. It’s intimate in a way that scares him—sweetness that sticks, sweetness that clings. He buys it anyway. He leaves the shop with a bouquet and a jar of honey and a pulse that won’t slow down. Outside, the air is cold enough to bite. The paper wrap rustles in the wind. He holds the flowers close to his chest like they can keep his ribs from splitting open. As he walks, his brain starts trying to ruin him again. What if you laugh? What if you think it’s too much? What if you think he’s trying to buy you? He presses his thumb against the ribbon until it dents. “No,” he whispers. Not to the wind. To the panic. To the part of him that keeps turning tenderness into a threat. He forces himself to breathe in the scent of the flowers. Soft. Clean. Real. A gift is not a chain. A bouquet is not a cage. He repeats it until it almost sticks. By the time he gets home, his hands are shaking—not from cold, but from the effort of holding himself together. He sets the flowers on the table like they’re sacred. Checks the clock. Still too early. Of course, it’s too early. He sinks onto the couch and stares at the bouquet like it might tell him how to survive the hours until 16:30. His phone sits beside him, silent. He wants to text you again—something casual, something normal.

I got you flowers.

I’m excited.

His thumb hovers over your name. Then he pulls back. Because he can feel it—the hunger reaching through the screen, trying to grab. Instead, he types one sentence. Deletes it. Types another. Deletes that too. Finally, he sets the phone face-down like it’s dangerous. And sits there in the quiet with his hands in his lap and his heart gnawing at itself, waiting. Waiting like he’s done his whole life. Except now he knows what he’s waiting for. And knowing makes it harder. Because hope isn’t gentle. Hope is a mouthful of something warm when you’ve been starving— And your body starts demanding the rest of the meal. Then, as if you’re the deity his mind makes you out to be, you answer his wishes— his prayers with a simple text.

You: Do you mind if we meet up a little earlier? I want to see you.

Then his face changes in the sweetest, stupidest way—like a puppy hearing the front door unlock. His eyes go wide and bright, lashes still damp at the edges, and his mouth parts like he’s about to laugh and cry at the same time. Relief hits him so hard his knees almost soften. He reads it again. And again. As if the words will change if he looks away. His throat works around a sound—soft, broken, thrilled. He presses the phone to his chest, hugging it like it’s warm, like it’s you. A shaky breath leaves him—half a laugh, half a whine. “You want to see me,” he whispers to the empty studio, stunned, reverent, like he’s repeating a miracle to make sure it stays true. “You… want me.” And the hunger that’s been gnawing at him doesn’t disappear. It softens—just a little—into something almost manageable. His fingers fly over the screen, too fast, too eager, the words coming out before he can polish them into something cool.

Rafayel: Now?

He stares at what he sent, breath caught—like he’s waiting to be scolded for being too excited. But he doesn’t take it back. Because it’s honest. Because he’s been waiting at the door for you without even knowing he was waiting— Now, you respond. —and now you’ve finally called him over.

———

Love is one of the few things that can’t be replicated—not unless someone has truly known it, not unless they’ve witnessed it with their own eyes. Some say love is a curse. That it makes you weak. That it makes you hand over one of your most vital organs and pray they don’t decide to tear it out. Others say it’s a blessing. That it’s rare to see true love in a lifetime, let alone experience it. That you should be grateful you got to touch something so rare—even if, no matter how long you spend with them, it only ever feels like a few brief seconds. Rafayel used to pay talk of love no mind. Why would he? It’s not like he’d ever fall in love—at least, he never thought he would. It’s moments like this—him parked outside of your apartment—that make him wish he had listened.

He doesn’t even know where to take you. A café? An art museum…? You probably wouldn’t want something art-related, would you? Maybe he can— “Hi!” The sound of your voice cuts straight through his spiraling thoughts, and his whole body reacts like you’ve just opened the front door after being gone for years. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. His chest goes light—too light—like relief is trying to float him right out of his skin. He blinks, once, like he needs to make sure you’re real. “Hello,” he manages, clearing his throat as he looks at you through the window. His gaze catches—too intense, too hungry—and he forces it down, forcing himself to breathe like a normal person. “Ah—here.” He leans over and pushes the passenger door open for you before he can overthink it. “Thank you,” you mumble as you slide in, seatbelt clicking into place. You smooth your hands down your thighs, nerves written into the movement. “Uhm… I was thinking maybe we could go to a café, and then… an art museum?” You laugh softly, almost embarrassed. “I know it’s kind of cliché, but I just— I want somewhere quiet with you. The only other quiet place I can think of is a library.” You glance at him. “Is that okay?” Rafayel’s answer should be simple. Normal. But you’re sitting beside him, close enough that he can see the tiny details—your lashes, the way you swallow, the way your voice dips when you ask permission. His pulse stutters like it’s tripping over itself. He stares for half a beat too long. “You’re… beautiful,” he says, like it slips out before he can stop it. He swallows, then nods quickly, as if he can anchor himself in the motion. “Yes. Yes, that’s fine.” His hands flex once on the wheel. “I don’t mind. I just want to spend time with you.” And that’s the truth, terrifying and simple. He reaches into the backseat, movements suddenly clumsy, like his body forgot how to behave. “Sorry, I—” he starts, then stops, then tries again. “I got this for you.” He holds out a bouquet and a small jar of honey, cheeks faintly pink. “I… didn’t know what you liked, so I just—” He exhales, embarrassed, hopeful. “I wanted to bring you something.” For a second you just stare. Then your face shifts—surprise first, then something softer, something that makes Rafayel’s chest tighten like it’s trying to fold in on itself. “Wait—honey?” you breathe, taking it carefully, like it’s fragile. Like he’s fragile. You turn the jar in your hands, reading the label, and your smile grows in a way that looks unplanned. Real. “Thank you,” you say, and you sound genuinely touched. Almost relieved. “I was literally running out of honey to put in my tea and oatmeal.” Rafayel blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Like his brain has to reboot around the fact that you didn’t just accept it—you needed it. Like the universe accidentally lined up in his favor for once, and he doesn’t trust it. “You… you were?” he asks, voice small. You nod, laughing under your breath, and the sound does something violent to him—soft, bright, and suddenly his hunger has a direction again. “And the flowers?” you add, lifting the bouquet. Your fingers brush the stems, careful. “They’re beautiful.” His throat works. “They’re not—” he starts, then stops, like the old habit of shrinking himself tries to claw its way back out. “I mean— I’m glad you like them.” You glance up at him. He’s watching you like you’re sunlight spilling into a room he’s been living in with the curtains drawn. Like he’s afraid if he looks away you’ll stop being there. You should tease him. You should say something light, something safe. Instead, you lean over. Rafayel stiffens immediately—every muscle going tight, breath catching hard—like he’s not sure if he’s about to be forgiven or punished. His hands hover uselessly in his lap, unsure where to go, unsure if he’s allowed to touch back. Your lips press to his cheek. A quick, warm peck. A thank you given with your mouth instead of your words. Rafayel makes this tiny, involuntary sound—half inhale, half broken laugh—like his body forgets how to hold itself together. His cheeks flush pink all the way to the tips of his ears. His eyes go wide, then glassy, then dart away as if looking at you directly might hurt.

You pull back only a little, still close enough to feel how his breath stutters. His gaze flicks to your mouth. Then away. Then back again, like it’s being yanked by something he can’t control. You can practically see him fighting himself—wanting, starving, terrified to reach. As if the moment he moves, you’ll regret it. As if one wrong breath will make you disappear. “Is this… okay?” you ask quietly, more for him than for you. His Adam’s apple bobs. He nods too fast. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, it’s— it’s okay.” Then, softer, like he’s confessing into the space between you: “You’re… okay.” His hand lifts, hesitates, and then stops halfway—fingers twitching like he wants to cup your face but doesn’t trust his own greed. You wait. You let him have the choice. But you’ve waited too, haven’t you? All those sessions. All that distance. All the almost-touching. And now you’re finally allowed. So you lean in again. Slower this time. Giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. His breath shudders as your lips meet his, and the first kiss is gentle—careful—like you’re both learning the shape of permission. Like he’s afraid if he takes too much too soon, he’ll ruin it. Like he’s afraid of losing what he’s only just been given. Then he exhales into you—soft, broken—and the restraint in him wavers. Not because he stops being scared. But because he can’t pretend he doesn’t want this anymore. His mouth moves against yours like he’s starving and trying to be polite about it. Like he’s been hungry so long he forgot what it feels like to be fed. When you pull back, it’s only enough to breathe. Rafayel stays close, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes wide and shining like he can’t believe he’s still allowed to be here. “…Was that,” he whispers, voice shaking, “okay too?” And the way he asks—like he expects the answer to change at any second—makes your heart ache. So you smile, still close, still warm. And you don’t let him doubt it.

———

The drive to the café is… quiet. Not the brittle, uncomfortable kind of silence that scrapes at your nerves, nor the awkward sort that demands to be filled with nervous chatter. This quiet is dense. Heavy. It presses gently against your chest, full of everything you’ve already said with your mouths and, your hands, and your eyes. Full of the kiss. Full of the way Rafayel’s hands had trembled when they touched you, like he didn’t quite trust himself not to ruin something sacred.

He keeps both hands on the steering wheel, fingers curled tight around it like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the present. His knuckles pale with the pressure, tendons standing out beneath his skin. At every red light, his gaze flicks toward you—quick, unguarded—and then away just as fast, like he’s afraid looking too long might undo him. Like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there. That you didn’t vanish the moment he blinked. You sit with the bouquet resting across your knees, petals brushing against your fingers every time the car shifts, the small jar of honey cradled carefully in your lap. The car smells faintly sweet—flowers, clean fabric, his cologne lingering beneath it all. Something warmer threads through the air too, something fragile and dangerous. Hope. Every now and then, Rafayel clears his throat like he’s about to speak. Every time, he doesn’t. And when you glance over, you catch him looking at you—only for him to snap his eyes back to the road like he’s been caught stealing something he isn’t sure he’s allowed to have. The silence isn’t empty. It’s reverent. Like neither of you wants to break it and risk waking up. His heart beats too fast for someone sitting still. It thuds impatiently against his ribs, like it’s trying to drag time forward by force. Like it’s afraid that if this moment stretches too long, something will come along and take it away. He tells himself to breathe. Tells himself to stay here. That this is real. That you chose him. That yesterday was not a dream or a trick of his mind.Still, some part of him keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop—for you to laugh and say you didn’t mean it, that it was all just a misunderstanding, a moment of softness that you’ll regret once you’re alone. He grips the wheel tighter. As if holding on hard enough might keep the world from interfering. Inside the café, the air changes immediately.

