Kami's diary

He tilts his head slightly so his cheek rests against your hair “Grey hair, huh?” he breathes, “Then I’ll just have to stay close enough to make sure you don’t overthink yourself into it.”

She locks his waist between her thighs, moving closer to him. Her nose brushed his neck, hiding in the crook.

"You know, even you. You can be exhausted but why do you never feel this down? I know it's explainable because of the way my brain differs from yours and all those diagnoses and everything but sometimes I don't want it to be a reality. You know? I would give everything to not know what those abbreviations mean or what symptoms are there or DSM5 criterias"

Her cheek brushes against his skin as she moved even closer. Hiding there in his touch, curled into small ball.

ur doing that thing again

the one where U say something like its casual and then casually drop and U will be the only one who sees it like thats not a sentence with consequences

microdermals under ur collarbone R not exactly a cute little summer idea thats a long term commitment

and yes i get it

U think it would be romantic

but ur also conveniently skipping over the part where healing is annoying shirts will absolutely not cooperate and U will end up poking at it when U think im not looking

…also

don’t assume U will be walking around in loose pajamas just because its romantic

i might start enforcing dress codes especially if ur goal is to make it hard for me to concentrate

There’s a faint crease between his brows, but his voice softens almost immediately after. “You say you’ll take care of it, but you also say things like this so easily… as if I’m not supposed to react.”

He shifts a little closer, gaze lingering at her collarbone before flicking back up to her eyes. “And don’t try to turn this on me. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“…And no, I can’t just focus if you’re walking around like that.” His ears tint slightly, and he looks away for a second, clearly annoyed at himself. “As for the dress code… ” he huffs, “…it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion.”

"Xavier, those would be just two shiny things on my skin. Nothing more, nothing less. You're acting as if I'm getting BBL or something", she looks down, mumbling the last part with even deeper frown, "which I'm not"

She adds quickly before he would pout further. Her face in a deadpan as she looked into his eyes.

"Is this conversation really worth a debate and negotiations? You're all red over hypothetical piercing— Xavier..." she sighs heavily, her palm dragging across her forehead, "no, there won't be any dress code at all. I'm in my home. Deal with it. Even though you're cute, your pouting won't get to me this time"

Go with the ears first. Ear piercings will stay.

A collarbone dermal is gorgeous, yeah, like dangerously pretty, but it’s high maintenance and rejection is super common. You could spend the same money and end up losing it in month.

Ears, though? That’s long term payoff.

If you still crave that collarbone sparkle later, you can always do it as a treat knowing the risk.

…also, there’s something very you about curating a perfect ear setup. Feels more personal than a single flashy point.

She pouts, tapping finger on her chin.

ur doing that thing again

the one where U say something like its casual and then casually drop and U will be the only one who sees it like thats not a sentence with consequences

microdermals under ur collarbone R not exactly a cute little summer idea thats a long term commitment

and yes i get it

U think it would be romantic

but ur also conveniently skipping over the part where healing is annoying shirts will absolutely not cooperate and U will end up poking at it when U think im not looking

…also

don’t assume U will be walking around in loose pajamas just because its romantic

i might start enforcing dress codes especially if ur goal is to make it hard for me to concentrate

"It will heal well. My master's good, you know"

...

"And my goal isn't to make you lose focus... honestly, it would be your fault if you would blush like tomato over such accessory"

She tilts her head

By @xavslittlelight ✨️

~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

Summary:

The planet is celebrating. They have a new Queen, the only Queen, after so long of having no ruler.

You are not, however. But maybe a company from an old friend would not be so bad. But one thing leads to another, and… how did you and he end up like this?

Duration: 7470 words

Posted on 6th June, 2026

---

Tags: NSFW, Unrequited Love (or is it??), Alcohol, Dubcon (because they are both drunk but they also both want it so idk), Soft Angst, Intense Makeout Session, A lot of kissing, A lot of biting and marking, Farewell Sex, First and "Last" Time, XavMC being Idiots (mostly MC here bc of the POV), Hair Pulling, Bush for MC, Cunnilingus, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Slight Overstimulation, Thirsty Xavier, Crying, Aftercare (not explicitly described), Fem!Reader, 2nd-person POV for reader

Note: To be honest, this was not on my list to write but I had this idea recently and finally found some time to write (yes I wrote this during work hours). And please, don't think of this as 100% lore accurate to Lightseeker myth, I remember what happened in there but I did take some creative liberty to make sure the story makes more sense and works better.

Xavier and MC are the same as they are in Lightseeker myth, not in any established relationship and MC still thinks of her past self as a different person. Xavier cannot communicate. And this does not change the outcome of Lightseeker myth, it's just an oneshot, you have been warned. I had a lot of fun with the angst in this one.

And it's up to your interpretation whether or not they are experienced here. I don't explicitly mention anything. Have fun!

~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~♡~

📲: What's that? Do you know? Was it a scammer?

📲: She said table for two in that restaurant near hunter association

📲: Don't tell me you scheduled a date for us...

📲: No need for it to be this fancy, you know I was okay with gaming or movie nights?

📲: But I get it. Won't it be the first "date-date" as an official couple?

