watching your eyes spark over lace decals, silk ribbons, and the delicate treasures on your endless list is another second he must pretend it isn’t breaking him apart.

he does his best to wear that well-rehearsed smile. he nods at the right moments, offers a gentle chuckle when needed, and sometimes tilts his head with mock seriousness as you hold up two swatches of lace, asking which belongs on the gift table and which should be saved for the dessert display.

“this one?” you ask, lifting the first piece. then the second. “or this one?” 

the colors might seem identical to weak human eyes, but to yours and his lemurian ones, the difference is quite obvious.

he taps his finger against his chin, brows furrowed as if the choice were a matter of life or death.

"the softer one,” he finally says. “it fits better."

your head tilts, eyes darting between the two fabrics, and after a moment, you nod as though he’s just shared some artistic wisdom. 

“of course. why didn’t i see it.”  

he likes this. 

likes how easily you trust him with things like this. with the details and the decisions, with the small, precious fragments of a future you’re unfortunately building with someone else. 

and rafayel has become alarmingly skilled at standing beside you, pretending that it’s not tearing something from him.

he doesn’t think this could ever compare to his previous tragedies. this one—this one is somehow worse.

you never notice his grip tightening on the basket when you mention ceremonial florals and you miss the way his smile wavers when you talk about the first dance or your chosen song. oh, and he forces his gaze to find the window, searching for solace in the distant ocean just outside.

all of this, and you never notice. 

or he’s simply has gotten better at hiding it. 

he likes to think it’s the latter. 

by the end of the day, your arms are full and your mood is somehow brighter. rafayel follows you back to your apartment just a few stops from the shops with bags of supplies balanced between his hands. 

you unlock the door and step inside, already moving. 

he unloads everything onto the dining table, exhaling softly as his fingers hover over the handles a moment too long. the day’s tension finally beginning to unravel from his chest.

you, on the other hand, don’t stop. 

you dive into the bags, sorting ribbons from glassware, candles from strands, your hands moving with practiced purpose as you tuck each item into neatly labeled boxes for the venue.

and rafayel just watches, silently. 

his eyes track your every step as you orbit the kitchen, words tumbling out, arms full, carrying more than you ever let on.

“the coordinator was impossible,” you say, barely pausing long enough to breathe. “she kept insisting ivory linens instead of white. can you believe the audacity?” 

he let’s out a quiet huff, something akin to amusement. 

“just unforgivable.” 

you grin at him from across the table, missing the way his voice dips at the edges. 

“and don’t even get me started on the seamstress,” you continue on, moving back to the table to grab another glass container. “she said the pearls detailing my veil might be too heavy, but i told her-” 

“you’ll make it work,” he finishes for you, a little quieter this time. “you always do.” 

you pause for a heartbeat, hand lingering on the glass, only noticing too late how your lips betray you with a small, upward curl.

“yeah. i guess you’re right.” 

a veil decorated full of pearls. 

rafayel almost laughs at the cruelty of it. 

lifetimes ago, your tears had turned into them before they could touch the ground. lifetimes ago, he watched you hold yourself together in that sacred temple while he walked out with someone else’s hand in his. 

now you stand in front of him, complaining about pearls sewn into a wedding veil, unaware that the idea alone is enough to tear him open. 

he can’t even gather his thoughts as the image of you in a dress made just for you flickers through his mind.

and just picturing you draped in white, adorned with touches from your homeland, traditions woven from your memories and those of lemurians who now share the surface world.

he says nothing. 

he only watches the way your eyes continue to glow with excitement as you speak, your hands moving through the air as you explain every detail. 

you move so easily within a future that leaves no space for him, at least, not in the way he aches for.

then a thought occurs. dangerous and alarming. 

he could stop this. 

would he stop this? 

he could ruin it all? 

would he ruin it all? 

the thought returns. a repeating one that has never left him since that day.

he could tell you that this is the lifetime where you’re supposed to get it right. that he remembers every version of you, and he knows no amount of apologies could ever amount to how much he’s missed all this e versions of you—how much he regrets allowing you to love him silently from the sidelines while he obliviously chased after something doomed from the start.

he knows crossing heaven, sea, and earth for her before was no issue, and he swears he’d it again, but just for you, if you asked. 

and he can tell you his soul, his bond, every piece of himself that sill knows how to worship, belongs to you, and only you. 

these thoughts are too selfish...

worse than that, they’re unfair. 

because he didn’t deserve you then, and he doesn’t deserve you now. 

...

yet a selfish, terrible part of him aches to demand ruin to everything anyway.

he wants to say the words that would finally make you see him as you once did. he wants to be cruel enough to ask if the promise you made to him truly means nothing compared to the vows you’re about to makes to someone else. 

he almost says something. 