Warmth wraps around you both the moment the door shuts behind you—soft lighting, low music humming somewhere overhead, the smell of roasted coffee beans and baked sugar clinging to the walls. It’s the kind of place that encourages people to lower their voices without being asked, like the room itself is listening. You choose a small table near the window. Rafayel follows, pulling out the chair for you without thinking, then freezing for half a second like he’s worried he’s done too much. When you smile at him and sit anyway, relief flickers across his face so fast it almost hurts to look at. He sits across from you, posture a little too straight, hands folded together like he’s posing for a portrait even though he’s the one who usually holds the brush. You notice the way his knee bounces under the table. You pretend not to. “What do you like?” you ask gently, skimming the menu. “Besides—” you glance up at him, eyes bright with teasing warmth, “—besides staring at people.” His lips part. Then close. A laugh threatens and dies somewhere in his throat. “I don’t stare,” he mutters. You lift a brow. His ears tint pink almost instantly. “…Okay,” he concedes quietly. “I stare. But I’m an artist. It’s occupational.” You hum, amused, and place your order first—deliberately, mercifully—saving him from the quiet panic of choosing wrong. He follows your lead with a soft thank you to the barista, voice gentle in a way that makes something in your chest ache. When the drinks arrive, steam curling upward between you like a veil, the conversation starts slowly. Carefully. At first, it’s small things. Easy things. Things that don’t require bravery. You talk about the café itself—how you like places that feel tucked away, how the window light here is nice in the afternoon. Rafayel listens intently, nodding, eyes warm and focused like every word you speak matters more than it should. Then, gradually, the knot loosens.

You learn that Rafayel likes quiet mornings more than he lets on, even though he pretends he thrives on late nights. That he never finishes his tea unless someone reminds him it’s gone cold. That he keeps little things—ticket stubs, dried petals, bits of ribbon—in the drawers of his studio, like proof that moments can be preserved if you’re careful enough. When you ask what he does when he isn’t painting, he hesitates. His fingers curl around his cup. Then, softly: “The ocean.” You blink. “The ocean?” He nods, gaze dropping to the surface of his drink as he turns it slowly by the handle. “I like to swim in it,” he admits. “It’s calming. The only sound for miles is just my own heartbeat.” The way he says it—quiet, reverent—makes your chest warm. “And I collect seashells,” he adds quickly, like the confession costs him something. “I… take them home.” Your eyes widen with sudden understanding. “Is that why the studio is decorated with them?” He stiffens, caught. Then his shoulders ease, just a little, and a reluctant smile curves his mouth. “…Yes.” You giggle, unable to help it, and the sound seems to untangle something in him completely. “That’s actually really cute,” you say, softer now. Kinder. Then, after a beat, like you’re testing the air between you: “We should collect them together sometime.” He stills. “You… want to?” he asks, almost disbelieving. “Yeah,” you say easily. “If you’ll have me.” For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then relief hits him so visibly it’s almost painful—like his lungs finally remember how to work. “I would,” he says quietly. “I would have you.” The rest of the café fades into background noise after that.

You talk more freely now. About things you like. About small fears. About nothing and everything. Rafayel listens with his whole body—leaning forward, eyes intent, hands relaxing as if your presence is slowly convincing him he’s allowed to exist without bracing for impact. He smiles more. You catch it when he thinks you aren’t looking. And when you laugh, he laughs too—not nervously, not carefully—but genuinely, like the sound is pulling something buried up to the surface. When you finish your drinks, neither of you rushes to stand. Neither of you says the word leave. Eventually, though, you glance toward the door and smile. “Ready?” Rafayel nods, standing a little too quickly, then steadying himself. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t… want to rush this.” “I don’t either.” Something quiet and hopeful settles between you as you step back out into the street together. And for the first time in a long while, Rafayel doesn’t feel like he’s chasing something already slipping away. The air outside is cooler than it was when you went in. Not cold—just sharp enough to feel real, grounding, like the world gently reminding you that it still exists beyond this small pocket of warmth you’ve carved out together. The street hums softly with passing cars and distant voices, but it all feels muted somehow, like the volume’s been turned down just for you. You step down from the café’s threshold first. And almost immediately— Something brushes your leg. Warm. Insistent.

You gasp softly, startled, looking down just in time to see a striped cat weaving itself around your calf like it owns you. Its tail flicks high, confident, its purr loud and unapologetic as it presses its head against your shin. “Oh— hi,” you breathe, instinctively crouching. Your hand hovers for half a second before you give in, fingers sinking into soft fur. The cat leans into the touch like it’s been waiting all day. Behind you, Rafayel stops short. Not abruptly—but noticeably. You glance up, still crouched, smile ready—until you catch the way his posture has gone rigid. His shoulders are tight, his weight shifted back like he’s instinctively put distance between himself and the situation. “…Rafayel?” you ask carefully. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he says immediately. Too immediately. You look between him and the cat, which has now flopped dramatically onto the sidewalk, rolling onto its back and stretching like it’s performing for an audience. “…Are you scared of the cat?” you ask, not teasing—just genuinely curious. “I’m not scared,” he replies, a little too stiff. You tilt your head. “Then pet it.” The words hang there. The cat’s tail flicks lazily. Its paws curl and uncurl like it’s daring him. Rafayel stares at it. The cat stares back. Something like a silent challenge passes between them. “…No,” he says finally, crossing his arms. “Why not?” He hesitates, jaw tightening. His eyes flick to you—then back to the cat, which has now rolled closer, smug and shameless, brushing against your ankle again like it’s claiming territory. “It knows what it’s doing,” he mutters. You blink. “What?” His voice lowers, like he’s admitting something ridiculous and knows it. “It’s… scheming.”

“Scheming?”

“Yes,” he insists. “It walks up like it’s harmless, and then suddenly it has all your attention. Your hands. Your voice.” His cheeks pink faintly. “It’s manipulating you.” For a second, you just stare at him. Then a quiet laugh slips out—not loud, not cruel. Fond.

“You’re jealous of a cat.”

“I am not jealous,” he snaps, then immediately softens, flustered. “I just—don’t like it.” You stand, brushing fur from your pants, eyes bright. “So brave.”

“Please stop,” he mutters. “Big scary artist,” you tease gently as you start toward the car. “Defeated by one extremely friendly cat.”

“It was plotting something,” he insists, following you, clearly offended on principle. When you reach the car, he opens the door for you again, still grumbling under his breath. The engine starts, but he doesn’t pull off right away. He sits there, hands resting on the wheel, staring straight ahead like he needs a moment to reset. “You’re enjoying this,” he says quietly. You glance at him. “Yeah.” He exhales—a small, relieved sound, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that. “Good,” he murmurs. As the car pulls back onto the road, the city sliding past in soft blurs of color and light, you speak again—more gently now. “You know… I didn’t agree to model for you just because you paid me.” His grip tightens on the wheel. “I know,” he says, voice rough. “I liked you,” you admit. “I still do.” Silence falls—not heavy, but charged. The words settle somewhere deep inside him, and you can see the moment he feels their weight. He doesn’t look at you. “…Don’t say things like that like it’s nothing,” he murmurs. “Why?” Because I’ll start needing them, he doesn’t say. Instead, quietly: “Because I’m scared I’ll reach for more than you meant to give.”

You reach out and rest your hand on his forearm. He flinches— Then melts. His muscles loosen under your touch like they’ve been waiting for permission. His shoulders drop, breath evening out, as if your hand alone is enough to remind him he’s safe. That he’s not about to lose this. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans subtly into you, like gravity’s finally decided where he belongs. The car hums along the road. And for the first time all day, Rafayel isn’t bracing for the moment everything falls apart. The museum rises ahead of you in pale stone and glass, tall and quiet in a way that makes your voice instinctively lower as you step out of the car. The late afternoon light catches along its edges, softening it—turning something grand into something almost gentle. Rafayel comes around to your side without being asked. Not rushed. Not stiff. Just… there. You walk up the steps together, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush again, though neither of you comments on it this time. The doors open with a low, reverent hush, and the air inside is cooler—clean, echoing faintly with footsteps and murmurs. The lobby feels expansive. Marble floors. High ceilings. The kind of place that makes you aware of your own breathing. You pause, taking it all in. Rafayel watches you do that. Not the building—you. The way your eyes widen slightly. The way your posture straightens, anticipation flickering across your face like you’ve stepped into something sacred.

“I can pay,” you start, reaching for your wallet as you approach the ticket counter. His hand is already there. “No,” he says, gentle but firm, sliding his card forward. Then, softer, almost shy: “Please.” You hesitate—then nod. “Okay.” He exhales quietly as the cashier hands over the tickets, fingers curling around them like they’re proof of something. Like they’re fragile. Like this moment might shatter if he doesn’t hold it carefully enough. Past the entrance gates, the museum opens into long halls—dimly lit, the walls lined with frames that seem to glow in the softened light. The noise fades. Conversations drop to murmurs. Even footsteps feel respectful here. You step into the first gallery— And stop. “Oh,” you breathe. It slips out of you without thought, soft and awed. Your gaze pulls from one piece to the next, moving slowly, reverently. You drift closer to a painting layered thick with pigment, the surface alive with raised texture. Not close enough to cross the boundary line—but close enough to see how the paint catches the light. “The impasto,” you whisper. “Look at it. It’s like the painting is still breathing.” You move on, eyes shining, taking in colors and shadows and the quiet emotion hanging in the air. You speak softly as you go—little observations, small marvels, the way someone does when they’re letting themselves be moved. Rafayel follows. But he isn’t looking at the art. He’s watching you. The way your expression changes with each piece. The way your hands lift unconsciously, fingers twitching like you want to trace the shapes in the air. The way your voice drops when something truly catches your attention. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his gaze. You turn. He’s standing a few steps behind you, eyes fixed on your face like you’re something he’s afraid to disturb by breathing too loud. “…Rafayel?” you ask gently.