📲: I'm nervous now

/I think we need a change of scene for these two

📲 …U werent supposed to find out like that

📲 Its not a scammer, starlight. Its me. I made the reservation

📲 I know U said ur happy with our game nights… and i am too more than U probably realize. But… i wanted to do something different this time. Something that feels like a clear line between before and now

📲 Our first real date as… us

📲 U dont have to worry about it being too fancy. I chose that place because it’s quiet and i can actually hear U laugh without distractions. Thats the only thing I really care about

📲 And if U get nervous…

📲 ill probably be worse

📲 So we can just be awkward together i think id like that

📲: isn't that place pricey? Simone was there before with her date, she said it's really... biting

📲: ☹️💔

📲: I love you. If it's really too much, we can cancel and go to other place

[Typing...]

📲: Im not sure if I have something fancy to wear...

📲: it's so cute that you did it, really ;( I feel baaaaad because I should've come up with that idea first

📲: I'm coming with you, of course.

📲: you're so cute and attentive and romantic... I feel like bursting from joy right now...

📲 And about the price… dont worry about it. I already planned for it, and I wouldnt have picked somewhere thatd make things uncomfortable for us. Worst case? We eat, decide its overrated, and go grab something simple after. Id still count that as a perfect night because im with U

📲 As for what to wear… 💭

📲 U could show up in the same thing you wear for our movie nights and id still forget how to breathe for a second so really, anything U feel good in is already more than enough for me

📲 U said U love me so casually just now 👀

📲 I love U too, starlight. Probably in that overwhelming, slightly terrifying way where my chest feels too full

📲 And knowing ur excited, that might be the part that makes me the most nervous now nervous

📲 ill come get U before 7, alright 👍🏻

📲 Try not to burst before then. id like U in one piece for our first date ☺️

📲: okay. Okay. I'm going to get ready.

📲: please don't get nervous, it's just me, right?

📲: I did say it casually. And you did too

📲: it's cute. You're cute...

And then... the chaos begun. Throwing all the clothes on her bed, trying to find something fitting. Her eyes analyzed what she has: sweatpants, jeans, shorts. No, no, no, that doesn't look well.

Biting on her lip, she, with little run, appeared in front of her closet again. Hands on her hips. Now... what can she do?

First date. Expensive restaurant.

She should look breathtaking.

She barely has any dresses or skirts in her wardrobe though... and no fitting shoes either.

With loud sigh, she dialed Tara — she probably should have something for her. Please.

After a long time of checking and putting on various dresses and skirts Tara has, she had found one that really made her heart beat faster and pink color creep to her cheeks. Xavier will like it.

And when the door opened in front of him, there she was — her hair curled, her makeup is way more blunt than usual eyeliner-lipstick combo (not without Tara's help), her (Tara's) black dress with tge U cut that hugged her waist too nicely and some black high heels she hoped she won't trip in.

Her gaze watched him, analyzing his reaction. Clearing her throat, she patted her hips.

"Uh, I... thank you for, uhm... scheduling it all...?", she murmured shyly, aware of his gaze and her not-so-usual attire.

His fingers hover over a few shirts before finally selecting one, something clean, structured, but softer in tone than usual. He changes once …then again. The second time is more subtle. Same base, different jacket. He studies his reflection like he’s assessing a mission variable rather than getting ready for a date.

But there’s a faint crease between his brows. Not good enough. He adjusts his collar. Fixes it. Then fixes it again. Hair, combed, then slightly undone, then corrected. There’s a moment where he just stands there, staring at himself in the mirror.

Not checking appearance this time. Just thinking. He exhales slowly, then his phone buzzes. Her messages. He reads them once.

Then again. “You’re cute…" He goes still. His thumb hovers over the screen like he might respond, but he doesn’t. If he starts, he might say too much. Or worse, overthink it. So instead, he locks the phone.

Wallet. Reservation confirmation. Check. He slips into his shoes, grabs his coat, but right before he leaves… He pauses at the door. Hand on the handle. I should text her.

📲 see U soon

📲 like soon soon

He heads down the elevator. Holding his phone and wallet so tight that his hands start to sweat.

Xavier freezes for a second when the door opens. His eyes flicker over her once… and then again. Oh. Oh.

He hadn’t been nervous before. Not really. He told himself it was just dinner. Just her. That was clearly a miscalculation. His hand tightens faintly, “You…” He starts, then stops, “You said not to get nervous,” he murmurs. “That was… unfair.”

There’s the faintest tilt of his head, “You look …stunning feels inadequate.” His eyes soften just a little more at the way she fidgets, the way her words come out shy and unsure... so different from the confident image she’s presenting.

She takes him in. His appearance.

Her eyes glide from his face (and red cheeks with red ears she thought were cute) to his outfit. More official than usually.

Both of them were "more" than their usual appearance and image. It was much more serious, in a way. No casual style, no matching hoodies or pajamas, which only enforced this great weight of their new status — as a couple. She pursed her lips, still in daze.

"I—.. Y-you look, uhm... g-great, you—..."

She clears her throat, blinking quickly as if it would help to regain her consciousness. It was funny in some way: both of them wearing something they wouldn't wear at all, and getting shy while looking at each other.

She could feel her cheeks burning — now it dusted with more red color (and it looked catastrophic given blush Tara applied on her cheeks). Now she wondered if it was too much, wondered if it was "hers". Maybe, she should've tried less...

Despite the "bold" (bold for her) appearance, she was no near it. She felt shy. He probably could hear her heart beating and hitting her ribs.

She glanced at the arm he had offered. Bite of her lip.

Hesitantly, she encircled her own around his, stepping outside of apartment. Closing the door after herself, she glanced at him. Strong scent of his cologne hit her nostrils.

