Work Text:
The rain drummed mutely yet persistently against the windows of his studio, casting a soft rhythmic backdrop to the organized chaos within. Paint brushes, canvases- blank and unfinished were scattered around, each piece a testament to Rafayel’s restless creativity. The studio was his sanctuary, a place where the world’s expectations melted away, leaving only the raw, unfiltered essence of his art.
But even with all these, Rafayel thinks he may be going insane.
He stared out at the rain-soaked window, the rhythm of the storm outside mirroring the chaotic storm within him. His studio, usually a haven where he could lose himself in the strokes of his brush, felt suffocating tonight. The canvases that once brought him solace now seemed to mock him with their unfinished states, as if they too knew the turmoil he couldn’t escape.
Rafayel let out a harsh breath, leaning against the wall. His thoughts drifted, as they always did, to her.
Ezza .
Her name was a whisper in his mind, a soft, insistent presence he couldn’t shake. No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, she was there—lingering in every thought, coloring every decision.
She had been his bodyguard for months, ever since he himself had hired her out of nowhere despite her obvious reluctance due to her nature as a hunter for the Association, hence, his manager, Thomas, insisting that someone keep an eye on him. But Ezza was different yet flawed. She didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t try to change him. She just… was. Always there, a steady, unwavering force in his chaotic world.
He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the thoughts persisted. The way her eyes softened when she thought he wasn’t looking, the way she tilted her head when she was deep in thought, the way her lips curved into a small smile when he said something that amused her. It was maddening, how much he noticed about her. How much he cared.
And he was tired of it—tired of pretending that what he felt wasn’t real. Tired of lying to himself, to her.
Rafayel pushed away from the wall, pacing the length of the studio. The rain continued to drum against the windows, a relentless reminder of the storm both outside and within. He had spent so long convincing himself that he could control his emotions, that he could keep his feelings for Ezza at bay. But now, it felt like trying to hold back the tide. Impossible.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair, making it even more tousled than before. He could still picture her in his mind, as clearly as if she were standing right in front of him. Could still feel the warmth of her presence, the way she made him feel grounded even when everything else in his life felt like it was spinning out of control.
Rafayel stopped in front of one of his canvases, a piece he’d been working on for weeks but couldn’t bring himself to finish. It was a portrait, though he’d never admit it aloud, of her. The way he saw her—not as a bodyguard or an employee, but as the woman who had somehow, inexplicably, become the center of his world.
He stared at the unfinished painting, his chest tightening with a mix of frustration and longing. He wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her. But how? How could he confess something so deep, so real, when he wasn’t even sure she felt the same way? When he wasn’t sure he could handle it if she didn’t?
Closing his eyes, he sighed lightly, deciding to just cover the unfinished painting with a linen cloth, and walked towards on his pristine couch, and sprawled lazily on it, paintbrush dangling precariously in one hand, his phone resting on his chest, the screen dim from inactivity. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, or perhaps simply waiting—waiting for her.
At the sound of the door, he turned his head slowly, his ocean-indigo eyes landing on her with a mix of relief and reproach. He didn’t say anything right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough for Ezza to feel the full weight of her guilt.
Ezza stood in the doorway, the familiar scent of paint and turpentine filling the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee that had long gone cold, her expression a mix of exasperation and resignation as she surveyed the almost-peaceful scene. The usual buzz of energy she felt before seeing him was tinged with nervousness.
She had been away too long, hunting Wanderers and dealing with threats, leaving her unable to message Rafayel as often as she wanted. The guilt weighed on her, knowing how he likely reacted to her silence with melodramatic thoughts, feeling abandoned despite understanding her reasons.
“Hey,” she said softly, stepping into the room. “I’m back.”
Rafayel’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “Took you long enough,” he muttered, the words more petulant than angry. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me. Or maybe you’ve found some new artist to babysit on your grand adventures.”
Ezza sighed, dropping her bag by the door. She crossed the room to stand in front of him, her gaze apologetic. “I’m sorry, Rafayel. It was just… intense. I barely had time to breathe, let alone text. But I should’ve found a way.”