“...rafayel?

he blinks, and his thoughts shatters.

you’re turning back from the counter, two familiar envelopes gathered in your hand.

“i was asking if you wouldn’t mind delivering talia and mira’s invitations.” your voice softens, almost hesitant. “i know you mentioned something about visiting talia later, and i’m sure mira will be at her show, so if you could–”

“of course i can.” 

he doesn’t hesitate, not with the way the forced answer leaves him too easily. 

he smiles before you can feel guilty for asking, reaching out to take the invitations from your hand.

it’s familiar beneath his fingers. more specifically, the seashell motifs and the pale blue ribbon. the careful, delicate lettering. 

it is the same kind he held weeks ago in his studio, the same that curled into ash between his fingers as thunder echoed in his ears.

this time, he can’t even think of burning it, not with you standing right in front of him.

this time, he tucks them safely away, only because you asked him to. 

and lately, that alone is enough to unravel him completely.

in the weeks that follow, rafayel learns the shape of your absence through the glow of text messages.

he learns you are always somewhere: linkon, skyhaven, chansia, whitesand. the bakery, the tailor, the venue, the florists, the apartment, back to the venue again because someone forgot to confirm the delivery window and, apparently, humans require endless confirmation for everything.

unlike before, you now find solace in complaining to him more often.

you always call him in the late afternoons, when the sun is already setting and damien texts to say he will be home late because of a new intern's mistake.

you complain about the linens and the seating chart and about damien’s relatives who’ll be arriving at least a week before the wedding. about the dance instructor who keeps rudely correcting your posture but never damien’s, and the seamstress who still thinks the pearls are still too heavy, and frankly too much to go with your dress. 

and every time you send another message, every time he swipes right to your call asking if he is free, every time you say, “raf, i need a small favor,” he answers.

he always answers, telling himself it’s because you need help, and he’s the only one who can give it.

because you’re tired. because you’re basically carrying the entire creation of your wedding on your own. because you insist on working yourself to the bone with work and doing all this, because you’re skipping meals and your sleep schedule is all skewed. 

he tells himself he’s easing your burdens. 

but rafayel knows better. 

the selfish truth is that by offering his help, by dropping everything, by making himself available, it’s become his only excuse to stay close to you.

every errand is a borrowed moment. every box he carries is another reason to walk beside you. every ribbon he ties, every invitation he delivers, every opinion he gives about table runners and desserts becomes proof that you still reach for him when the world overwhelms you.

he is someone you trust, someone you need. someone who once depended on you for a millennium. and now, here he is, returning the favor.

and because rafayel is greedy, just as he is stubborn, and has been since his first life—since he was the god of tides—and has spent too many lifetimes almost having you, he takes whatever you are willing to give and receive.

and in those moments, when you’re not looking, too distracted by the hundreds of other things running wild through your mind and checklist, he lets himself pretend.

he pretends the wedding is something you’re preparing together.

that when you say, “we need to decide on the centerpieces,” the we means something more. so much more.

that when you ask if the pearls have become too much trouble and if you should settle for something simple and sincere, you’re asking because he’s the one who’ll see you wearing the veil first.

it’s cruel and a little pathetic, but it’s almost enough.

almost. 

but not quite. 

rafayel is really starting to despise that word. 

it’s exactly one week before the wedding when you arrive at his beachside studio, knocking three times on the door, a wagon behind you stacked full of tall glass cylinders. 

you’re breathless, hair tousled by the swirling breeze, and you smile as if you already know he could never turn you away.

he’d have to be out of his damn mind to refuse you.

he swings the door open wider, leans against the frame with a theatrical sigh, sunset eyes drifting down to your wagon.

“well...look what the tide dragged in.” 

you roll your eyes.

“yeah, yeah. so are you going to help me or just insult my centerpiece transport system?” 

“both, obviously.” 

you fight back a smile, but he catches it anyway.

for the first time in days, the ache in his chest softens into something bearably gentle.

the first hour passes by easily, just like it always does when he’s with you. 

there’s something simple and easy about the way you two fall into rhythm, sitting cross-legged on his studio floor, sleeves rolled up, supplies in neat little piles, your tongue poking out in concentration as you try to coax the ribbon ends to behave just like the youtube tutorial promised.

outside, the ocean breathes against the shore. inside, bach’s well-tempered clavier hums softly in the background. one of rafayel’s favorites. and for now, everything feels peaceful.

but you on the other hand, are squinting down at your phone, attempting and failing to follow a new tutorial on tying the ribbon around the glass. 

rafayel pauses, letting his gaze linger on your focused face a moment too long before forcing his attention back to the ribbon in your hands.

he clears his throat, but you don’t look up. 