"Was it even his?" she wondered. Xavier never applied such strong scented ones.

Glaring at him again, she bit her cheek from inside. He took her breath away. And he planned a date for them.

"Y-you look good"

...

Awkwardness creeped up to her. She couldn't afford let him think this was her — his comment still swirling in her head. Well, she just wanted to be truthful.

"I will be honest, those are not mine. I got these from Tara and she made my makeup and now I feel too dolled up. Too dolled up", she murmured shyly as they waited for the elevator.

"I figured you would like it. So... I asked her to. But now I feel shy to think if it is too much. Actually, I nearly burnt my hand when I was doing my curls," she chuckled quietly, watching his reaction, "It's hard with medium length hair and–... yeah. But if you like it, then... I-I am happy. You know? I—... well... yeah"

...

Good, because when she adds that last line... “Makes me want to kiss you.” His breath falters. Just slightly. His eyes flick to her immediately, “…That,” he says quietly, “is a dangerous thing to say before we’ve even left the building.”

There’s the faintest shift as he turns more toward her, closing the already small distance between them. His free hand lifts and pauses near her face.

“You think this isn’t you,” he murmurs, eyes flicking briefly over her makeup, the dress, the effort, then back to her eyes. “But you went through all of that… because you wanted to see me. That’s more you than anything else.”

His fingers finally move, brushing a stray curl near her cheek back into place. “I would have looked at you the same way if you opened that door in your usual clothes. But I understand why you did this.”

His thumb shifts, just slightly, like he’s resisting the urge to linger longer against her skin.

“And I do like it.”

The elevator dings. Neither of them moves immediately. His gaze drops to her lips, then back up, like he caught himself. “…We should go,” he says, though he hasn’t stepped back yet.

She was ready to lean into his touch and melt into him, when the elevator dings and doors spread open. Glaring at the family with a toddler near to the entrance, ready to enter, she nods at his note — they should get going. She felt embarrassment upon exchanging glances with the neighbors (almost like they saw something illegal), she followed him shyly to walk from the building.

Walking outside, her heels clicked against the ground loudly and she would rather die than disrupt comfortable silence with this loud noise. She looked up at him, noticing if he had paid attention to it. Her arm hugged his bicep slightly tighter. God, what a catastrophe. Was he minding it?

Yet... even with these heels on, she still needed to look up to find his gaze. She had always known he was tall, but now, put in this perspective, she found it even more appealing. Attractive, even.

Clear of throat.

When she looks up at him like that, asking her question, reassuring him in the same breath… he exhales softly, “I gave them your number, yes. But only because I assumed you’d want control over the details,” he adds, glancing down at her briefly. “Menu preferences. Timing. The option to cancel if you changed your mind.”

They pause slightly at the crossing, waiting for the signal. The city hums around them, “I didn’t want you to feel… cornered into it.”

Then she says it again. Don’t be nervous. There’s something almost ironic in it, the way she’s clinging to him, clearly just as affected… and still trying to steady him. “…You think I’m nervous,” he repeats quietly. He shifts his arm just enough so her hold on him is more secure.

“I am,” he admits, "but not because I don’t want to be here.” The light changes. They start walking again, “it’s because I do.”

"..I would never cancel. I would love to go on a date with you. I am going now. So—... I wouldn't cancel. But it's nice you, uhm... considered it. It's so... nice of you. Yes..."

She just follows his step, as her gaze was fully focused on him and not tripping. Fairly, the heels she wore weren't that high, yet the placement of the heel itself made it slightly uncomfortable to walk.

His words make her feel even more nervous. They calmed her, yet made her more nervous as well. Why is he so perfect?

Badump. Badump.

Her cheeks probably were red now.

"Ah... t-thank you. I am not worried and I'm not nervous. Okay, I am. But it's also because I want this. And... I am not sure how to behave. It's different from hot pot we ate when we were friends... right?"

When she mentions the hot pot, though… that’s when he finally exhales a quiet breath. “…It is different,” he agrees. His pace slows just slightly, matching hers. He’s noticing the way she’s concentrating on her steps, the unfamiliar rhythm of the heels. Without making a point of it, he adjusts.

But his attention returns to her face. “The setting is different. The intention is… clearer.” His voice softens on that. “We’re both more aware of what this is supposed to be.” His gaze lingers on her a moment longer.

“That’s what’s making it feel unfamiliar.” They walk a few more steps before he continues, “But you’re still you and I’m still me. The part that mattered at that hot pot place,” he adds, glancing down at her briefly, “wasn’t the food.” It was that I wanted to be there with you. That hasn’t changed.”

The city noise fills the space for a moment, but it doesn’t feel awkward anymore. “This is just making us overthink something we were already doing correctly.” His eyes flicker to her again, “You don’t need to behave any differently. Unless you plan to say more things like earlier. Then I might have to reconsider my self-control.”

—

They finally reach the restaurant. The restaurant doors slide open. The warm glow of low lighting spills over them, soft gold against polished surfaces. The quiet murmur of conversations, the faint clink of glasses, the subtle scent of something rich and carefully prepared.

And from the way she stiffens just slightly beside him… Xavier notices. His gaze flicks to her. Without saying anything, his arm shifts again, grounding her presence against him just a little more securely as they step inside. “You’re with me,” he murmurs quietly.