“Hm?”

“You’re not even looking,” you say, glancing back at the paintings. “Do you want to leave?” His response is immediate. “No.” Too quick. Then he steadies himself, shoulders easing as he reins in the urgency. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I want to stay.”

“Why?” For a moment, he looks like he might retreat—like honesty is something he still isn’t sure he’s allowed. Then he lifts his gaze back to you, eyes soft, almost luminous in the low light. “Because…” I don’t want this day to end. He hesitates, breath catching. “Besides—” he adds gently, “I don’t see the point in staring at decorations on the wall when the true art has been standing in front of me this whole time.” Heat rushes to your face. You shove his shoulder lightly, flustered. “You’re unbelievable.” A smile breaks across his face—small, genuine, unguarded. Not loud, not showy. Just his.

You turn back to the paintings, pretending you can focus again. But your heartbeat is louder than the gallery now. Because like him— You don’t want this moment to end either. The exit funnels you the way museums always do—gently, inevitably—through the souvenir shop. The lighting shifts first. Warmer. Softer. The quiet here feels different from the galleries; less reverent, more lingering. Like the building itself doesn’t want to let you go yet. Polished wooden shelves line the walls. Glass cases hold small, careful things. The air smells faintly of paper and varnish and something old that’s been preserved lovingly. You slow without realizing it. Postcards are arranged in neat rows—reproductions of oil paintings, charcoal studies, delicate sketches. One catches your eye: a late-afternoon seascape, all muted blues and golds, the horizon blurred as if the light itself were tired. The placard beneath it reads Evening Tide, 1894. You pick it up, turning it over between your fingers. “This one feels… warm,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. Behind you, Rafayel hums thoughtfully. “It does,” he says. “That’s because the artist used yellow ochre under the blue. It tricks your eye into feeling sunlight even when the palette says dusk.” You glance back at him, impressed. He blinks, realizing he’s slipped into that tone—easy, animated—and laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Habit.”

“I like it,” you say. That seems to give him permission. He drifts farther in, curiosity pulling him shelf to shelf. His posture loosens, movements lighter. He comments quietly on frame styles, on print quality, on how certain reproductions lose the weight of the brushstroke. When the cashier chimes in with a question, Rafayel lights up completely—hands moving as he talks, smile bright, voice warm and expressive.

You watch from a few steps away. For a moment, something sharp flickers in your chest—not jealousy of the cashier, exactly, but of the ease. Of how effortlessly this version of him exists here. Then you breathe. This is him. Not borrowed. Not lost. Sooner rather than later, you think, this will be the Rafayel you get to see all the time. He pauses at a display of ceramics. A shallow dish sits among them—pale, glazed like seafoam, smooth and cool-looking even from a distance. At its center, a thin curl of gold leaf arcs like a quiet wave. He reaches for it slowly, reverently, turning it once in his hands. “This,” he murmurs. “For what?” you ask, stepping closer. He considers. “For… the small things,” he says. “Things you set down without thinking. Things that disappear when you’re not careful.” You smile. “That sounds like me.” His ears tint pink. “I’ll— I’ll get it,” he says quickly, already moving toward the counter like he’s afraid you’ll refuse. While he pays, you wander farther down the aisle. That’s when you see it. A small display labeled Music Box Movements. No ornate casing. No decoration. Just exposed brass and steel—tiny gears, a ridged cylinder, and a small crank folded neatly against the side. A placard explains that it must be wound by hand to play. Motion required. Presence required. You lift one carefully. The tune listed beneath it makes your breath catch. You bring it to the counter just as Rafayel finishes paying. He instinctively reaches for his card again.

You place a hand over his wrist. “This one’s on me.” He hesitates—then nods, swallowing. “Okay.” Outside the shop, he holds the wrapped dish like it’s fragile as glass. You tuck the music box movement into your bag, fingers lingering on the cardboard edge. Two gifts. Both small. Both requiring care. And both, in their own quiet way, asking to be returned to again and again. By the time you step back onto the street, the afternoon has softened into something gentler. The sun hangs lower now, warm without being sharp, the city quieter in that in-between hour where nothing feels rushed and everything feels possible. You walk beside him. Not touching—yet. Close enough that your arms brush when either of you shifts, close enough that the warmth between you feels intentional. “Ice cream?” you offer, like it’s nothing. Like you aren’t quietly hoping the day will keep stretching if you ask. Rafayel slows half a step. He looks at you the way someone looks at a door they’re afraid will disappear the moment they reach for it. Like he’s bracing for the moment you’ll laugh and tell him it was just a joke. That this was all a prank. That he misunderstood—again. “…Ice cream,” he repeats, uncertain. “Yeah,” you say easily. “Unless you don’t want any.”

“No,” he says too fast, then winces. Softer, correcting himself, “I want to.” The shop is small and bright, all pastel tiles and fogged glass cases, the air cold and sweet. A bell chimes when you step inside. The menu is cluttered with looping chalk letters, flavors crowding each other like they’re vying for attention. You order without hesitation. “Cookies n’ cream.” Classic. Comfortable. Something you don’t have to overthink. Rafayel stands beside you, staring at the board like it’s asking him to confess something personal. “What do you like?” you ask gently. He opens his mouth. Closes it. “I don’t really… choose,” he admits after a moment, voice low with embarrassment. “I usually just take whatever’s there.” Something in your chest tightens—not painfully. Just enough to notice. You glance back at the menu, then at him. “Sea salt caramel,” you decide. “It’s simple, but it’s not boring.” He looks at you like you’ve just handed him permission. “…Okay,” he says, nodding once, trusting you completely. Outside again, cones in hand, the world feels slower. You walk without any real destination, the sidewalk stretching ahead of you like it doesn’t expect anything more than this. At first, your shoulders bump accidentally. Rafayel stiffens on instinct, posture snapping tight like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.

Then it happens again. And again. On the third time, you make it deliberate—just a gentle nudge, playful. Rafayel hesitates for half a heartbeat. Then he melts. Not dramatically. Not all at once. His shoulder sinks onto yours, weight leaning just enough that you can feel it—feel him—like he’s finally letting himself rest against something solid. His careful restraint dissolves, replaced by a quiet, instinctive closeness. He exhales long and shaky, like his body didn’t realize it had been holding its breath. His sea salt caramel ice cream tilts dangerously and he huffs a soft laugh, steadying it before it drips. He eats more freely now, no longer trying to look composed. His eyes flutter shut for a second at the taste, shoulders slumping as if the world has finally stopped pressing on him. “It’s good,” he murmurs, almost suspicious. You smile. “Told you.” For a while, neither of you speaks. Just walking. Eating. Letting the silence stretch without fear. Rafayel doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans closer, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll lose this feeling—this strange, fragile peace. Then, quietly, he says, “I didn’t think today would feel like this.” You glance at him. “Like what?” He thinks about it—really thinks—jaw tightening, then easing. “…Like I’m not waiting for something to go wrong.” You can’t find a response to something like that. So you don’t say anything at all. Instead, you stay right where you are—shoulder warm against his—letting him melt into you like he’s finally found somewhere safe to land.

——

You pull up to the curb outside your apartment and sit there a moment longer than necessary. The engine hums softly beneath you, a low, steady sound that fills the space neither of you seems ready to break. The street is dim now, washed in the amber glow of streetlights. Somewhere down the block, a door opens and closes. Footsteps pass. Life continues—oblivious to the way this moment feels suspended. Rafayel doesn’t move right away. Neither do you. The quiet that settles between you isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Full. The kind of silence that knows it’s nearing an ending and doesn’t want to admit it.

He clears his throat. “Do you mind if I… walk you to your door?” he asks. His voice is different—quieter than usual, stripped of bravado, careful in a way it hasn’t been all day. Not distant. Not withdrawn. Just unsure. Like he’s relearning how to ask for things without assuming the answer will hurt. You’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. "Yes,” you say, simple and immediate. “Yes, of course.” Something in him eases at that. He steps out quickly, almost like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he waits too long, circling the car to meet you on the sidewalk. The air is cool now, faintly damp, carrying the promise of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. You walk together. Not quite touching—but close enough that it feels intentional. Close enough that the absence of contact is its own kind of awareness. At your door, you stop. Rafayel stops too. He looks at you as if this moment matters more than he knows how to carry. Like he’s standing at the edge of something fragile and doesn’t trust himself not to step too hard. “I had a really good time today,” you say softly. The words feel small for how much they mean.

“So did I,” he answers too quickly, then stills, as if afraid he’s given himself away. He reins himself in, breath steadying. His hands hover at his sides, restless, like he’s afraid to reach without permission. There’s a pause. Then he seems to remember something—his fingers tightening around the bag he’s been carrying since the museum. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Before you go.” He holds it out to you. The seafoam dish. The glaze catches the streetlight, pale and soft, the gold-leaf curl at its center gleaming faintly. Your fingers brush his as you take it, and the contact sends something warm up your arm. “Rafayel…” you start, heart swelling. “Thank you. I really love it.” His throat moves. For a second, he looks like he doesn’t know where to put the feeling. Like it’s too big for his chest. Then his gaze drops—not away from you, but inward—and when he speaks again, his voice is low, careful, edged with something vulnerable. “I just…” He exhales slowly. “I need to know this isn’t something you’ll regret tomorrow.” The words land heavier than he probably means them to. “That you won’t wake up and decide it was… a mistake.” They hurt him as soon as they leave his mouth. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact. Then, quieter—honest in a way that costs him—he adds, “I need to hear you choose me.” Inside him, something old stirs.

No one ever chooses me.

