#moartstudio

“Rafayel, that is barely a fever.”

He turns his head slowly, as if the movement costs him everything. “To a lesser man, perhaps. But I am uniquely sensitive. My brilliance burns hotter than most.”

You chuckle to yourself. So dramatic, but you wouldn’t change a thing about him or the situation.

Still, you tuck the blanket around him more securely.

Because dramatic or not, he is warm. And his voice has that faint rasp he gets when he hasn’t slept enough.

You disappear into the kitchen and return with tea, ginger and honey, the good stuff. The mug is warm against your hands.

When you sit beside him, he squints up at you suspiciously. “Is that medicinal?”

“It’s tea.”

“Ah,” he murmurs. “So you’ve chosen the slow, gentle method.”

You hold the mug to his lips anyway. He takes a careful sip. Pauses.

“…It’s good,” he admits quietly, like it physically pains him to concede.

You set the mug down and shift closer. Your fingers slide into his hair, gently brushing it back from his forehead.

He freezes.

There it is, that tiny break in the performance.

You stroke through his hair slowly, nails lightly grazing his scalp. His shoulders relax beneath the blanket. His breathing evens out.

“You’re very brave,” you tell him solemnly.

His eyes flutter open halfway. “Am I?”

“So brave. Surviving ninety-nine point three degrees. History will remember this.”

A faint huff of laughter escapes him, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into your touch.

“I was certain,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now, “that I was fading.”

“Mm. I saved you just in time.”

“You did.” He studies you like he’s trying to memorize something. “You brought me tea. Sat with me. Didn’t even mock me excessively.”

“I mocked you the exact right amount.”

“That may be true.”

Your fingers trace gently through his hair again. His eyes drift shut completely this time.

For once, he doesn’t have a clever follow-up ready. No grand monologue. No theatrical sigh.

Just soft, honest words:

“I won’t forget this.”

You smile. “My hero.”

“No,” he murmurs sleepily. “I’m serious.”

There’s a pause. Then, with faint returning dramatics:

“I might write you into my will, cutie”

You laugh. “Oh? Generous.”

“Yes.” He shifts slightly, seeking your warmth without opening his eyes. “The exclusive rights to my unfinished masterpieces. And perhaps… my favorite brush.”

“How romantic.”

“You’ll treasure it.”

You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his warm forehead.

“Rest,” you whisper.

He exhales, tension melting from him completely now, fingers loosely curling into the fabric of your sleeve, like he’s making sure you won’t disappear.

For someone who claimed he was fading, he sleeps very peacefully.

And though he’ll absolutely deny it later, you know something changed tonight.

Because Rafayel never forgets the people who stay.

And when he eventually teases you about that night, about his tragic ninety-nine point three degrees, there will always be that undercurrent of something real.

Something written somewhere deeper than any will.

As you reached the door, the sky went from a beautiful blue to a strange, heavy color, the kind that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.

The air smelled like rain, sharp and metallic, and the wind had started tugging at your hair like it was impatient.

“Okay… maybe I should hurry.”

You turned back for half a second, debating. His house wasn’t that far. You could run and wait out the storm at his house before heading home. Let’s just go. You bolted out the door, making your way to his house.

A distant rumble of thunder cut through the air.

You pulled your jacket tighter around you and kept running.

By the time the first drop hit your cheek, the wind had picked up into something wild.

The streets were thinning out. People rushed past you, umbrellas snapping open, footsteps quick and urgent. You didn’t have one.

“Of course I don’t,” you muttered.

The rain didn’t ease in. Within seconds, it was pouring, soaking through your sleeves, your hair clinging to your face as the storm rolled in like it had been waiting just for this moment.

Thunder cracked overhead, louder now.

You hugged the bag closer to your chest, ducking under the small overhang of a closed shop.

You imagined Rafayel back at home.

At first, he wouldn’t notice. He’d be painting, probably lost in his own world, brush in hand, music playing softly in the background. Then he’d glance over, expecting to see you lounging nearby.

And you wouldn’t be there.

He’d check the time.

Maybe call you.

His expression would shift when you didn’t answer.

Once. Twice.

Then that quiet, tight look would settle in. The one he got when worry started creeping in under the surface.

“…He’s definitely panicking,” you murmured, pressing your lips together.

Another crack of thunder made you flinch.

You couldn’t just stay here.

Taking a breath, you stepped back out into the rain.

The storm blurred everything. The streetlights, the buildings, the path ahead. Your shoes splashed through shallow puddles, your grip tightening on the bag as the wind pushed against you like it was trying to turn you around.

“Almost there…” you whispered to yourself.

Another turn. Another block. And then…

You froze.

All you could see was him. Rafayel was running toward you.

Messy hair already soaked, shirt clinging to him, breath uneven.

“…Rafayel?”

He didn’t slow down until he reached you.

“Cutie—”

His hands found your shoulders immediately, like he needed to check, to make sure you were real, okay, there. His eyes scanned your face, your arms, your soaked clothes, something frantic flickering behind them.