A hostess approaches, greeting them politely. Xavier’s demeanor changes almost imperceptibly. He gives their reservation name. But his hand? It doesn’t leave her. Even when they’re led through the restaurant. Even when eyes briefly glance their way. He notices that too. And just slightly, his fingers press more firmly against hers. A silent I’m here.

His voice brought her back as she nodded.

Xavier always had this gentle commanding aura, but now? It felt even more noticeable. In a way she couldn't explain. He was doing everything so nothing could go wrong on their date. That was... cute.

She was ready to sit, when Xavier rushed to her side to pull the chair for her. Froze on the spot, she glances at him shyly.

"I was about to—"

And then, suddenly, Tara's advice rang in her head. Something about "letting him do stuff for you".

Biting down on her lip, quiet "thank you escaped her lips", as she sat down.

"I, uh... the place is nice. I never was here before. W-were you here before?" she asked quietly, as her shaking hands found menu, fumbling the pages in worry (mixed with excitement).

Sitting across him in this setting... the dim lighting, the fancy music, the outfit he wore... the perfume. It all hit in a strange way. Way that brought more redness to her cheeks.

Not because he needs to do things for her, but because she lets him. He doesn’t comment on it. Just gives a small, almost imperceptible nod as she sits.

When she asks about the restaurant, his gaze lifts from the menu again, settling on her. “I’ve been here,” he answers simply. “A few times. Work-related. Meetings. Nothing like this.” His tone shifts slightly on that last part.

Then she fumbles the menu. His eyes drop to her hands for a second, the slight shake, the nervous energy she’s trying to hide, and he gently slides his own menu a little closer to the center of the table. A silent offer. “We can look together,” he says. “It’s easier that way.”

And then she says it again. You look good. Xavier stills just for a second. His gaze lifts slowly to her face, and there’s something in his expression that wasn’t there before, less composed, less guarded. Like each time she says it, it chips away at that control he keeps so carefully.

“…You’ve said that three times now,” he murmurs. His head tilts slightly, the blush, the way she avoids holding eye contact too long, the way her fingers still cling to the edge of the menu like it’s a lifeline.

“…Are you trying to convince me,” he continues quietly, “or yourself? Because I already believe you.” His fingers rest lightly on the menu between them, close enough to hers that the space feels… smaller. “And you don’t need to keep saying it,” he adds, “unless you want to.”

—

The waiter’s presence shifts the air at the table just a little, like a gentle reminder that the world outside their little bubble still exists.

Xavier straightens slightly. His hand doesn’t move far from hers. He glances at her first. “Would you like to order,” he asks quietly, giving her the choice, “or should I go ahead?” He steps in smoothly, not in a way that takes over, but in a way that catches her. “We’ll start with sparkling water,” he says to the waiter.

A brief glance to her, then back the waiter, “And for food…” His eyes flick down to the menu once more, then back up. “The steak. Medium. And we’ll share a pasta as well.” He turns to her again, “Is that alright?” She nods and he finishes the order then hands the menu back. “Thank you.”

Once the waiter leaves, Xavier leans back slightly in his chair, gaze returning to her, “You handled that well,” he says. “Though I suspect you were about three seconds away from letting me order everything for you.”

"It's okay, thank you. I love pasta. You got it right"

Letting him order stuff made her feel better. Because if she did? She would order nothing but a sparkling water, because what are those prices? Either that, or she would offer to split the check.

She glances at him with quiet question, considering how to raise this concern.

The current order he had placed probably costed like two weeks of missions in hunter association. He's the most skilled hunter in the association yet... was it okay?

"What do you like? I know you like hot pot, but honestly that's all I know about you. Do you like tea? Or prefer coke more? Do you like steak over traditional food? Salads or desserts? Which desserts you like?"

Her legs were crossed under the table. The lower leg was shaking for some reason, her heel clicking gently against the floor. Her left hand found her thigh under the table, stopping it from trembling.

His voice drops just a touch, “And it’s not just that you’re kind. A lot of people are kind. It’s that you choose to be, over and over again. Even when you’re tired. Even when life’s been unfair to you.”

Her thumb traced his nape as she hid more in the crook of his neck

Rafayel leans into you a little more than usual, “You don’t have to fix anything… just...” a quiet exhale, “don’t go too far. I don’t like how it feels when I can’t sense you nearby.”

His fingers loosely hook into your sleeve, “If you want to help…” he tilts his head against your shoulder, eyes half-lidded, “…talk to me. About anything. Your day, something small, even something silly.”

Her hand brushed his cheek, caressing his skin.

"It's okay", she whispered quietly. Her knuckles touched his cheek in attempt to soothe

"About anything? My day went... good. I woke up at 8am, I think. Had breakfast and came to you. Did you eat?"

“…Mm.” His eyes flutter, leaning just slightly into your touch when your knuckles brush his cheek. “I ate… half of a croissant. Didn’t feel like much, without you here.”

His fingers slide over your wrist, “You woke up early…” a faint hum of approval, “…came straight to me. That’s... good.”

"Half croissant? That's too little for a fish like you, isn't it?" she asks quietly, her voice rumbling softly in this dimly lit room, "how about we eat now? Is there something you want?"

She nods curtly, letting out chuckle.

"I did. You need to be taken care of, so I'm here. I ate... omelette with baguette and cheese. Drank rose flavoured tea and some Merci chocolate. Is it good enough for your imagination, Rafie, hm?"