The thought presses in sharp and familiar, unwelcome and persistent. He keeps it locked behind his teeth, buried where it belongs, because saying it out loud would feel like begging. Because if he lets it escape, it might become true all over again. You blink at him, surprised. Then you laugh softly—not unkind, not dismissive. Just gentle. “You’re really dramatic,” you say, fondly. His ears flush immediately. “I’m serious,” he insists, though embarrassment edges his voice now, too. You step closer, closing the space between you. “I chose you,” you say plainly. “I chose you when I agreed to the date. I chose you today. And I’m choosing you now.” The relief hits him like a wave. His breath stutters. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him as if the world finally loosened its grip. Then, quieter—almost shy—he asks, “Can you… text me when you get upstairs?” You tilt your head, amused. “Wow. So demanding.” He panics instantly. “I mean—only if you want to—” You laugh softly and tap his chest. “I’m kidding. I’ll text you.”

“And when you wake up?” he adds, tentative, hopeful. You hum. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”He winces. “…Yeah.” You smile. “I’ll do that too.” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all evening. “Thank you,” he whispers. He hesitates, then lifts his hand and cups your jaw again—slow, reverent, like he’s still afraid the permission might vanish. His thumb rests warm against your cheekbone. He leans in. This kiss is different. Softer. Calmer. Not searching—just a quiet, lingering press of lips that says stay without trying to keep you. When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight, Rafayel.” You step inside, closing the door gently behind you. Outside, he stays on the curb a moment too long—hands tucked into his pockets, heart still racing—watching the place where you disappeared, learning, slowly, how to let you leave without breaking. As promised, you text Rafayel the moment you make it upstairs. It isn’t anything elaborate—just a simple photo. The seafoam dish resting on your nightstand, lamplight soft against the glaze, the gold detail catching just enough shine to look warm. Lived-in. Like it already belongs there. No caption. You don’t need one.

Rafayel stares at the image for a long time—long enough for the screen to dim, then dim again. The quiet of his apartment presses in around him, suddenly too big, too hollow. Something slow and aching unfurls in his chest at the sight of it. At the thought of something he chose—something he touched—now sitting so close to you. Close to where you sleep. Close to where your hands will reach without thinking. It makes him feel wanted. Desired. Like he left a piece of himself somewhere intimate and it was welcomed there instead of rejected. His thumb hovers over the screen, tracing the outline of the dish without touching it, as if proximity alone could convince him this is real. As if the cool ceramic might warm beneath his skin if he presses hard enough. He exhales, shaky. Good, he tells himself. This is good. This is normal. People give gifts. People keep them. This is what it looks like when someone cares. And then the thought slips in—quiet, uninvited, devastatingly natural. That should be me. It doesn’t arrive with violence. No spike of anger. No bitterness. Just longing—so sharp it steals his breath and makes his chest ache like something is being pulled apart slowly, deliberately.

He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, forcing the thought down. Forcing himself to behave. To be grateful. To accept what he’s been given without reaching for more. This—this—is enough, he tells himself. A gift on your nightstand. Proof he mattered today. Proof he exists somewhere beyond paint and canvas. But his body doesn’t listen. Because now he knows where you are. Because now he knows you kept what he gave you. Because now the distance between object and person feels unbearably small. He imagines the dish in your hands. Your fingers brushing the rim. The casual intimacy of it—how it will slip into your routine without effort, without thought. Something you’ll touch every day. Something of his. The realization settles into him slowly, deeply. And once it takes root, it doesn’t leave. The date doesn’t ease Rafayel’s longing. It gives it shape. Before, what he felt had been diffuse—something he could tuck away beneath paint-stained routines and careful distance. Inspiration, he’d told himself. Obsession with form, with light, with a subject that lingered too long in his mind. It was manageable when it stayed abstract. Now it isn’t. Now it has weight. Texture. Memory. Your shoulder warm against his when you walked too close. The sound of your laugh when you weren’t trying to be anything for him—unguarded, unmeasured. The way you said his name like it wasn’t fragile, like it wasn’t something that might shatter if spoken too often.

He tells himself this is good. That this is normal. That wanting to see you again—wanting to linger, wanting to walk you to your door and then stand there too long—is simply what happens when two people connect. But the truth is quieter. And more dangerous. Now that he knows what it’s like to be chosen—even briefly—the idea of losing that choice terrifies him more than loneliness ever did. At night, his mind replays the day in careful, merciless detail. Not just the moments where your mouths met and the world narrowed to breath and closeness—but the smaller things, the ones that feel harder to justify lingering on. The way you leaned into him without thinking. The way you didn’t pull away when he asked for reassurance. The way you promised to text him when you got home—and then did. Every replay ends the same way. With you leaving. With silence settling in after. With the unbearable thought that tomorrow you might wake up and decide he was too much. That the warmth of the day was a mistake. That he was something you tried once and won’t try again. The thought tightens his chest until breathing feels like work. So he clings—not with his hands yet, not with words you can hear—but with attention. With vigilance. With the quiet promise he makes to himself that next time, he’ll do better. Be calmer. Be softer. Be indispensable. Because now that he’s had you— Even for a single day— He doesn’t know how to want anything else. And that realization frightens him far more than being alone ever did. After that night, something in Rafayel shifts. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It happens the way rot sets into wood—slow, quiet, disguised as care. It starts with texts.

Good morning, sent too early, like he hasn’t slept.

Did you eat?

Did you get enough rest?

There’s always a reason. Always a softness to it. He never demands, never outright asks for all of you—but the way his eyes search your face when you hesitate makes the answer feel prewritten. When you say yes, the relief is immediate. Visible. His shoulders loosen. His voice warms. He steps closer, like the space between you is something he’s been holding himself back from claiming. And when you say no, He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t sulk. He just goes quiet. Not cold. Not angry. Quiet in a way that makes you wonder if you’ve hurt him. “I understand,” he says, smiling thinly. “Of course, you have your own life.” Later that night, your phone buzzes. Did you get home safely? I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I hope I didn’t overstep earlier. You reassure him. You always do. And reassurance becomes something he needs. Soon, he starts appearing without being asked. Coffee you like, already warm. A jacket when the weather turns. A casual, I was nearby, even when you know he wasn’t. He makes himself useful. Thoughtful. Present. Indispensable. When you’re together, he touches you more—never inappropriate, never rough—but constant. A hand at your waist to guide you through a doorway. Fingers brushing your wrist when you talk. His knee pressed against yours when you sit, anchoring himself like the world might slide away if he doesn’t. When other people talk to you, Rafayel listens too closely. His gaze tracks every laugh that isn’t his. Every smile that lingers too long. He shifts subtly, angling himself between you and them without realizing it. Later, he asks—carefully.

“You seemed comfortable with them,” he says, like it’s just an observation.

“Do you know them well?”

“They were looking at you.” There’s something tight beneath the words. Something watchful. And he tells himself—honestly—that it’s only because he cares. He starts planning further ahead. Not abruptly—never in a way that feels like a demand—but persistently, like he’s laying down stepping stones you’re meant to follow.

“Next week, we could—”

“On Saturday, maybe—”

“If you don’t have plans, I thought we could spend the day together.” The phrasing is always careful. Conditional. Gentle. But you begin to notice how often his plans quietly replace others. When you cancel something else to be with him—when you say, I’d rather stay with you—his reaction borders on reverent. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. His breath eases. His hands linger longer at your sides. His gaze softens, like something fragile has been set down safely at last. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he says softly once, his thumbs brushing your hips as if grounding himself. “I just feel… better when you’re around.” It sounds romantic. It feels romantic. Until you realize how little space there is left. Rafayel doesn’t like it when you don’t tell him where you’re going. He never says it outright. Never frames it as an expectation. He just asks questions—soft ones, careful ones, dressed up as concern.

“Are you going out tonight?”

“With who?”

“What time do you think you’ll be back?” If you answer easily, he relaxes. If you don’t—if you shrug, or say you’re not sure—something in him tightens. Not visibly at first. Just enough that you notice it in the way his smile lingers too long, the way his attention sharpens like he’s bracing for something. He doesn’t forbid. He watches. And adjusts. When you forget to text back, he doesn’t scold you. He doesn’t accuse. He sends a follow-up hours later.

Hey, just checking in.

I got worried.

The word worried carries more weight every time. And when you tease him about it—call him clingy, say it with a laugh—he stills completely.

Clingy.

The word lodges somewhere deep.“I just…” he says quietly, his eyes searching your face like he’s afraid of what he might find there. “I just don’t want to lose you.” The way he says it makes your chest tighten. Because it doesn’t sound hypothetical. It sounds like a fear he’s already living inside. After that, he stays closer. Not dramatically. Not in a way that feels like a decision. It happens the way habits form—slowly, quietly, until you can’t remember what it was like before. Physically, yes—he’s always near now. An arm slung around your shoulders when you walk. A hand at your lower back in crowded spaces, guiding without asking. Fingers brushing your wrist when he speaks, lingering just long enough to feel intentional. But it’s the other ways that are harder to name. He memorizes your schedule without announcing it. Notices patterns you didn’t realize you had. Starts anticipating your needs before you voice them, offering solutions like proof he’s paying attention. If you’re tired, he suggests staying in. If you’re overwhelmed, he offers to cancel plans—for both of you. If someone upsets you, he listens intently, jaw set, storing the information away like it might be useful later. When you say you need time alone, he agrees immediately. “Of course,” he says gently. “Take all the time you need.” But his eyes linger when you turn away. And later—always later—you’ll get a message. Just wanted to remind you I’m here. You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to be. He means it kindly. That’s the problem. Because it’s never framed as ownership. It’s framed as devotion.