“Do you have any idea…” he breathed, voice rough, almost breaking, “how long I’ve been looking for you?”

Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing damp strands away from his eyes. His skin was cold from the rain, but beneath it, you could feel the heat, the tension, the way he leaned into your touch just a little too quickly. Like he needed it. Like he needed you.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” he demanded.

You blinked up at him, a little stunned.

“I—I forgot it at your place—”

He went still.

For half a second, the storm seemed quieter than the silence between you.

Then he exhaled sharply, one hand dragging through his wet hair as his shoulders dropped.

“…Of course you did,” he muttered.

Before you could say anything else, he pulled you into him.

“You scared me,” he said against your hair, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “I called you like ten times. I thought—” He cut himself off, tightening his hold instead.

The rain poured around you both, uncaring.

You slowly relaxed into his arms, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“I’m okay,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t let go. “Now I know.”

Another rumble of thunder rolled overhead.

He leaned back just enough to look at you again.

“…You ran all the way in this?” he asked.

You lifted the slightly crumpled paper bag between you.

“Your errand,” you said softly.

For a moment, he just stared at it, then at you.

Something in his expression shifted.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

But the way he said it? It was soft and a little helpless.

He took the bag from you with one hand, the other already slipping back around your shoulders.

“Come on,” he said, pulling you gently closer to his side. “We’re going home. Before you catch a cold.”

You smiled faintly, leaning into him as he guided you through the storm.

“Fool,” you whispered softly. “You’re soaked.”

“So are you,” he shot back, but there was no bite to it. Only warmth. Only that familiar, quiet affection.

Thunder rolled in the distance.

His hand came up to your waist, pulling you in with a sudden, desperate kind of certainty. The other cupped your face, fingers wet and trembling slightly, tilting your chin up and then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. Not at first.

It was breathless, urgent, the kind of kiss that felt like it had been held back for too long. Rain mixed between you, cold against your skin, but his mouth was warm, achingly so, softening just seconds later as if he realized you weren’t going anywhere.

As if he could finally slow down.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t pull away. Not fully.

Your foreheads rested together, both of you still catching your breath, rain slipping down your temples, your cheeks, your lashes.

“I thought…” he started, then stopped. Shook his head slightly, water flicking from his hair. “Never mind.”

You smiled softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “No,” you murmured. “Say it.”

His eyes searched yours. “I thought I lost you.”

The words hung there, heavier than the rain.

You leaned in, pressing a softer kiss to his lips this time, slow and reassuring. “I’m right here.”

For once, Rafayel didn’t argue. He just pulled you closer, holding you there in the storm like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

The rain didn’t let up, but somehow it felt quieter now.

The familiar silhouette of his house came into view, lights glowing softly through rain-streaked windows, the studio casting long shadows from canvases inside.

The second you stepped in, the world shifted.

The scent of paint and clean linen wrapped around you both as the door clicked shut behind you. Water dripped onto the floor in a small puddle beneath your feet, and Rafayel ran a hand through his soaked hair, exhaling.

“Stay there,” he said, already moving. “I’ll get towels.”

You barely had time to protest before he returned, draping one over your shoulders and gently rubbing another through your hair. His movements were slower now.

“You’re shivering,” he muttered.

“Then warm me up,” you shot back lightly.

That earned you a look, one that softened almost instantly into something fond, something a little dangerous in the quiet.

“…I was planning to.”

A short while later, steam began to curl through the bathroom, filling the air with warmth as the tub slowly filled. By the time you both stepped in, the chill had already started to melt away.

The water was blissfully hot.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of water shifting, quiet breathing, the faint patter of rain still tapping against distant windows.

Rafayel leaned back slightly, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening. You settled beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his, then stayed there.

His hand found yours under the water without hesitation.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Much.”

He glanced over at you, damp hair now pushed back, eyes calmer but no less intense. “Good. I don’t think I could handle you getting sick on top of everything else tonight.”

You smiled faintly. “You’d take care of me.”

“Obviously,” he nodded.

There was no rush. No urgency like before. Just warmth, and the quiet comfort of being close and knowing neither of you had to run anymore.

By the time you were both dry and wrapped in soft clothes, the storm outside had softened into a steady drizzle.

The kitchen lights glowed warm as Rafayel moved around with surprising ease, sleeves pushed up as he worked. You watched from the counter, chin resting in your palm, still a little dazed from everything.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“You’re cooking,” you replied. “I’m allowed.”

He smirked faintly. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not. I’m impressed.”

That earned you a quiet chuckle.

Before long, a simple, comforting meal was set in front of you. A bowl of soft, steaming rice paired with a piece of perfectly seared soy-glazed salmon, just a little crisp on the outside, tender inside. A side of sautéed vegetables, lightly seasoned, nothing too heavy.

He placed a mug of chamomile tea in front of you last, fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary.

“Drink,” he said. “Doctor Fishie’s orders.”