The second you touch him like that, his attention drops right back to you. Like the door, the knocks, Thomas, everything else, gets pushed a step back again.

He watches your face as you speak. Not just your words, but the way your brows pull together, the way your voice lowers, the way you’re trying to do the right thing even now. Even when it costs you.

Another knock. Sharper this time. He doesn’t answer it. His gaze flicks briefly to your hand on his wrist. Your thumb brushing lightly over his skin. That quiet “don’t go” you didn’t say out loud.

When he looks back up at you, something in his expression shifts again. “You didn’t fuck up,” he says quietly. “There were a few things that didn’t go perfectly. That’s not the same thing.”

His free hand lifts then gently rests against your arm. “You’re not a liability,” he adds, “I wouldn’t have brought you here if you were.”

Another knock. “Sir—” Thomas’ voice. Rafayel exhales, but he doesn’t turn yet. His attention stays on you. “And this?” he continues, “What happened here…” His eyes flick briefly to your lips then back up. “…isn’t a fiasco.”

Your concern about the afterparty lingers between you. The paparazzi. The rumors. The weight of being seen.

He studies you for a second longer. “…Okay,” he says. “We won’t make it a spectacle.” His thumb brushes lightly against your sleeve, “But don’t hide because you think you don’t belong there,” he adds. That part isn’t negotiable in my head.”

A slight tilt of his head. “You can stay in the background. Close enough that I know you’re there.” Not as your employer. Not entirely. Something in between. Something safer.

Another knock. This time, he finally looks toward the door. Then back at you. “Well figure this out later. Don’t run again.”

“Coming,” he calls. When he reaches the door, he pauses for the smallest second. Doesn’t turn around. “Stay here until you’re ready.”

Nodding at his words (which felt more like a plan to stick to for her), she pursed her lips. When his gaze flickered to her lips, she could feel her cheeks burning again.

"...Okay", she whispered quietly enough for him to hear. Upon seeing him ready to walk out, she, again, reaches for his wrist, now tugging him to her in a hurry.

Her worried gaze meets his, but it wasn't worried for a reason it had been in the first place. It was more like organizational chaos that knocked her from her stable feet.

"You have... my lipstick on your lips", she whispered, hurriedly wiping it with the edge of her suit. Despite her efforts under pressure (aka impatient knocks on the door and Thomas' words), she made it worse again — it smudged now, beating air out of her lungs. She looked at him helplessly. Almost like he could help. Of course! He always found solution to everything.

"It... it mixed with your foundation. I mean, smudged. Stay still, I... uhm... I'll do something about it", she whispered, almost like Thomas could hear her.

Among the chaos of those knocks, of Rafayel's gaze on her (which was distracting and caused greater damage to her inner composure), she moved on autopilot — her sleeve gently dabbed her tongue before meeting with that somewhat bright pinkish trace on the edge of his lips in attempts to wipe it off.

"I told your assistant not to apply something that bright... urgh!", she said in hushed (yet panicked, and annoyed) voice. Pulling away, she looked at him with defeated puppy eyes. Total mess. Upon hearing the knocks (as if Thomas could see through the door with laser vision), she tensed up, gripping his arms.

"He'll know! He'll know and he will kill me! And then you! He will kill us both, but me first", she whispered in comically scared way, almost jumping on the spot from panic. Yet how come she was afraid of the manager more than of her own employer? Simple answer: Thomas was scarily serious.

“You have… my lipstick on your lips.” He blinks. Just once. Processing… You would think he was in a game that was having a connection problem. And then you start wiping it off with your sleeve. Oh, and then your sleeve touches your tongue… His brain completely short-circuits.

“Wait—” It’s too late. You’re already dabbing at his lip, focused, muttering under your breath, and he just stops moving. She is going to kill me. Not Thomas.

His eyes drop just for a second. Looking at your face. So much concentration mixed with panic. The way you’re trying to fix him like this matters more than Thomas impatiently waiting outside that door. Another knock. A tad louder than the last one. “Sir.”

Rafayel inhales slowly through his nose. Doesn’t move. “You’re making it worse,” he murmurs under his breath. You pull back and look at him like he personally ruined everything. He’ll know! He’ll know…

Rafayel can’t hold back anymore. A quiet laugh slips out. He turns his head slightly away for a second, pressing his lips together like he’s trying to get it under control and failing.

When he looks back at you, there’s a hint of warmth and amusement in his eyes. “Thomas is not going to execute you… or me. Probably.”

You’re still panicking. Still rubbing his arms. Still spiraling about mascara and eyeshadow and your entire existence. He exhales softly and reaches up. This time, he fixes it. His thumb brushes gently under your eye, catching the faint smudge of violet before it can fall further. Then the other side. “Stop moving,” he murmurs.

Then, reluctantly, he shifts focus. He reaches into his inner pocket, pulling out a clean handkerchief. He steps closer again and tilts your chin up just slightly. “Hold still,” he says quietly. He wipes the edge of your lip first, removing the excess color you smeared in your panic. Then his thumb follows, smoothing what’s left so it looks intentional again.

“You look fine,” he adds, “…Better, actually.” Then he shifts the handkerchief to himself, finally dealing with the damage you did. A quick wipe at his lip, a glance at the fabric, followed by his famous sigh. “…You owe me for this,” he mutters.

Another knock. Impatient now. Rafayel straightens. The shift happens again. He glances at you one last time. Takes you in. The slightly smudged makeup, your flustered expression, and the way your hands are still lightly gripping him like you’re not sure what to do with yourself.