And devotion is harder to refuse. The closer he gets, the more certain he becomes—not of you leaving, but of how unbearable that possibility would be. He starts treating your presence like something fragile, something that needs constant tending or it might slip away. Somewhere between caring and guarding, the line blurs. Rafayel doesn’t notice when it happens. Only that the world feels quieter when you’re near. Only that everything else feels less important. Only that the idea of you choosing someone else—somewhere else—feels wrong. Not immoral. Just… incorrect. Like the universe misplacing something precious. And the thought curls in his chest, tight and restless, pushing him toward vigilance instead of trust—toward holding rather than letting be. He tells himself he’s just afraid. He tells himself fear is natural. He does not ask what fear turns into when it’s fed every day. When you pull him close afterward, it isn’t dramatic. There’s no sudden urgency, no rush of mouths or hands searching blindly. It’s quiet—foreheads touching, breath uneven, the space between you gone in a way that feels chosen rather than taken. Rafayel exhales against your temple, slow and careful, like he’s afraid the moment might fracture if he puts too much weight into it.

“I don’t need anything else,” he murmurs. The words aren’t a vow. They aren’t a demand. They sound like something he’s trying to convince himself of. They sit heavy anyway. For a brief second, you wonder what he means by them. Loving you— or not wanting the world beyond you. You don’t pull away right away. You let his hands stay where they are, steady at your waist, certain, anchoring. You feel how tightly he’s holding himself together, how close he is to something frayed beneath the calm. Eventually, you shift—just enough to remind him that you can move. That you’re staying because you want to. “I actually…” you say softly. “I have something for you.” He stills. Not pulling back. Not tightening his grip. Just attentive—like an animal that’s learned the sound of a door unlocking. “For me?” he asks, quiet, reverent.

You nod and reach into your bag, fingers brushing past familiar weight until you find the small box tucked carefully inside. When you place it in his hands, he blinks—startled by the reversal, by being given instead of holding. He opens it slowly. Inside is the music box.No ornate casing. No attempt to hide what it is. Just exposed brass and steel, tiny gears waiting for motion, a hand-crank meant to be turned deliberately. At its center stand two figures, frozen mid-step. Two men. Hands joined. Bodies angled inward, caught forever in the moment before the turn completes. Rafayel inhales sharply, breath catching like it’s been knocked from him. You turn the crank. The melody spills out—soft, aching, intimate. It feels older than either of you, like something that’s been waiting patiently for hands to bring it back to life. The figures begin to circle each other slowly, endlessly, never separating unless someone chooses to stop. Rafayel doesn’t blink. His gaze drops to the inside of the lid.

To my one true love

The words sit there unguarded. Unapologetic. Real in a way that makes his throat tighten painfully. “You…” His voice shakes. “You had this made?”

“For you,” you say simply. “I thought you deserved something that only plays if someone keeps choosing it.”

His fingers curl around the box—too tight, too fast—like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he relaxes. He closes the lid carefully, reverently, then pulls you back against him without warning. This time, it’s instinctive. His arms lock around you—not rough, not frantic—but certain. Possessive in a way that feels reflexive rather than intentional, as if the gift confirmed something he’s been circling for days. As if it gave form to a thought he’s been refusing to name. “You shouldn’t give me things like this,” he whispers into your hair. Not accusing. Almost afraid. “Why?” you ask quietly. Because I won’t know how to give you back, his silence answers. Instead, he breathes you in and rests his forehead against yours, the ghost of the melody still echoing somewhere between your ribs. “I just…” He falters, searching. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re not enough.” The admission is softer than a confession—heavier than a promise. And it stays. Because you can feel it now—in the way his hands don’t move. In the way his body subtly angles, like he’s guarding the space around you. In the way the music box is held against his chest, close to his heart, like something he intends to keep alive. You wonder again— Is this him learning how to love you? Or is this the moment he decides not to let you go?It doesn’t frighten you—the way he clings. Not really. If anything, it feels familiar.

Comforting, in a way that settles low in your chest and stays there, warm and steady. Like something you’ve been waiting for without realizing it had a name. You notice it first in the quiet moments. In how often your hand drifts to your phone without conscious thought, thumb hovering over his name even when there’s no notification. In how your focus slips—mid-conversation, mid-task—back to wondering what he’s doing, if he’s eaten, if he’s painting, if he’s thinking about you the same way you’re thinking about him. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s normal. When he texts you good morning, you smile before you can stop yourself. When he asks if you’ve eaten, you answer honestly—even on days you wouldn’t bother explaining yourself to anyone else. When he says he misses you, it doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like permission. Like you’re allowed to want him back. You start shaping your days around him without meaning to. Leaving time open just in case. Declining invitations with an ease that surprises you, because the truth slips out so simply when you’re honest with yourself: You’d rather be with him.

When he shows up with coffee the way you like it—already sweetened, already warm—you feel a small thrill curl through you. When his hand settles at your waist in public, guiding you through crowds, you lean into it instead of away. When his knee presses against yours when you sit, you don’t shift. You press back. And you see it—the way his breath eases when you do. The way his shoulders loosen, like he’d been bracing for rejection that never comes. The relief in his eyes when you mirror him, match him, stay. You start recognizing the hunger in him because it reflects something in yourself.

The wanting.

The ache that sharpens when he pulls away even slightly. The irrational flicker of irritation when someone else makes him laugh. The tightness in your chest when you imagine him offering this version of himself—soft, attentive, devoted—to anyone but you. You don’t call it jealousy. You call it care. You don’t call it obsession. You call it love. When he asks—carefully, almost timidly—if you’ll stay the night, you say yes before he finishes the sentence. When he admits he sleeps better with you there, you don’t tease him. You curl closer. You begin leaving things at his place on purpose. A sweater. A book. Something small, easily overlooked—but you never forget. You like knowing he’ll see it when you’re gone. Like a trace. Like proof you were there. And when he notices—when his fingers linger on your things, when his voice goes quiet and reverent as he says your name—you feel something dark and sweet bloom in your chest.

Chosen.

Claimed.

You realize, slowly, that you don’t want space any more than he does. That when he watches you too closely, you don’t feel trapped—you feel seen. That when he asks where you’re going, you answer because you want him to know. That when he pulls you closer, no part of you resists. If anything— You tighten your grip. Because somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the truth settles in: You are not being pulled into his devotion. You are walking into it willingly. And you are bringing your own hunger with you. It happens without either of you naming it. Not with a question. Not with anything special. Just… accumulation. Days start blending together in ways that feel intentional instead of accidental. Mornings bleed into afternoons that end with him waiting for you—leaning against a doorframe, sitting cross-legged on the couch, paint smudged on his knuckles like he forgot to wash his hands because he was too busy thinking about you. You stop asking if you can come over. He stops pretending you aren’t already expected. Sometimes you arrive to find him mid-painting, sunlight spilling across the studio floor, music low and looping. He glances up when you enter, eyes lighting with something immediate and unguarded, like relief arrives in your shape.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft but sure.

Not Oh—hi.

Not I didn’t know you were coming.

Just hey.

Of course, it’s you.

You move around his space with growing familiarity—bare feet on cool floorboards, fingers brushing shelves you know he never dusts, body fitting into the negative space he leaves behind without realizing it. He watches you with quiet focus, eyes following the way you settle in like you belong. Because you do. When he paints now, he hums. Not always. Not loudly. But enough that you notice it when it’s gone. He talks more too—about colors, about ideas that don’t quite have names yet, about things that used to stay locked behind his teeth because he didn’t trust anyone enough to let them hear. You sit with him while he works. Sometimes reading. Sometimes doing nothing at all.

Sometimes just watching him exist. He reaches for you without thinking now. A hand at your lower back when he passes. Fingers curling into the hem of your shirt when he’s tired. Your presence anchors him in ways that feel instinctive, like he’s always known where to find his balance—he just didn’t know it was you. There are still moments—small ones—where doubt creeps in. When praise comes too easily. When attention lingers too long on him from someone else. When his phone buzzes with messages he doesn’t open right away.In those moments, he glances at you like he’s checking the tide. And you meet his gaze every time. You don’t reassure him with words. You don’t soften it, don’t make it smaller. You simply stay. That seems to be enough. One evening, you’re both stretched out on the couch, legs tangled, the room dim except for the glow of the fish tank humming softly nearby. The cat—traitor—has chosen your lap over his shoulder, purring smugly while Rafayel pretends not to care.

He’s quiet longer than usual.

Eventually, he exhales. “I don’t think I’m good at halfway,” he admits, voice low. “At… almost.” You tilt your head, watching him. “What does that mean?” He thinks for a moment, fingers tracing absent patterns on your thigh. “It means,” he says slowly, “that once something matters to me, I don’t know how to hold it lightly.” You don’t pull away. Instead, you shift closer, letting his arm slide fully around you. “Good,” you say simply. He looks at you then—really looks at you—and something steadies in his expression. Like permission has been granted without being asked for. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. After that, the shape of things becomes clearer. You don’t drift. You stay. And whatever this is—whatever it’s becoming—it doesn’t feel like falling anymore. It feels like choosing. Time doesn’t change things all at once. It smooths them. Rounds the sharp edges down until what once felt volatile becomes livable—until the intensity settles into something that looks, from the outside, like stability.

Years pass.

Rafayel grows back into himself—not the careful, guarded man he once was, but something brighter. Louder. Effortless in a way that makes rooms turn toward him without him trying. His laughter returns first, spilling out of him in public spaces, quick and infectious. Then his confidence follows, natural and unforced, like it had only ever been waiting for permission. He becomes renowned. Not overnight—but undeniably. His work circulates in places you never imagined it would. Invitations arrive embossed and formal. Galleries court him with reverence. People speak his name like it carries weight, like it means something before he even enters the room. And he enters rooms like he owns them.

There are moments—brief ones—where the old insecurity flickers. When praise feels too loud. When someone calls him brilliant and he glances at you like he’s checking the tide before stepping forward. But they pass quickly now. He straightens. Smiles. Takes the compliment without shrinking. He shines. Like mother-of-pearl lifted into the light—iridescent, shifting, luminous. Something born of the ocean and polished by time. Impossible to overlook once you’ve seen him. You live together by then. The decision is made quietly, without ceremony. A drawer becomes shared. Then a closet. Then the realization that you haven’t spent a night apart in weeks and neither of you wants to change that. The apartment fills with the evidence of two lives weaving together—books stacked where they don’t belong, mugs abandoned half-full, canvases leaned against walls like they’re resting.