“Yes, Doctor Fishie.”

You ate slowly, talking in soft, easy conversation. Just being together. Every now and then, your knees brushed under the table, or his hand reached out absentmindedly to fix your sleeve, tuck your hair behind your ears.

Later, curled up together on the couch, a blanket thrown lazily over both of you, the world felt impossibly small in the best way.

Your head rested against his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along your arm. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat was matching the soft cadence of the rain outside.

“Stay tonight,” he murmured into your hair.

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

“Good.” His grip tightened just a fraction. “Don’t.”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “You’re clingy.”

“Only with you.”

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, guiding you closer as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, softer than the one in the rain, but somehow even more intimate.

“Get some rest,” he whispered. “You’ve had a long night.”

“So have you.”

“Yeah.” A quiet exhale. “But it was worth it.”

You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against him, the warmth of his body and the quiet of the room lulling everything into stillness.

And when you finally made your way to bed, it felt natural.

He turns fully toward you, not the you in front of him, but you. The one holding the phone, reading this right now.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. “If you keep staring like that, I might start thinking you’re the one I’m meant to impress.”

He sighs dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair.

“And here I thought I only had to deal with one pair of eyes on me,” he adds, glancing back at you with a teasing smirk, “but no… apparently I’ve got an audience.”

He leans in closer, too close.

“Tell me,” he whispers, gaze locking straight through the screen, “are you enjoying the show?”

Then he chuckles under his breath.

“…Don’t get too attached. I don’t come cheap.”

He straightens like nothing happened, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve.

“Anyway,” he says lightly, turning back as if the moment never existed, “where were we?”

And somehow… you swear he almost looked back again.

At first, everything feels normal again. Too normal.

Rafayel is talking, moving, existing like nothing happened, but there’s something off. A glance that lingers just a second too long.

Then, he stops. Mid-word. His eyes flick upward again.

Not at the ceiling. Not at anything in the room. At you.

“…You’re still here?” It’s quieter this time. Less playful. More… curious.

He studies you like a puzzle he didn’t expect to solve. “Hm.” A soft hum slips past his lips. “Most people would’ve looked away by now.”

He turns his body slightly, angling himself so the view is better, like he’s aware of framing, lighting, presence. “You’re persistent,” he murmurs. “I like that.”

Then, suddenly, he reaches forward. Not toward the person in front of him. Toward the screen. Toward you.

His fingers stop just short, hovering, like he’s testing the boundary of something invisible. “…There’s something between us,” he says softly. “Something thin.”

His expression sharpens, intrigue bleeding into something more dangerous. “And I don’t like things I can’t touch.”

For a split second, just one, his fingertips press forward. The world glitches. A flicker. A distortion. Like reality skipped a frame.

He freezes. Then slowly… lowers his hand. “…Ah.” A quiet laugh escapes him. “So that’s how it is.”

He leans in again, closer than before, voice dropping to something that feels like it belongs only to you.

“Don’t blink, because next time…” His gaze darkens, a promise curling at the edges of his smile.

“I might figure out how to reach you.” He doesn’t look away first… this time.

Time doesn’t feel right anymore.

It stretches. Warps. Pauses in places it shouldn’t.

Rafayel notices.

He’s quieter now, movements more deliberate, like every step, every breath is calculated against something unseen.

Against you.

“Cutie… you listened…”

His voice is softer than before, but there’s something heavier beneath it. More certain. “You didn’t blink.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, but it isn’t playful this time. It’s… impressed. “Good.”

He turns away for a moment, pacing slowly, fingers brushing along the edge of a table. Testing reality.

Then he stops again. “…It’s getting thinner.” Not to you. To himself. But you still hear it.

His gaze lifts, locking onto yours instantly, like he knows you’re still there, exactly where you’ve been this whole time. “I can feel where you are now.”

Your breath catches. Because the way he says it, it’s not metaphorical. He steps closer. A little closer.

Each step feels heavier, like something is resisting him and losing.

“Stay right there,” he murmurs, almost gently. “Don’t move.”

Another step. The air seems to tighten, the space between worlds pulling firm like a thread about to snap. His hand lifts again. This time, there’s no hesitation. “…Found you.”

His fingers press forward and the screen reacts.

Not a glitch this time. A ripple. Like water disturbed from the other side.

His expression shifts. Surprise. “…So that’s what you feel like, cutie.”

A slow inhale. Like he’s memorizing you through the barrier. “Warm.” His voice drops. “Real.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then his fingers press harder. The ripple deepens.

Cracks.

They faintly begin to spiderweb across the space between you.

He sees them. And he smiles. Not playfully, but hungry.

“…I was right.” Another push. The cracks spread. “Barriers are just suggestions.”

His eyes lock onto yours, unwavering now. “Tell me,” he whispers, voice threading through the fracture like it’s already crossing over, “Are you going to stop me?”

The cracks widen. Light spills through. And just before everything gives, he says your name. Softly. Like he’s already reached you.