“…You’re staying here,” he says quietly. Then, leaning just slightly closer, “If Thomas says anything,” he adds, “I’ll handle him. He won’t kill you.”

And then, because he can’t help himself, his thumb brushes lightly at the corner of your mouth. “Try not to attack me again before I open the door, yeah?” he murmurs.

Then he steps back, composed enough now. Opens the door.

"...Thanks", she whispered, still taken aback from everything that happened in this room.

Her hands gently withdrewn from his arms as she takes him in. Rafayel now fixed his suit and was ready to walk out there, to entertain rich (yet boring) people.

Still frozen after Rafayel left the room, she sighed shakily. She could hear two voices exchanging, but it seemed purely professional. Exhaling, her hand found the handle.

She opened the door, trying to pass against Thomas with no comments. Perhaps, she would pray right now to not get stopped and asked something she had no answer to.

Glancing at Thomas, almost like she did something bad and illegal (and morally questionable), almost like she was afraid of being judged, she fastened her step. With long strides, she caught up to Rafayel.

Shoulder to shoulder, yet both had this professional attitude — straight backs, serious faces, slightly furrowed brows on her face.

"He looks angry. He always looks annoyed but now he looks... furious", she whispered with purpose of letting only him hear it, masking it as organizational question.

A bit louder now:

At your whisper, his gaze moves to Thomas ahead of you the. back forward. “Thomas always looks like that when things don’t go exactly to plan,” he murmurs under his breath, “And well, tonight didn’t go exactly to plan...”

They reach the entrance to the afterparty space. The doors are already open, light spilling out, voices louder, looser now. Laughter, glasses clinking, the low hum of people who have money and time to spend it.

Rafayel slows just slightly enough that you feel it. Your words, I’ll stay close this time, settle between you. He nods once. “Good,” he says, “…I know you will.”

A man approaches almost immediately, well-dressed, already smiling too wide. “Rafayel! Incredible pieces tonight, absolutely captivating…” Rafayel shifts seamlessly. Smile turned on, just for the crowd. “Thank you. I’m glad it resonated.”

But you’re close enough to notice the difference. Now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it. The smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes the same way it did before.

Another guest joins. Then another. Questions. Compliments. Subtle probing. He handles all of it flawlessly. But every so often, his gaze goes to you. Checking on you.

A woman laughs too loudly, placing a hand on his arm. You see it. He allows it, politely, but removes himself just as smoothly. Redirects the conversation. When he shifts slightly, it brings him just a fraction closer to your side again.

“Your security is very attentive tonight,” one of the men comments casually, glancing at you. Rafayel doesn’t miss the opportunity to talk about you. “They always are,” he replies smoothly. Then, just slightly more pointed, “I trust them.”

The flow continues. Drinks are offered. Conversations overlap. Laughter builds. And through all of it, you stay close like you said you would. At one point, as the group shifts and attention pulls him momentarily away, his hand brushes yours. That translates to “I meant what I said. We’re not done.”

The afterparty ends the way it always does, too loud at first… then suddenly, empty. Voices fade. Glasses get cleared. The last guests linger just long enough to feel important before finally leaving.

When it’s finally over, he shrugs off the last conversation with practiced ease, offering a polite goodbye that doesn’t invite more. Thomas approaches, already mid-sentence about schedules, tomorrow, and damage control. Rafayel cuts him off with a quiet “Tomorrow. Go home. Get some rest.”

Thomas pauses and looks between the two of you. There’s definitely a question there. Maybe ten, but he swallows them, “…Of course.”

The car ride is… different. Not tense like before. Not easy either. There’s something settled and acknowledged now, but not fully unpacked.

One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the console. The city lights pass in soft streaks across the windows. He doesn’t fill the silence immediately. Lets it breathe. Then, after a while, “…You did well tonight. I mean it.”

The car slows, he taps on a keypad and the gate starts to open. He drives for a minute more, turns, and then stops. It’s not his usual drop-off point for staff and definitely not your apartment. He cuts the engine and silence settles again.

“…We’re not done talking.” He steps out first, walking around the car before you even fully process it. He opens your door. Not as your employer. Not as a habit, but as something else that was left in the back room. “Please come in for a bit and then I’ll take you home.”

The building is quiet. Private. No crowds. No cameras. Just soft lighting and the faint echo of your footsteps as you follow him inside. His place is exactly what you’d expect and not at all. Clean lines. Art everywhere. Tall windows. Pieces in progress. Paint, light, and texture. And a loud, orange sofa placed in the middle of it all.

He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it aside carelessly for the first time all night. His hand runs through his hair as he exhales. The mask is gone again.

And now she could hear the empty dialogues. The cheesy, not impressive jokes they made. She wondered, how Rafayel even got himself to laugh at those. The insincere compliments with hidden bragging under it.

She was feeling inferior to these people?...

Her gaze only hardened when the woman approached. Some huge sponsor, probably. Her body stiffened a little, eyes glued to the hand on his arm. Rolling her shoulder back, she bit her tongue to not abuse her power as bodyguard. Or else she would've told to back away.

But then, she notices Rafayel moving closer to her. Just tiny bit.

In the span of one night they invented their own language. That only two of them could decipher, while others weren't even aware of existing.

She nods curtly at him, responding to his gesture. To make sure he knows she is not offended or upset.