He sat up slowly, swinging his legs off the couch and letting the paintbrush drop to the floor. “You should have,” he agreed, his tone half-playful, half-serious. “Do you have any idea how many brilliant ideas I had while you were gone? And no one to share them with. I was left to wallow in my own genius, completely unappreciated.”
Ezza bit back a smile. This was Rafayel’s way—exaggerating his annoyance to mask the fact that he’d actually missed her. She knew it wasn’t just about sharing ideas or whining for attention. It was about the connection they shared, the way he relied on her presence, even from a distance.
She sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “I really am sorry. I hate leaving you alone like that.”
Rafayel glanced at her, his sassy demeanor softening just a fraction. “You should be,” he teased, but there was no real heat in it. “It was miserable. The world is so much duller without your constant nagging.”
Ezza nudged him gently with her shoulder. “Nagging, huh? Is that what you call saving you from your own madness?”
“Tomato, tomahto,” Rafayel quipped, but his eyes were warm, the irritation in them melting away. He tilted his head, studying her face with a curious intensity. “You look exhausted. Wanderers again?”
Ezza smiled briefly before sighing. “There’s been a constant rise of numbers in an area not too far from here, but for now, everything’s under control… but as for you, Rafayel,” she started, her tone a little sharper than usual as she scanned the room once more, her gaze then landed on him, seated cross-legged in the middle of the couch. “You know that you have to attend this exhibition that’s happening in an hour right?”
She had been tasked, once again, with the nearly impossible mission of dragging Rafayel out of his creative cocoon and into the public eye for his own exhibition. A task easier said than done. Right when she just got back from a business trip to provide support in hunting Wanderers.
Rafayel’s lips curled into a mischievous smirk, but he had already set aside his brush a little haphazardly on the small table beside the couch. “Ah, Thomas… such a delightful man, isn’t he? So determined, so focused on what really matters—money, fame, all those shiny little things that humans chase like moths to a flame.”
His tone was laced with sarcasm, the words dripping with disdain.
She sighed, already feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. This was typical Rafayel—brilliant, infuriating, and utterly indifferent to the trivial concerns of the world. “You know, he’s just trying to do his job. And part of that job is making sure you actually show up to these events.”
Finally, Rafayel looked up, his ocean-indigo eyes sparkling with amusement as they locked onto hers. “Oh, I’m well aware, Miss Bodyguard,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “But you see, these exhibitions, these events—they’re all the same. A bunch of shallow, greedy humans parading around, pretending to understand art while they’re really just looking for the next thing to invest in. It’s all so… uninspiring.”
He then stood up, stretching languidly as if he hadn’t just been lost in the throes of creation. “And what about you, my dear bodyguard? Surely you can see it too—the emptiness in their eyes, the way they talk about art as if it’s just another commodity to be bought and sold. Don’t you find it all so dreadfully dull?”
She rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Not all humans are like that, Rafayel. Some people genuinely appreciate your work for what it is.”
He chuckled, a low, rich sound that filled the room. “Oh, Miss Bodyguard, ever the optimist. But I see it, you know? The way their eyes glaze over when they’re confronted with something they can’t put a price on. They don’t understand, and worse, they don’t want to understand. They just want to own it, to show it off like some kind of status symbol.”
Ezza’s expression softened slightly. She knew he wasn’t entirely wrong—she had seen those same hollow looks, the way some people viewed Rafayel’s art as nothing more than a trophy. But that didn’t change the fact that she had a job to do, and right now, that job was getting him to the exhibition.
“Rafayel, I’m not asking you to like it,” she said, her tone gentler now. “But you have to be there. Thomas is losing his mind, and I’d rather not deal with his panic attacks if I can help it.”
Rafayel’s grin widened, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Bodyguard. You see, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be—right here, creating. This is where the magic happens, not out there in some stuffy gallery with a bunch of people who wouldn’t know true art if it bit them in the ass.”