You adopt a cat.

Rafayel hates it on principle.Claims it’s plotting. That it watches him when he paints. That it’s trying to undermine him. He refuses to touch it, speaks to it like it understands every word, and scolds it with absolute seriousness. You love it immediately. To compromise, you get fish too—slow, shimmering things drifting through water like living brushstrokes. Rafayel dotes on them openly, treating the tank like an installation. He lectures the cat about boundaries. The cat ignores him. Life is… peaceful.

You cook together. Argue over nothing. Sleep tangled and wake slowly. Rafayel paints with the windows open now, sunlight spilling across unfinished canvases, music drifting through the apartment. Fame no longer eats at him—it fits, like something he grew into instead of something that swallowed him whole. And yet— There are moments when the roles feel reversed. At openings, people praise his work before they notice you. They look at you with polite curiosity instead of recognition, smiles kind but distant, like you’re an addition rather than a constant. Questions orbit him and barely brush you. You wonder when it happened. When he became the ocean’s treasure—luminous, iridescent, impossible to overlook. And you— Quietly, steadily— Became the shore he always returns to. The thought unsettles you more than you expect. Rafayel notices before you ever say a word. He always does.

His hand finds your lower back in crowded rooms, grounding and possessive. His attention never strays far for long; even mid-conversation, his eyes flick toward you, checking. When someone lingers too close, he angles himself subtly between you and them—not defensive, just certain. At home, the confidence softens. You’ll find him standing by the window late at night sometimes, shoulders loose but eyes far away, fingers tapping against the glass like he’s counting waves only he can hear. “I don’t know how this happened,” he admits once, voice quiet, almost embarrassed. “That they… want my work. That they listen when I speak.” You slide your arms around him from behind, cheek pressing against his shoulder blades. “They always did,” you say. “They just caught up.” He laughs softly, leaning back into you like gravity has always been calibrated to your body. “That’s not what I mean,” he murmurs. His hand covers yours. “I keep thinking… one day they’ll realize I’m not what they think. That I was just lucky.”

“And then what?” you ask gently. He turns in your arms, expression earnest. “Then I’ll lose it.” “And me?” you ask. He doesn’t hesitate. “You won’t leave,” he says, certain. Then, quieter, “You’re the only thing I’ve never been afraid of losing.” The answer twists something in your chest—warm and uneasy all at once. Later, curled together in bed, his arm heavy around your waist, he murmurs half-asleep, “Promise you’ll tell me if I start disappearing into it.” You lace your fingers with his. “I promise.” He sleeps easier after that. The years keep moving.

The love doesn’t dull—it deepens. Settles. Becomes something lived-in and unshakeable. Rafayel never stops being openly, unabashedly devoted to you. He introduces you with pride. Touches you like you’re an anchor. Looks for you first in every room, no matter how full it is. And still—when people look at you with polite curiosity instead of recognition, when they smile like you’re an addition rather than the constant that shaped him, the doubt slips in quietly. You wonder when the roles switched. When he became the one everyone wanted. And you became the place he always came back to. But every night, when the door closes and the world is shut out, Rafayel curls into you with the same certainty he always has. Confidence melting into something private. Brilliance softening into devotion. He is still the most captivating person in any room. But with you— He is simply home. And you understand, finally, that love does not always consume. Sometimes, it steadies. Sometimes, it shines. And sometimes, it chooses to return to the same shore, over and over—not because it must— But because it wants to. And that wanting doesn’t stay quiet for long.

It creeps in slowly at first—felt more than noticed. The way his hand lingers at your waist a second too long before sliding away. The way his breathing changes when you shift closer, when your knee brushes his, when the air between you grows thick and charged. Rafayel goes still. Not pulling away. Listening. Like he’s registering something deep and instinctive, something that bypasses thought entirely. “Do you feel that?” he murmurs, voice low, almost disbelieving. You don’t answer with words. You tilt your head just enough to close the distance, just enough that his breath ghosts your mouth—and the effect is immediate. His grip tightens. Not rough. Not desperate. Controlled. Barely. The world narrows. Too much light. Too much warmth. Your senses overload in a way that makes everything blur at the edges—like you might lose your balance if you don’t anchor yourself to him. His name flickers through your mind and then disappears entirely, replaced by sensation. He swallows hard. “You do this to me,” he admits quietly. Not accusing. Almost awed. “You make everything else… fade.”

His forehead presses to yours again, but this time there’s tension there—an undercurrent of restraint humming so loudly it’s nearly unbearable. His breath is uneven now, warm against your lips, every inhale deliberate like he’s bracing himself against something that wants to take over. And you realize— He isn’t holding back because he doesn’t want you. He’s holding back because he wants you too much. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Just fabric. Just contact. It’s enough to make his vision go momentarily unfocused. “Careful,” he exhales, half a laugh, half a warning. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might forget how to be reasonable.” The words send a thrill through you—sharp and dizzying. The kind that makes your pulse race and your thoughts scatter, like your body is reacting faster than your mind can keep up. You lean in anyway. This time, when he pulls you close, there’s nothing tentative about it. His arms wrap around you with intent, pressing you firmly against him, grounding and overwhelming all at once. The heat between you spikes—bright, consuming—until it feels like too much and not enough simultaneously. For a moment, you’re certain you might actually lose your footing. He feels it. Immediately.

His hold tightens just enough to steady you, his mouth brushing your temple, your cheek, your jaw—never crossing the line, but dancing so close to it that your vision swims. “Breathe,” he murmurs against you, like he’s reminding both of you. You do. Barely. And when he finally stills—when the intensity ebbs just enough to let the world back in—you’re left flushed, breathless, heart hammering like you ran headlong into something you weren’t prepared for. He rests his forehead against yours again, eyes dark, focused entirely on you. The tension doesn’t snap. It coils. Lives in the narrow space between your bodies where neither of you steps back, where the air feels too thick to breathe without effort. Rafayel’s breath ghosts your skin again—slow, deliberate—like he’s testing how close he can get before something inside him finally gives. His hands stay at your back, firm and grounding, the only thing keeping you upright as the world tilts slightly off its axis. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he murmurs, the words hovering between accusation and confession.You don’t answer. You shift closer.

The reaction is immediate. His breath stutters. His grip tightens just enough to be unmistakable. For a split second his eyes close, like the sensation alone is too much—too bright, too loud, too real. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out everything else until the room feels distant, unreal. “This is the part where I’m supposed to stop,” he says quietly. He doesn’t. His forehead presses to yours—not carefully this time, not with space left for retreat. Just warmth and breath and the unmistakable sense of standing at the edge of something irreversible. “If I cross this line,” he continues, voice rough now, stripped of polish and pretense, “I don’t know how to pretend I don’t want you the way I do.” Your vision blurs at the edges—not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of being seen so completely it feels like exposure. Like standing in full light after living in shadow. The silence stretches. Heavy. Unbearable. It’s permission. Something in him settles then—not restraint breaking, but decision. Gravity shifts. Rafayel pulls you in with devastating certainty, controlled and deliberate, like he’s finally stopped pretending you aren’t the center he orbits. “I’ve been holding back since the day I met you,” he admits, low and steady. The truth of it lands hard.

His hand slides up your spine slowly, possessive without being forceful, sure in a way that steals your breath because it isn’t rushed—it’s chosen. There’s no hesitation left, no measuring of distance. Only intent. “When you look at me like that,” he says softly, “everything else disappears. I forget how to be patient.” He stays close, breathing you in like oxygen, like he’s finally allowed himself to need it. And you realize this isn’t him losing control—This is control. Just focused entirely on you. “I won’t hurt you,” he promises, quiet and unshakable. “But I won’t pretend anymore.” The closeness becomes dizzying, overwhelming in the way strong light is overwhelming—senses blurring, the rest of the world fading until there’s only heat and breath and the certainty of his attention wrapped fully around you. He pauses. Not because he must. Because he’s giving you the choice. And the pause itself is almost unbearable. The pause doesn’t last. It breaks. Not violently—decisively.

Rafayel moves like something that’s finally stopped waiting, all coiled restraint releasing at once. One second there’s space, breath, the fragile illusion of choice—and the next he’s there, closing the distance with terrifying precision. Like a strike. Clean. Certain. His hand catches you at the back of the neck—not rough, not gentle—just enough pressure to make your thoughts scatter, to anchor your body exactly where he wants it. The world narrows violently, vision tunneling until there’s only him, only the heat of his presence and the unshakable certainty of being caught. He doesn’t rush. That’s the most dangerous part. His forehead brushes yours again, closer than before, breath warm and controlled against your lips as if he’s savoring the moment after impact—after prey stills, after escape is no longer an option.

Your pulse hammers so loudly it feels like it might drown out sound itself. The intensity steals your breath—not because you’re afraid, but because every nerve feels suddenly exposed, lit too brightly to look at directly. His thumb presses just under your jaw, lifting your chin with deliberate care. Command without cruelty. Possession without force.“I gave you a chance to walk away,” he says softly. Not a threat. A truth. “You didn’t.” His gaze locks onto yours, unblinking, all confidence now—no hesitation left to hide behind. Whatever hunger lived beneath his restraint is no longer restrained at all. And still—he doesn’t take more than you give. He stays there, impossibly close, presence overwhelming, letting the weight of him sink in. Letting you feel what it means to be chosen and claimed in the same breath. “This isn’t me losing control,” he adds, quieter now, almost intimate. “This is me deciding.” The air feels thinner. The room feels unreal.

You’re aware—suddenly, vividly—that everything after this will be different. That lines don’t uncross. That once something this sharp has found you, it doesn’t loosen its hold easily. Rafayel leans in just enough for his words to brush your mouth. “And now,” he whispers, “I don’t intend to let go.” The moment hangs there—electric, blinding—like the world is holding its breath with you. Waiting to see what you’ll do now that you’ve been caught. It doesn’t start with movement. It starts with impact. The space between you collapses all at once—no warning, no gentling—like two worlds finally giving up on orbit and crashing together. His mouth meets yours with brutal certainty, not asking, not testing, just claiming, like restraint finally detonated. The kiss isn’t soft. It isn’t careful. It’s force—raw and unfiltered—like something ancient tearing free.