“yes, rafayel?” 

he leans a bit closer. 

“you’re tying that wrong,” he says. 

you raise your eyes to peer at him. “no i’m not.” 

“yes, you are.”

he lets out a soft huff, already moving to reach over, and his fingers brush over yours as he takes the ribbon from you. 

“look,” his voice soft. “like this. you gotta loop it here, and then pull this side under. see? easy peasy.” 

for an artist, he’s always been skilled with his hands. too skilled maybe. his fingers glide over yours, adjusting and guiding, fixing what you stubbornly claim isn’t broken. when he’s done, he takes the glue gun and presses the bow perfectly onto the glass.

done. finished. easy as that.

you stare at it, amazed. 

then you look at him, and before you can stop yourself, your lips form a pout.

he can’t help himself. your adorable actions makes him fight back a laugh.

“i feel like you should’ve been the one doing the tying while i glued.” you say. 

“that would've been the better plan, yeah.” 

“then why didn’t you say anything earlier?” you bite back. 

“because you looked so cute in your determination. who was i to crush your indomitable spirit?” 

you glare at him, but it doesn’t last long. not when he chuckles this time and takes the remaining pieces of ribbons you had already pre-cut, already moving to tie each one expertly. 

and for the next forty minutes or so, you spend the rest of the time gluing them down, nodding when a centerpiece is finally completed, decorated just like you envisioned, and placing it carefully to the side. 

he can’t take his eyes off you. 

not even when a bead of hot glue slides dangerously close to your thumb, making him murmur your name in warning before you notice.

even now, after everything, you’re still pretending you don’t need help.

but once you accept it, everything becomes so much easier for you. he wishes you could see that. 

and he wishes he could tell you without it sounding like he’s asking you to need him more. 

time drifts on, each minute quietly slipping away, and as he finishes one centerpiece and starts another, he notices how your words fill the room more than usual tonight.

or perhaps he’s simply listening more carefully, taking in all the details you’ve shared over the past few weeks—the last things needed, the finishing touches, and damien’s insufferable mother with her insistence on details you can’t bring yourself to stress over anymore—but he lets you repeat them, nodding along as though each piece of information you shared is something new. 

maybe it’s the comfort in your voice that calms him, or the way your laughter bubbles up when he cracks a joke about your complaints, easing the ache in his chest for a heartbeat. maybe it’s the gentle look in your eyes, the furrow of your brows, or each exasperated sigh you let slip.

whatever it is, he wants to remember every detail.

because soon, he won’t be the person you call first when something goes wrong. 

“damien’s mother said she’d pick up the flowers the morning of, which is good because it’s one more thing off my plate—” 

you pick up a seashell that you had collected yourself from the last time you journeyed beyond the depths, turning it between your fingers with a frown. 

“but what if she picks up the wrong ones, rafayel? or the florists messes up, and i end up with lilies?” your eyes lift to his, your demeanor shifting to something more serious. “do i look like a lily bride to you?” 

he always thought a flame lily would look lovely tucked behind your ear.

but its too late for that now.

for a moment, rafayel forgets to answer. 

you tilt your head. “well do i?” 

the thought vanishes. 

“absolutely not,” he finally answers. “everyone knows you’re more of a sea lavender kind of bride.” 

“exactly!” the expression you had moments ago washes away, and you point the seashell at him like he’s just proven your case. “thank you.” 

the conversation loops back to the dance coordinator, the same woman you’ve doubted since your very first lesson. then it’s the seating chart—would the lemurians prefer to cluster together, or might they share a table with the humans? you’re still not sure. 

“oh,” you say suddenly, placing the seashell down as you pick up a candle to drop inside the glass, “did i tell you i finally got the seamstress to stop arguing with me about the veil?” 

rafayel glances up. 

“well, partially.” you begin, lips pursed in concentration. “i think she gave up and decided to accept it. so i guess my stubbornness does pay off.”

rafayel ties another ribbon, allowing the corner of his mouth to lift. 

“well, well. who would’ve thought.” 

“see, i knew it was good for something.” a pleased smile lights up your face before you go on. “but anyway, i can’t wait to show you how it all looks together.”

rafayel feels his mouth grow dry, and he tries not to think about the aisle or the flowers or the pearls or the–

“i can’t wait to see you walk down that aisle.” the words slip out before he can stop them. 

you still, and rafayel realizes how it sounds a second too late. 

especially when your eyes flicker, something unreadable passing behind them. 

so he forces a smile. 