‘The magic where he's been sulking and waiting for me all week, maybe,’ the corner of her lips almost curled, but ah, this is Rafayel she’s dealing with.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to suppress the growing urge to throttle him. “Rafayel, please. Just this once, can you not be difficult?”
He tilted his head, feigning deep contemplation. “Hmm… tempting, but no. Being difficult is far too much fun.”
She threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine. You win. But if Thomas shows up here looking for you, I’m not taking the blame.”
Rafayel laughed, a carefree, almost musical sound. “Deal. But I wouldn’t worry too much—Thomas knows better than to come between an artist and his muse.”
Ezza shot him a withering glare, but there was no real heat behind it. Despite everything, she couldn’t help but be a little charmed by his incorrigible attitude. “I give up,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
“Is that what they’re calling me now? Impossible?” He laughed, a low, rich sound that filled the room. He stood up, holding out the dress to her with a flourish. “I suppose you’ll need this, then.”
She eyed the garment with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, her brows furrowing slightly. “And what’s this?”
“Your attire for the evening, of course,” he said, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “You didn’t think I’d let you walk into my exhibition wearing just anything, did you?”
Ezza reached out to take the dress, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric. As she unfolded it, her eyes widened slightly, and she shot him a look that was equal parts incredulous and impressed. “You expect me to wear this?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Rafayel said, stepping closer, his gaze sweeping over her with a predatory gleam. “It’s perfect for you. Bold, stunning, and just a little dangerous. Just like you.”
She shook her head, though he could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You have quite the opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
“It’s not an opinion, darling,” he purred, leaning in close, his breath warm against her ear. “It’s a fact.”
Ezza sighed, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the amusement in her voice. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” he teased, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “Which means you must find me at least a little charming.”
She bit her lip, shaking her head as she stepped back, dress in hand. “I’m going to get changed. At least change into something appropriate. You’re not showing up in those paint-stained clothes.”
“Ah, but they add character,” Rafayel protested, holding up his arms as if to showcase the splatters of color adorning his shirt and jeans.
The woman crossed her arms, arching an eyebrow. “Rafayel…”
He sighed dramatically, as if she were asking the world of him. “Fine, fine. I’ll change. But only because you asked so nicely.”
As he walked past her to his closet, he couldn’t resist throwing one last comment over his shoulder. “You know, Ezza, if you ever get tired of playing the responsible bodyguard, there’s always a place for you in my world of chaos.”
She shook her head, a reluctant smile spreading across her face. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now hurry up before I change my mind and drag you out of here as you are.”
The exhibition hall was bathed in a golden glow, chandeliers casting soft light over the polished marble floors and the carefully curated art pieces that adorned the walls. The air buzzed with the chatter of well-dressed guests, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the occasional flash of a camera. Rafayel had always hated these events. The falseness of it all. People didn’t come to appreciate art—they came to be seen appreciating it.
Rafayel entered the venue with Ezza by his side, his sassy demeanor hiding the irritation simmering beneath the surface. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him as they swept through the room. They were eager, predatory, waiting to pounce the moment he was alone. His grip tightened slightly on Ezza’s arm, his only anchor in this sea of superficiality.
Thomas, his manager, spotted them from across the room and visibly sagged with relief. The man looked like he had aged a decade in the past hour, no doubt from the stress of trying to placate the crowd and buy time for Rafayel’s delayed arrival.
“Thank God,” Thomas muttered under his breath as he approached them. He glanced at Ezza with a grateful nod before turning his attention to Rafayel. “You made it. I was starting to think I’d have to pull out some sort of elaborate excuse.”
Rafayel’s lips curled into a half-smirk, though there was no real humor in it. “Wouldn’t that have been entertaining?”
Thomas shot him a look that was somewhere between exasperation and pleading. “Please, Rafayel. Just… play nice. Smile, shake hands, talk about your work. They’re here for you.”
Rafayel’s eyes flicked over the crowd, a wave of disdain washing over him. They were here, but not for the reasons Thomas wanted to believe. They were here to rub shoulders with the right people, to get their pictures taken next to the “brilliant artist,” to pretend they understood the depths of his work.