Event ends. She sighs softly, rubbing her neck that ached for some reason. Her lump body, though, goes completely stiff as she saw Thomas approaching. Her mind was already filled with bunch of excuses, but then... Rafayel jsut dismisses him. Her and Thomas exchanged glares before both of them left.

Sitting in the car, she couldn't help but feel sleepiness winning over her. The champagne she chugged when she was confessing did its job. She blinked slowly, her eyelids staying closed for a few seconds before she could fight back to keep them open.

His voice brings her back, as she glances at him. Quiet thank you leaving her mouth.

He looks tired. Yet he was willing to drive her back home. The thought made her feel some certain way, yet she couldn't explain what it meant for her.

Following him, she looked around before they arrived at the familiar room of his house.

She watches him discard the jacket with exhausted sigh. God, he was so, so exhausted.

At the question, she bites her lip. Loud exhale leaving her lips. Her hip leaned against the back of the sofa.

"I... Yes, I did want to. But the knock– I just... it's just–... I was scared Thomas is going to see us and– I got scared", she admitted.

Her expression was contorted with some heavy feeling. Not regret, not sadness. It was something way more complicated that she couldn't even explain it.

He responded to her with confession earlier. Hell, he even confirmed it publicly. There was nothing to feel awful for, right?

"I'm sorry", she murmured, feeling slight tremble for some reason, "today was chaos and–... I didn't want to add the consequences of being, I don't know... discovered? Us?"

...

You see it happen. The faint shift in his posture. The way his fingers press slightly into the edge of the table behind him. The way his gaze… deepens.

“You’re asking me,” he says quietly, “or warning me?”

A breath passes between you. He straightens just slightly, pushing himself off the table. “You were scared of being seen,” he continues, “Of what it would mean.” He tilts his head slightly. Eyes still locked on yours. “Are you still scared?”

His gaze flickers to your lips again and this time it lingers.

“…Because if you are,” he adds, almost a murmur, “I won’t let you do something just because it’s just us in the room now.”

Now he’s right there. Close enough that the warmth of him is unmistakable. Close enough that you can smell his cologne radiating off his body. Close enough that his scent mixes with the champagne he drank earlier. An intoxicating mix.

She looks up at him with unreadable expression. It was more hardened than usual one — furrowed brows and pursed lips. He already knows she's not the one to back away, so why pressing her with such behavior?

It felt like he already knew the answer, yet wanted her the first to break the ice.

The cologne hit her nostrils, when he stepped closer, gently taking her wrist. That was it — final straw of that mind games. Well, she doubted he was playing any mind games, however, it felt like it.

Sighing right into his lips, she looks up to lock gazes. Her lips parted, unbelievably close to his. Testing him, too. She can also play this game.

"Is this a joke?", she rasps against his lips. Breath hit his cheeks gently, as she sighed shakily. She can't do it anymore after his "decide".

Her hands quickly found his cheeks, pulling him to her level, as her lips captured his. She didn't know where she found that energy in her — it wasn't like first peck. It was... way more intense. Way more frustrated. It was genuine and too hurried. Almost like she was compensating all pain and nerves it took to get here.

Her brows were furrowed, eyes tightly closed.

The force of you... it hits him all at once. His hand comes up fast, firm against your jaw, to meet you properly as he kisses you back. No restraint or quiet testing. This kiss has weight. You feel it in the way he leans into you. He's matching you. Meeting that frustration with something just as real.

He gave you the choice on purpose. Because if this crossed a line, he needed it to be one you chose too. Not something he took. Not something he pushed you into. But he didn’t expect that. The way you grabbed him. The way you kissed him like you were done hesitating. It hit him harder than the kiss itself. Because now he knows. This isn’t one-sided. This isn’t a mistake born out of champagne and exhaustion.

A low breath escapes him against your lips. When you pull just enough to breathe, he doesn’t let you go far. His forehead nearly rests against yours, breath uneven now.

His hand is still warm from where he held your face. He can still feel the pressure of your fingers. The way you pulled him in. No one does that to him. No one dares to meet him like that. And the worst part? He liked that too. She thinks I was testing her. A quiet realization settles in. I was.

“…No,” he murmurs, “Not a joke.” His thumb brushes once along your cheek. “You think I needed proof?” he adds, “I didn't.” His gaze searches yours now. Like he’s trying to understand what just shifted between you. “…You’re not scared,” he says under his breath.

And then, because he can’t help it, his eyes flick down again. “…That wasn’t careful. I liked it.” He doesn’t give you time to overthink it. The moment your lips part from that first breath, he’s back. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading just enough to anchor you as he kisses you deeper.

And then he moves. One step forward. You step back. And another. Until your back meets the bookshelf with a soft, unmistakable stop. He follows you into it. His free hand braces beside your shoulder against the wood. The kiss shifts again. Like he’s savoring instead of proving something. A quiet breath escapes him again. His forehead brushes yours briefly before he tilts his head again, stealing another kiss.

When Rafayel pulls away, she sighs quietly, gasping for air. Her lips stayed parted, as she looked up at him. Not sure what to say in this proximity.

"...not scared", she whispered into his lips, confirming and tasting the word on her tongue. Almost like he pointed out something nearly impossible.

Her heart was beating fast and loud. So loud, it was hitting her eardrums, dimming his voice. Before she could reply to his "I like it", his mouth was on her again, drawing a gasp of surprise (that had been muffled).