“from where i’ll be standing, i mean,” he adds just as quickly, lifting his right shoulder in a lazy shrug. “at the front as your man of honor.” 

your expression softens, though there’s confusion that still lingers. 

you quietly huff. “right.” 

he expects the next words to leave your mouth to be something playful, maybe teasing. perhaps about him being dramatic, or how you hope he doesn’t cry and ruin the photos, or get drunk off two shots of whatever they’ll be serving, considering he was such a lightweight...

he waits for it, for you to say something, he’s preparing to answer with something equally as ridiculous, something that’ll turn the conversation light again. 

but you don’t. 

instead, your eyes drop to his hands, his fingers frozen around the last bits of ribbon, and when you look back at his face, your smile lingers, but it’s not quite right.

“rafayel.” 

there’s hesitation laced in your voice, something he’s not used to, something he hasn’t heard since…

“i think it’s for the best, my dear sea god.” 

he blinks a few times, blueish-pink hiding behind long lashes, avoiding your gaze. 

he lets the silence stretch, but he can feel your brows knit together, your eyes dropping once more to the seashell you now turn over and over in your hand, fidgeting with it anxiously.

“everything’s going to change, isn’t it?” 

there it is. 

the truth. 

the one that finally seeps through the cracks of a promise you’ve both been pretending is strong enough to keep everything from falling apart.

a breeze drifts in from outside, and somehow the sea mist finds you, ruffling loose strands of your hair, and he can’t say how it manages it.

“i keep saying it won’t, or that it wasn’t going to,” your voice drops, much quieter. “i kept telling myself that we’ll stay the same. that nothing between us has to be different because i’m getting married, but..."

“it won’t ever be the same, will it.” 

rafayel has always known the answer. 

he has known it since the day you came to him with guilt riddled tears in your eyes. 

when you summoned that little pink flammula and it glowed between your palms. 

and if he hadn’t known it then, or had pretended or ignored it, it would’ve resurfaced when your calls became shorter, and your visits became less frequent.

he could no longer escape it when the invitation arrived, and when his name was nowhere beside yours.

when the invitation burned because he couldn’t bear to keep holding on to proof of a future he'd lost.

human life will always demand more of you than a promise made to a powerless sea god. 

it already has, after all. 

but you look so afraid, teetering on the edge of tears, and he can’t bear to see you cry. not with the answer he can’t bring himself to give. not now.

so rafayel lies. 

“nothing will change,” he says, voice dangerously low enough to be mistaken for truth. 

“we made a promise, didn’t we?” 

your eyes flicker toward him, and he lifts his right hand to gently wipe away the tear that slips down your cheek, catching it before it can become a pearl.

for a split second, he thinks you might see through him. you’ve always known him too well.

and just as he sees through you, you see through him. you know every tell and every mask he carries. 

but when your expression softens, he wonders if maybe you cannot read him as well as you once did—like you previously could in every other lifetime.

“yeah, rafayel. we did.” 

he gives you a reassuring smile while bringing his hand to the top of your head to lightly ruffle your hair. just enough to ease the moment and elicit a giggle from you.

“there she is,” he articulates as he mimics your laughter, “there’s my silly girl.” 

“no. don’t call me that,” you groan jokingly, moving to take his hand off your head.

“alright, alright. c’mon. sulking time is over. we’re so close to being done with these.” 

and with that you nod, already reaching to grab the next glass to place in front of him while he reaches to tie another ribbon. 

by the time the clock slips past two, the last centerpiece is done and you’re half cleaning, half laughing, debating whether the very first one you decorated deserves a place among the rest, since, according to rafayel, your ribbon tying was "absolutely atrocious."

and despite his insult, he makes you laugh, hand pressed to your stomach, eyes shining with a kind of joy he wishes he had the right to keep. 

he memorizes this, commits every aspect of it to memory. your addicting laugh, your adorable smile, the way your head leaned against his shoulder just as you’d done in that underwater cave from your very first life. 

and again, that stubborn confession rises to the tip of his tongue—the words that could ruin everything.

he almost says it. 

rafayel wants to say he loves you

or rather, he’s in love with you. 

he no longer wants to be just your sea god, or your closest friend, or the one you call when the world becomes too much.

he wants to be yours, the way you were once so completely his.

but the moment passes the second you yawn, pulling yourself away from him and taking all your gracious warmth with you.

as you rub your eyes, he swallows the words before they can become another weight for you to carry.

so the almost lives on. 

and rafayel, as always, lets it. 

⏾⋆.˚

a/n: i think i've gotten a total of like, 12 hours of sleep in the last 72 hours. i am not built for the 9-5 corporate office life.