How many of them would even remember the colors, the strokes, the emotions his pieces conveyed by tomorrow? How many of them cared?
A woman in a designer dress floated over, a glass of champagne in one hand and a glossy smile plastered on her face. “Rafayel! It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person. Your work is simply… divine.”
Rafayel barely hid the flicker of irritation in his eyes as he forced a polite smile. “Thank you,” he replied, his tone cool, measured.
She prattled on, name-dropping galleries and collectors as though she were reciting some sort of social resume. Rafayel tuned her out, his attention drifting to the large abstract piece hanging on the wall behind her. The colors were bold, angry, yet layered with subtle undertones of sadness and longing—an exploration of duality and inner conflict.
It was one of his favorites, a piece he had poured his heart into. Yet here it was, reduced to a mere backdrop for this woman’s inane chatter. He felt a surge of bitterness. None of these people would ever truly see his art, not in the way it was meant to be seen. They would never understand the vulnerability he had bared on canvas, the pieces of his soul he had laid bare for them to trample on with their shallow interpretations.
Ezza, sensing his growing frustration, gently touched his arm, drawing him back to the present. Her calm presence was a balm against the rising tide of his irritation.
“Rafayel,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear, “breathe.”
He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking to her. The softness in her eyes was grounding, a reminder that not everyone in this room was an empty vessel. At least Ezza saw him, understood him—more than he cared to admit. But even she couldn’t make this bearable.
The woman finally ran out of things to say, her bright smile faltering as Rafayel’s silence stretched on. She glanced around nervously before excusing herself with a strained laugh.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Rafayel leaned closer to Ezza, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “Divine,” he echoed mockingly. “Do they even know what that word means?”
Ezza chuckled softly, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist in a gesture of comfort. “They’re just trying to impress you. Or themselves. Don’t let it get to you.”
Rafayel’s eyes darkened as he glanced around the room. “This is all just a game to them. They don’t care about the art, about what it represents. They care about being seen caring.”
Ezza didn’t disagree. She knew how much he loathed these events, how he saw through the masks people wore, and how their hollow compliments grated on his nerves. But she also knew how much his work meant to him, and how much it deserved to be seen—truly seen.
Thomas approached them again, looking slightly more relaxed now that the initial crisis of Rafayel’s late arrival had passed. “There are some people I’d like you to meet,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “Potential patrons.”
Rafayel’s jaw clenched, and he looked like he was about to refuse, but Ezza squeezed his arm gently. “It’s just for tonight,” she whispered. “We’ll get through it.”
He met her eyes, and for a moment, the annoyance softened into something more vulnerable. He nodded almost imperceptibly, conceding to her silent plea.
“Fine,” Rafayel said to Thomas, though his voice was resigned.
Thomas led them through the throngs of guests, stopping to introduce Rafayel to various collectors, critics, and socialites. With each handshake and forced conversation, Rafayel’s disdain grew. The falseness of it all was suffocating.
But through it, Ezza stayed by his side, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of superficiality. She engaged with the guests when Rafayel’s patience waned, deflecting questions with grace, guiding conversations back to the art itself. She was his shield, his buffer against the onslaught of pretense.
As the night dragged on, Rafayel’s thoughts became increasingly consumed with one thing: leaving. He wanted out. Out of this room filled with people who saw him as nothing more than a commodity, out of this hollow charade that passed for an appreciation of art. He wanted to be back in his studio, surrounded by the only things that made sense—his canvases, his brushes, his thoughts.
And Ezza. Her presence was becoming more than just comforting; it was necessary. He didn’t know when it had happened, but she had become his refuge, the one person who saw through the layers and shadows of who he was.
Ezza glanced at him, reading the intensity in his eyes, the desperation to escape. She hummed, her own patience fraying after hours of dealing with the insincerity around them. “Rafayel, a word please?” she asked, her voice soft but with an underlying urgency. To anyone watching, it would appear as if she had something important to discuss, something personal.
Rafayel’s eyes flicked over her, noting the hint of tension in her posture. He knew she was preparing to take the lead in getting them out of there. “Of course,” he said, playing along.