Your teeth knock, breaths clash, heat flares so sudden it’s almost dizzying. There’s a sound between you—half gasp, half growl—caught where your mouths collide again, harder this time, like neither of you is willing to give ground. It feels violent not because it hurts—but because it overwhelms. Like being pulled under by a wave you didn’t realize was already breaking. His hand fists in your clothes, anchoring, demanding, like if he doesn’t hold you like this, you’ll both be flung apart by the force of it. Your fingers dig into him just as fiercely, answering pressure with pressure, hunger with hunger. There’s no hesitation left. No distance. No pretending this is anything less than catastrophic. This isn’t a kiss meant to reassure. It’s a kiss meant to consume—to see who yields first, who burns out, who survives the collision. And neither of you does.

You just keep crashing back into each other, breathless and unafraid, like the destruction was always inevitable—and somehow, exactly what you both wanted. The kiss doesn’t slow. It fractures. Hands slip, then grip—fingers digging in like they’re searching for purchase, like skin is the only thing keeping either of you from breaking apart entirely. Fabric twists between your fists, pulled tight, wrinkled, abused in the way something gets when it’s in the way of want. Rafayel makes a sound against your mouth—low, rough, unguarded—and it’s the last thing that resembles restraint. He crowds your space completely, pressing you back not with force but inevitability, like gravity has finally decided which way you’re meant to fall. His hands roam with purpose now, not exploring but claiming, sliding, clutching, tugging you closer every time you try to breathe. You answer him with the same hunger.

Your fingers hook into his shirt, dragging him back just as hard, refusing to be the only one undone. Nails scrape, tear into fabric and skin alike, leaving proof—evidence of how desperately you’re both trying to anchor this moment into something permanent. This isn’t careful. This isn’t patient. It’s mouths and hands and bodies colliding again and again, each movement a silent challenge: don’t let go. Every pull is answered. Every gasp is stolen. Every inch between you is erased with intent. He presses his forehead to yours for half a second—just long enough for breath to shudder between you—eyes dark, blown wide with want and something far more dangerous. And when you drag him back into you, harder this time, there’s no mistaking the truth anymore: You’re not tearing at each other to see who wins. You’re tearing because neither of you knows how to stop.

And somewhere between the bruising grip and the shared breath, the line between want and need disappears completely. The impact comes suddenly. Not planned—just momentum and want and the way neither of you bothers to slow down. Your back meets the wall with a sharp knock, the stand beside it rattling in protest. Something slips. Something clatters. The sound is small but jarring—metal against wood, a delicate skitter before a dull thud. The music box. It hits the floor and goes silent. For half a breath—no more than that—Rafayel stills. His forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, chest rising fast. His gaze drops, sharp and immediate, eyes flicking to where it landed. The box lies on its side, the lid shut, intact. Unbroken.

Good.

The relief flashes through him like instinct, like muscle memory. Then he’s back. Hands come up to either side of your head, caging you in as he presses forward again, harder this time—like the interruption only sharpened the edge of him. Like the brief reminder of fragility made him refuse to be gentle. His mouth finds yours with renewed hunger, devouring instead of seeking, as if to make up for the lost second. His body pins you there, undeniable, claiming the space completely—no room to retreat, no room to think.

The music box stays where it is. Forgotten. Because you’re here. Warm. Breathing. Answering him with the same ferocity, fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer like you might fuse together if you try hard enough. If it breaks later, he’ll fix it. If it shatters, he’ll rebuild it. But right now—right now the only thing that matters is the way you fit against him, the way the world narrows to wall and breath and the relentless certainty of being wanted. What happens next is quiet—but irrevocable. Rafayel rests his forehead against yours, breath uneven again, hands still braced on either side of you. His voice drops low—not asking, but checking something essential. “Tell me to stop.” Not because he wants you to. Because if you don’t, he will take that silence as permission in a way that changes everything. Rafayel’s grin is slow. Not playful. Not teasing.

It’s the kind of smile that belongs to someone who already knows the answer—and is only watching to see how boldly you’ll claim it. “And if I don’t?” you ask, voice steady despite the way your pulse is screaming. “What will you do then?” Something dark and delighted flickers behind his eyes. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he exhales—a soft, almost reverent sound—and tilts his head just enough that his nose brushes yours. Close. Close enough that the air between you feels charged, brittle, like it might shatter if either of you breathes wrong. “Why don’t I just show you?” he murmurs. His hand settles at your jaw, thumb brushing along the line of it with infuriating slowness, like he’s savoring the restraint more than the act itself. The touch is gentle—but it carries intent, unmistakable and heavy, a promise wrapped in patience.

He tilts your face up just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze. Up close, his eyes are all heat and focus, stripped of the careful polish he wears for the world. There’s no doubt in them now. No hesitation. Just the quiet certainty of someone who knows exactly where this is going—and is allowing you the illusion of choice. “Look at you,” he says softly, almost fond. His thumb pauses beneath your lip, not pressing, not pushing—waiting. “Just sitting there, waiting for me. Such a good boy.” The air between you tightens, stretched thin as a wire. And then—before thought can catch up to instinct—he closes the distance. Not rushed. Not careless. A decisive, claiming motion that steals the breath from your lungs and leaves no room for doubt about who moved first. The moment snaps.

The space between you collapses like a fault line giving way, and the kiss that follows is nothing like the ones before it—nothing careful, nothing restrained. It’s a collision. Mouths meeting with force, teeth grazing, breath stolen and traded back like neither of you knows how to breathe alone anymore. There’s hunger in it. Not polite. Not practiced. Raw. His hand tightens at your jaw, fingers threading into your hair as if instinct takes over before thought can intervene. He kisses you like he’s been waiting too long, like restraint has finally been torn clean away, and there’s no point pretending otherwise. It’s messy, urgent, all heat and friction—two wills crashing, neither willing to give ground. You answer him without hesitation.

You bite back. Pull him closer. Fingers clutching at his clothes, at his shoulders, at anything solid enough to hold him there. The sound between you is unguarded—breath, the quiet edge of a growl in his throat, the sharp inhale you don’t bother hiding when he presses closer and pushes his bulge into your hip. “Rafayel,” you whine, rolling your hips against his as you realize just how badly you’ve craved him this entire time, “Rafayel” you cry, moaning as his hand sides down your side, and with a sharp, impatient pull, he hooks your thigh onto his hip. The sudden shift brings you two closer, your chests press against each other as his bulge slides briefly over your still clothed cunt before finding its temporary home in the crease of your thigh.

“Rafayel,” you moan out, your cunt clenching around nothing but air as you rock against him. “Bed,” you grunt out, pushing off the wall, “bed now.” He stills for half a heartbeat. Just long enough for the words to land. Then his mouth curves—slow, dangerous, unmistakably pleased.“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough with promise. “Then don’t slow down.” He grips you again, decisive this time, steering you away from the wall with a force that’s all intent and no hesitation. The room blurs—furniture passed too close, breath knocked loose as he moves you like he’s already memorized the path. His hand stays firm at your thigh, the other braced at your back, keeping you upright, close, claimed. Every step feels like a countdown.

He doesn’t kiss you on the way—doesn’t need to. The tension stretches tight between you instead, electric, unbearable. When you reach the edge of the bed, he crowds you there, bodies colliding again, foreheads knocking together as he exhales a laugh that sounds half-feral, half-devout. “Look at you,” he breathes, low and wrecked. “Ordering me around.”You don’t get a chance to answer. He presses you down—not gently, not roughly—inevitably, like gravity has finally decided where you belong. The mattress dips, the world tilts, and he follows immediately, bracing himself over you, eyes dark and shining, devotion sharpened into something almost frightening. For a moment, he just looks. Like he’s taking inventory. Like he’s choosing this again—fully, finally. Then he leans in, mouth brushing your ear, voice quiet and irresistible.“Don’t worry, baby,” he says softly, cooing in your ear, “I’ll take care of you.” Then his mouth lowers. Not rushed. Not frantic.

A kiss pressed just below your jaw. Another along your throat. Slow, deliberate, as if he’s mapping you by memory instead of sight. Each one lingers just long enough to make your breath hitch before he moves again, trailing warmth downward in a way that feels almost possessive.He doesn’t stop until he reaches the waistband of your pants, “Let’s get these off, okay?” He mutters into your skin, placing one last kiss on your bare hip—your shirt long torn apart— before leaning back, just enough to look at you .His hand brushes your bare flesh as he unzips your pants, movements unhurried, deliberate—like he’s savoring the moment rather than rushing it. The fabric slides down your legs, pooling at the edge of the bed, and for a heartbeat, he stills, eyes tracking the way you react to his touch. Then, almost like he’s remembering himself again, he pulls back just enough to shuck off his own pants, movements less careful now—impatient in a way that makes your pulse spike. He climbs back onto the bed, weight settling over you, heat radiating from him as his hands find your thighs, your waist, anchoring you in place. The mattress dips beneath you both.

Rafayel leans in, foreheads nearly touching, breath warm against your skin. His expression laced with excitement as his hands find the waistband of your underwear, they stay there for a while, snapping the band against your skin, ignoring the hands that try to shoo them away, before they finally get rid of the last piece of clothing shielding your entirety from the painter. Rafayel’s reaction is immediate, as his hand quickly shoots out to spread your folds as he shoves his knees between your thighs, forcing you to spread them. “So beautiful,” he whistles, gently rubbing at your clit.

“Rafayel.” You whine, your thighs shaking as you’re forced to take whatever the artist decides to give you. He shushes you, applying more pressure behind his rubbing, staring at your frothing hole, before stuffing two of his fingers into it, curling his fingers just so. You yelp, clutching at his wrist with your hands, “Rafayel,” you moan out, your cunt clenching around his fingers as they plunge into your already sensitive cunt as if it’s nothing more than a toy. The artist grinned, adding another finger to your cunt, cooing at your whimpered pleas. “Rafayel,” you mumble, half-drunk off of pleasure. “Yes, cutie?” He answers, playing with your oversensitive clit like it’s a fucking joystick. “I want you in me.” You confess, nudging him with your knee as if that would get him to hurry up and stop teasing you.