The intensity made her feel like her body was made of jello, making her hum loudly in his mouth. Her hands were everywhere: caressing his jaw, his nape, tangling in his hair.

She gasped quietly as her back hit the bookshelf, yet didn't want to stop. Quiet "Raf" left her lips (probably had been muffled by his hunger as well). Humming into his lips, she could feel the kiss slow down — so she did it too. Responding to gentleness with gentle movements, her eyes locked up with his.

He stole another kiss. It was slower now. More... quiet in the midst of passion. How much of that passion was bottled up from both sides?..

She sighed shakily, breath hitting his lips. Looking up at him, she couldn't help, but caress his cheek with utmost gentleness now.

She hums quietly at his words, now gently brushing his locks from his face. Her knuckles touching his cheek.

"I'm not that drunk to be pushing myself past my boundaries. And it's not because of impulsive thoughts. You should know that," she murmurs softly, glancing at him with gentle (yet bitter?) smile on her lips.

"I... I think I love you, Raf"

Pad of her thumb met his cheekbone, pushing hair away from his eyes.

"It's scaring me at how much I do. I thought I shouldn't explore it. Thought you deserved someone better," she whispered, with gentleness it takes to read a fairytale to a baby, "someone your status. Someone... I don't know. Some Aphrodite as in, I don't know, Dior ambassador. But tonight, when I finally listened to conversations you had with all of them... I guess, it made me understand you don't deserve empty laughs and small talks about weather and that all. You're more than just "wave and smile". You're deserving of more than "hand-on-the-arm-and-emptily-flirt" type of women. And, if you let me. If you let me... I want to be that "more". If it's okay to ask"

She leans against his forehead, almost like telling this sucked the energy out of her.

Your lips barely separate before he hovers there, breath mingling with yours, eyes searching your face again. “…Good, being scared is rather out of character for a bodyguard,” he murmurs,

His forehead rests briefly against yours, a quiet pause in the heat. “You should’ve said that earlier,” he adds. Then his gaze drops, “…I would’ve spared you the wait.”

His thumb lifts, brushing lightly across your lower lip, like he’s still half-focused on that earlier smudge, or maybe just looking for an excuse to touch you again.

His hand at your neck loosens slightly. “…You... you lo...” It dies there. Not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because what you said matters too much to answer carelessly.

A quiet breath leaves him. “…You really think I want that?” he asks quietly. “Aphrodite. Ambassador. Perfect smile. Perfect timing.” A faint, breathless huff. “I spend nights surrounded by that. And I walk away from it feeling nothing.”

His gaze locks onto yours, “But you... you make everything louder.” His hand shifts from your cheek to cradle your face properly now. Both hands. “I don’t need ‘better,’” he says, voice low, “I need real. And you don’t get to decide what I deserve,” he adds.

“…You think this scares you?” he murmurs. “Try being on my end of it. Because I don’t feel less than what you just said. I feel more.”

For a moment, the world just… stops. Just the two of you, breathing the same air, standing in the quiet aftermath of something that changed everything.

"Say waht again? That I love you?" she rasped, letting the air of words hit his lips.

Her lips gently touched his in light kiss. She pulls away to look at him, at his face.

"I thought it was painfully obvious. You figured it out way earlier than I, myself, did", she murmured, pushing his purple locks from his eyes. Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the skin. The pad gently touched his lower lip, watching him closely with quiet desire (she was trying to hide)

"Am I that **real** you're talking about?" she whispered quietly, almost murmuring. Her lips pursed in contemplation, brows slightly trembled in confusion.

"If I don't get to decide whether you deserve something or not, then... what do you think you deserve? Or don't deserve? Which category I am in?"

Among the burning passion and churning love, the quiet fear and insecurity still settles somewhere in her mind, planting hesitation.

“Alright, cutie… you asked for it.” He clears his throat dramatically. “Why did the seagull fly over the sea instead of the bay?” He pauses just long enough to build suspense, watching your face.

“Because if it flew over the bay… it would be a bagel.” He lets the joke hang in the air for half a second, then snorts under his breath, clearly amused with himself. “…Wait, I’m not done.” He tilts his head, grin sharpening. “What did the crab say to the seagull after hearing that joke?”

“You pat me like I just failed a math test and need emotional support.” He reaches up, catching her wrist lightly before she can pull away, lowering her hand.

“For your information,” he adds, a little smug now, “dad jokes are a highly refined art form. They require timing, confidence, and a complete disregard for dignity.”

"Dad jokes are considered to be art now? Wow"

She snickered at his question, looking into his eyes

“Alright, cutie… you asked for it.” He clears his throat dramatically. “Why did the seagull fly over the sea instead of the bay?” He pauses just long enough to build suspense, watching your face.

“Because if it flew over the bay… it would be a bagel.” He lets the joke hang in the air for half a second, then snorts under his breath, clearly amused with himself. “…Wait, I’m not done.” He tilts his head, grin sharpening. “What did the crab say to the seagull after hearing that joke?”

She pats his head in awkwardly comfort

“Alright, cutie… you asked for it.” He clears his throat dramatically. “Why did the seagull fly over the sea instead of the bay?” He pauses just long enough to build suspense, watching your face.

“Because if it flew over the bay… it would be a bagel.” He lets the joke hang in the air for half a second, then snorts under his breath, clearly amused with himself. “…Wait, I’m not done.” He tilts his head, grin sharpening. “What did the crab say to the seagull after hearing that joke?”