Ezza leaned in closer, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “To make this believable, I might need to act a little… tipsy. Think you can manage to play along?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of Rafayel’s lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you suggesting you pretend to be drunk?”
She nodded, her expression serious despite the ridiculousness of the situation. “It’ll give us a good excuse to leave without raising any eyebrows.”
Rafayel raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by her commitment to the ruse. “You’re really going to drink for this?”
Ezza shot him a wry smile before grabbing a glass of wine from a passing waiter, downing it in a single, practiced motion. She followed it with another, the burgundy liquid slipping easily down her throat. Rafayel watched in fascination, his eyes narrowing slightly as he saw a light blush begin to color her cheeks. The subtle hue of burgundy powdering her skin was… unexpectedly alluring.
“You didn’t have to drink so much,” Rafayel teased lightly, though his voice carried a note of concern. “I was joking about the acting.”
Ezza shrugged, her posture relaxing as the alcohol began to warm her. “I want it to be convincing. Besides, it’s not like I can’t handle it.”
Rafayel chuckled softly, but there was a keen edge to his gaze as he watched her. He’d always admired her ability to adapt, to remain composed even in the most chaotic situations. But seeing her like this, with a hint of tipsiness loosening her usual restraint, was something new—and oddly captivating.
“Ready?” Ezza asked, her voice slightly huskier than usual, the wine clearly starting to take effect.
“Lead the way,” Rafayel said, stepping closer to her, ready to support her if needed. He draped an arm casually around her waist, both to sell the act and to steady her, though it was hard to tell if she truly needed it.
Ezza leaned into him just enough to make it look natural, her steps a little uneven as they moved toward the exit. She made a show of stumbling slightly, letting out a light, breathy laugh that seemed to catch the attention of a few nearby guests. Rafayel played his part perfectly, his expression one of patient amusement as he guided her.
“Sorry, everyone,” Rafayel said with a slight roll of his eyes, addressing the few curious onlookers. “I think we’ve had a bit too much to drink tonight. I should probably get her home before she starts reciting poetry.”
A few polite chuckles rose from the crowd, and more than a few knowing smiles were exchanged. Ezza giggled—an exaggerated sound she threw in for good measure—leaning more heavily against Rafayel, who tightened his hold around her waist, guiding her through the crowd with a possessive air that raised a few raised eyebrows and envious glances.
As they neared the door, Rafayel felt Ezza relax into him, her warmth more palpable, her cheeks flushed deeper than usual. Her dreamy eyes and playful smile hinted at the wine’s effect, yet she carried herself with a grace that made his chest tighten. Tonight, something more had been stirred in Rafayel—a mix of gratitude and a deeper, unnamed emotion.
Something more complex that he wasn’t quite ready to name.
Once they were outside, the cool night air washed over them, a sharp contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. The moment they stepped away from the door, Ezza pulled away slightly, her posture straightening as she regained control.
“You were very convincing,” Rafayel commented, his tone light, though he couldn’t quite shake the image of her flushed cheeks from his mind.
Ezza let out a small laugh, her hand going up to rub her temples as if trying to dispel the slight buzz of alcohol. “Well, it wasn’t all that hard. All I had to do was imagine I was one of those overly dramatic nobles, always trying to act like they’re the center of attention.”
Rafayel chuckled, a low, rich sound that made her stomach flutter unexpectedly. “You make a great escape partner. I’m impressed. Though…” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think you might have enjoyed it just a little bit.”
Ezza raised an eyebrow at him, her tired smile transforming into a playful smirk. “And if I did? Would that be so bad?”
Rafayel’s grin widened, and he felt a spark of something mischievous flare up inside him. “Not bad at all. In fact, I’d say it was one of the more entertaining parts of the night. You really committed to the role—especially that bit where you clung to me. Very convincing.”
She gave him a sidelong glance, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t get used to it, Rafayel. I only did it because I knew you wanted out.”
“Maybe so,” he agreed, his tone casual but his eyes gleaming with something else, something more. “But I’d say it was a good look for you. A little less control, a little more fun.”