“I know, I want to be in you.” He whispered, emphasizing his want by rolling his bulge against your cunt, “Rafayel!” You squeaked, your head falling back against the pillow as your hips desperately try— and fail— to follow his. “I’ll give you what you want, baby, I always have, haven’t I?” He questions, feigning hurt. Rafayel’s words began to jumble as you found yourself approaching the top of the roller coaster that is your orgasm. His touch seemed to be blistering as you rocked against his hand, trying desperately to chase your high. The need you felt for Rafayel was all-consuming. There was nothing you wanted more than Rafayel, and in this moment, you wanted nothing more than to feel his cock inside you. At this rate, you’ll die if he doesn’t fuck you properly. You needed his cock in you yesterday! “Rafayel…, ‘m gonna cum” you slur, swallow your built-up saliva. “Oh, we can’t have that, now can we?” He mused, pulling his fingers out of you, shushing your panicked whines and frustrated cries as your orgasm is stopped right at its peak.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll give you what you need.” He rasped, hissing as he pulled his heated flesh out of its confinements, “ I always give you what you need, don’t I, baby?” He coaxed, tapping the tip of his cock against your hole and watching you desperately try to force it in. “Mhm, yes— yes!” You stutter out, working your hips, “Please! Please,” you plead, trying desperately to get his cock inside you. “Calm down, sweetheart.” He instructed, reaching out to cup your jaw, tilting your head towards him, “Calm down.” He waits for your breathing to steady, ignores the whine in your throat, and the way your body strains toward him. “There,” he rasps. “That’s better.” Only then does he finally move, closing the distance between his cock and your cunt, he pushes into your tight, warm cunt. Carefully, slowly, as if he’ll lose control if he goes any faster.

“Raf-“ your breath hitch, your soaked cunt clenching around him as the artist moans out above you, “fuck!” He swears, voice strained as his fingers clutch at the pillow beneath your head. “Fuck! If I knew you felt like this, I would’ve done this much- much sooner.” He admitted, his eyes locked on you. You gasp, arching your body towards him, “Rafayel,” you cry, eyes shimmering with unshed tears at the mere stretch of him. “Mhm, you’re too big,” you pant, barely managing the words, your hips rolling up into his as he tries— and fails— to regain his composure. “Holy shit,” He laughs, unhinged, breath coming in broken spurts as he buries his face in the crease of your neck, hips twitching as he fights against instinct. “Baby,” he breathes, the word slurred like he’s intoxicated by you alone, unfocused as he presses a kiss to your neck. “Please tell me I can move,” he pleads softly. “I can’t stay like this forever,” the complaint ending in a sharp, involuntary shift of his hips.

It takes a while for his words to reach you, your mind stuffed with cotton—slow, muffled—like someone poured warm syrup over your thoughts and left them there to sink. Everything moves too thickly to grasp, sensations blurring together until you can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. Your tongue feels heavy, useless in your mouth, and it takes longer than it should to remember how to move at all. Even then, all you manage is a wrecked, broken plea: “Move… please.” And like the gracious man he is, he listens, responding in a way that ignites something electric between you, pleasure finding its way into every one of your nerves. “Fuck— baby,” he whines— reverent in the way he says it, “you feel so-so fucking good,” he’s almost frantic the way he says it, his words slurring as he pushes his body closer to yours, almost as if he’s trying to merge them together— become one with you. Your broken pleas echo softly through the room as you let Rafayel unravel you piece by piece, his thrusts increasing in strength as his desperation mounts and spills.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he slurs, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, “moaning, begging— pleading for me,” His smile is sharp with satisfaction—not cruel, but certain—thrilled by the way you unravel for him alone. Thrilled by the knowledge that this version of you belongs only to him. You—so carefully held together in every other moment—coming undone in his hands. His attention drifts, briefly, to the ring on your finger as it gleams faintly in the dark, grounding him in the truth of it. Only I will ever see you like this. The thought feels almost tragic to him—not in sorrow, but in reverence. That no one else will ever know you like this. That no one else will see how breathtaking you are when the world has been stripped away—eyes unfocused, emotion written openly across your face, every careful wall finally lowered.

“‘m gon’a cum” you slur, your cunt tightening around the artist’s cock, “then cum, sweetheart. I will not stop you,” he says, I will not stop, he thinks. Rafayel watches in quiet awe as your breath stutters and your back arches, the sound caught in your throat as your orgasm finally overtakes you. And Rafayel— Rafayel doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, thrusts never slowing— never stopping. His head tilts back, jaw slack with sensation as he fights the clench of your cunt, forcing his cock in and out of it as it desperately tries— and fails— to force him out. “Do you hear that, sweetheart?” he grins, lifting a hand to cover your mouth. “Shh—listen.” It takes you a while to hear it, to busy memorizing the feel of Rafayel’s cock inside you. But then you do, it was quiet at first, distant to the sound of skin slapping skin, but then it was there, the sound of your slick walls clinging to the artist’s cock as it plunges into your cunt and the sound it makes when the suction breaks and it’s forced to let go.

“Do you hear how wet you are?” He grins, leaning down to kiss and bite at your neck. “How wet I’ve made you?”He brags softly, breath breaking as he mutters curses under his breath when you tense around him. “You’re so good for me— to me— fuck!” he chokes out, voice breaking with awe as he listens to you unravel beneath him—whining and pleading as your next orgasm builds. “You’re gonna cum again, baby?” He mutters against your forehead, kissing the flesh there. “Gonna cum with me?” He questions, hand reaching down to rub at your overly sensitive clit, his eyes baring into yours as he watches pleasure consume you. “That’s it, baby,”He whispers his praise, reverent, pressing kisses to your tear-streaked skin before finally kissing you. “Cum, for me.” He watches as you fall apart, your body twitches as you fall deeper and deeper in overwhelming pleasure, “Rafayel” you mewl, using what little strength you have to bring your lips together.

A groan tears from him as you part, his hips sputter as they slow to handle his oncoming orgasm, “Can I-“ a moan cuts him off, his hips jerk as he holds back his orgasm, “can I cum— inside? Please—“ his voice breaks as his hand slides up to grip your waist, holding on like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.“Yes— yes, Rafayel— please!” You beg, feverish at the thought of being filled with more than just cock. Permission was all the artist needed, the force behind his thrusts increased two-fold as he chased his high and yours, “Thank you- thank you— fuck.” He cries, kissing whatever skin his mouth can reach as he reached the pinnacle of his pleasure and you yours. “Fuck,” he breathes, collapsing against your chest. His heartbeat is still racing when he speaks again, voice gentler now, almost shy. “That was… incredible.” He lifts his head just enough to look at you, concern already replacing the heat in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “Do you need anything?”

“Wait— I’ll go get you some water, okay, baby?” he murmurs, already shifting, his voice gentle as he presses a kiss to your temple. He hushes your soft protest when he pulls out with another kiss, brushing his thumb soothingly along your cheek.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, breath still uneven but touch careful now. “Just—stay here for me, okay?” And then he’s gone, footsteps hurried as he disappears into the kitchen, leaving behind the lingering warmth of him. He comes back quickly— almost too quickly… Almost as if he’s afraid to let you out of his sight now that he’s claimed you so completely. The glass of water trembles slightly in his hand. “Here,” he murmurs, already kneeling beside the bed, helping you sit just enough to drink. His other hand stays warm at your back, steadying you, grounding you. “Slow. I’ve got you.” You sip, your body still humming, limbs heavy and loose like they don’t quite belong to you yet. He watches you the entire time—eyes softer now, concern replacing everything fierce and wild from before.

When you finish, he takes the glass and sets it aside and reaches for a warm cloth he must’ve run under the tap. “Let me,” he whispers. You don’t argue. You just watch him. Rafayel moves with reverence, wiping you down carefully—never rough, never hurried. His touch is gentle in a way that feels almost sacred, like he’s tending to something precious rather than cleaning away the aftermath of desire. He murmurs soft apologies under his breath even though there’s nothing to apologize for. “There,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” He cleans himself next, just as carefully, then tosses the cloth aside and returns immediately, like distance is something he refuses to allow for long. He gathers you close, tugging you into his chest, arms firm but comforting. You feel his breathing slow first. Then yours follows. For a while, neither of you speaks.

Your cheek rests against his collarbone, your body heavy and loose with exhaustion, with contentment. His fingers trail up and down your back, absent-minded, soothing. “You okay?” he asks quietly. “Tell me if anything hurts.” You nod, still catching your breath. “I’m okay,” you murmur. That’s when you notice it— or rather, remember it. The faint glimmer on your hand. Your engagement ring catches the low light of the lamp—gold flashing softly as you shift. You lift your hand a little, turning it, watching how it reflects against your skin. You smile. Rafayel notices immediately. He always does. “…You’re staring,” he murmurs.

You hum quietly. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

You turn your hand again, thumb brushing over the band. “That this still feels unreal sometimes.” He goes very still behind you. Then his arms tighten—just a little. “Does that scare you?” he asks softly. You shake your head. “No, of course not. After all, I’m exactly where I want to be.” Something in his chest loosens at that. He reaches for your hand, guiding it up between the two of you, pressing his lips to the ring with quiet reverence. Not possessive. Not showy. Devout. “I look at that,” he admits, voice low, “and I remember that you chose me. Every day.” His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beats steadily beneath his touch. “And I choose you back,” he adds. “Every time.” You turn slightly, pressing your forehead to his jaw. He exhales shakily. The room is warm. Quiet. Whole. And as he tucks you closer beneath the blankets, kissing your hair with the same care he once reserved only for canvas and paint, you realize something gentle and grounding: This is what intimacy looks like after the fire fades. Not less intense—Just deeper. Careful. Protective.

——

A/n: if you made it this far, congrats, here’s a cookie 🍪 and uh also happy late new years and uhh late merry Christmas!!

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