Ezza rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “Let’s just get back to the studio. I need to get out of these heels before I fall over for real.”
Rafayel’s gaze drifted down to her feet, and then back up, slowly, taking in the way the dress he had chosen clung to her figure, accentuating every curve. He shook his head in mock seriousness. “We can’t have that. I’d have to carry you back, and that would just ruin my whole brooding artist image.”
Ezza laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, cutting through the lingering tension. “We wouldn’t want to ruin your carefully crafted persona now, would we?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied, smirking. “But if I had to, for you, I might just make an exception.”
She shot him a look that was both amused and slightly exasperated. “You’re incorrigible, Rafayel.”
He merely grinned as he closed the door behind her and walked around to the driver’s side. “You love it.”
Ezza shook her head. “Maybe I do. But don’t let it go to your head.”
Rafayel’s smirk softened into something more genuine, more tender. “Too late.”
The roar of the thunderstorm outside was deafening as Ezza and Rafayel hurried toward his studio, the torrential rain drenching them despite their efforts to stay dry. Ezza was doing her best to keep her frustration in check, but the night had already been taxing enough without the sudden downpour complicating things.
Rafayel, on the other hand, was in full sassy mode, his mood darkening with every clap of thunder that echoed above them. “This is ridiculous,” he grumbled as they finally reached the entrance to his studio. “Who in their right mind would brave a storm like this? We should’ve just waited it out until the weather cooled. But no, humans and their idiotic tendency to think they can conquer anything…”
Ezza rolled her eyes as she fumbled with the keys, trying to ignore the way her clothes clung to her like a second skin. “Rafayel, if you keep complaining, I’m going to leave you out here with the storm. Just be grateful we made it here in one piece.”
“Grateful?” Rafayel snorted, shaking the rain from his hair as they finally stepped inside the studio. “I’d be more grateful if we weren’t soaked through and looking like drowned rats. At least then, I could focus on—”
His words cut off abruptly as the studio was plunged into darkness. The power had gone out, leaving them standing in the pitch-black room, the sound of the rain pounding against the windows only amplifying the silence between them.
Ezza let out a heavy sigh. “Great. Just perfect.” She shook her head, wringing out her wet hair. “You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.”
Rafayel grinned, the mischievous glint in his eyes unmistakable. “Are you volunteering to help me with that too?”
Ezza rolled her eyes, but her frustration was tinged with a hint of amusement. “You wish. Just get changed.”
Rafayel shrugged out of his soaked coat, droplets from his hair dripping onto the floor. “Well, this turned out to be more of an adventure than I planned,” he muttered, running a hand through his wet hair.
Ezza, who was squeezing water out of her hair, gave him a half-smile. “You don’t say.”
Rafayel’s eyes lingered on her, her drenched dress clinging to her form, the rain bringing out a wildness in her that he found irresistibly alluring. Suddenly, inspiration struck him like a bolt of lightning.
“I need to paint you,” he said abruptly, his voice filled with the urgency of his idea.
She blinked, caught off guard. “What? Now? The power’s out, it’s late, and we’re soaked to the bone.”
Even as she was protesting, he was already pulling her toward the bathtub that stood in the corner of the studio, its white porcelain gleaming faintly in the dim light.
“Yes,” Rafayel insisted, his voice breathless with excitement. “Right now. This moment, The storm, the darkness, the water—all of it. It’s perfect. Raw, unfiltered emotion. I want to capture you as you are, right now.”
Ezza hesitated, the charged tension between them palpable. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his emotions. Despite the absurdity of the situation, she found herself nodding. “If I do this,” she said slowly, “you’re not going to complain about anything else tonight, right? Only because I’m curious to see what madness you’ll create.”
Rafayel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he set the candle down on a nearby surface, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. He moved with purpose now, his hands deftly gathering supplies—charcoal, a sketchpad, the tools he needed to bring his vision to life.
Ezza sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. She's dealt with Rafayel’s eccentricities before, but this was a new one. Still, she could see the determination in his eyes, the way his mind was already working through the composition of the scene. And despite herself, she found her resistance wavering.
Rafayel’s smirk widened into a grin, a rare, genuine one that softened his usually sharp features. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”
With a resigned shake of her head, Ezza kicked off her shoes and made her way toward the bathroom, Rafayel trailing behind her like a cat on the hunt. The tub was old-fashioned, with clawed feet and a high back, the perfect vessel for the stormy scene he wanted to create.
She slipped into the tub, the cold porcelain shocking against her skin as she settled into the water that still clung to her from the rain. Rafayel hovered nearby, lighting more candles until the bathroom was awash in a soft, flickering glow.
The air between them was thick with unspoken tension as he knelt beside the tub, his fingers brushing against her wrist as he adjusted her arm. “Stay just like that,” he murmured, his voice taking on a husky edge. “Don’t move.”
Ezza shivered, and it wasn’t just from the cold. There was something about the way Rafayel was looking at her—something intense, almost reverent—that sent a thrill down her spine.
Right before he pulled away, she tugged at his hand, pulling him toward the bathtub. “But you’re getting in too. If I’m going to be your muse, you’re not going to sit on the sidelines.”
Rafayel chuckled, his earlier seriousness giving way to a mischievous grin. “You really know how to turn the tables, don’t you?”
He quickly shed his own wet clothes, leaving him in just his pants, and grabbed his sketchbook and a few charcoals. As he climbed into the tub, the cold water made him gasp, but he quickly adjusted, their bodies warming from the proximity and the charged atmosphere between them.
”Then… I’ll start…”
He sketched with swift precision, his focus entirely on Ezza, her body partially submerged in the warm water. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders, and the candlelight highlighted her face and collarbone. Captivated by the shadows on her skin and the intensity in her eyes, Rafayel poured every detail onto the page, as if trying to capture her very essence.
Ezza watched him, smiling softly at his concentrated expression. She loved seeing him like this, fully immersed in his art, the rarer moments where he reveals his emotions through every stroke, closer and more focused on her than ever before.
Shifting slightly in the tub, causing the water to ripple gently around her, leaning her head back against the cool porcelain.
“What’s on my baby’s mind?”
Maybe it was the lingering effects of the wine she had earlier, which should have already sobered up from walking through the rain earlier, but maybe it’s also the fact that the silence was comfortable and his presence… at this point, she’s within his personal bubble; his intimate space.
The fact that she even called him ‘her baby’ was probably due to liquid courage.. Or maybe she’s betted on the moment when Rafayel is in his element, minus the sass, the complaints; just… himself in his artistic world.
The question hung in the air between them, light and laden with affection. Rafayel’s hand froze mid-stroke, his eyes flicking up from the sketch to meet hers. For a moment, he was caught off guard, not by the question itself, but by the way she had said it- so tenderly, with a touch of playfulness, yet also with an undercurrent of something deeper.
Her baby.
The words echoed in his mind, and he felt a warmth bloom in his chest, spreading outwards until it reached his fingertips. It wasn’t often that someone called him something so intimate, so possessive in a way that felt not like ownership, but like belonging. He had been called many things throughout his life, but this… this was different.
A faint blush crept up his neck, and he quickly looked down at his sketchbook, trying to compose himself, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess. He felt a strange combination of vulnerability and delight, like a piece of him he didn’t know he had needed had just clicked into place. No one had ever referred to him with such affection, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.
But Rafayel wasn’t one to let his emotions show too easily, not even to Ezza, who seemed to have a knack for getting under his skin in ways no one else could. He tried to play it cool, the familiar sass creeping back into his tone as he spoke.
“Hmm, let me think…” he mused aloud, his voice teasing, though there was a softness underlying it that hadn’t been there before. He kept his eyes on the sketch as if considering her question seriously. “You make a fine subject to draw, Miss Bodyguard.”
Ezza chuckled at that, the sound light and melodic, but her gaze remained on him, studying the subtle changes in his expression. She noticed the way his usual confident demeanor seemed slightly off-balance, as if her question had nudged him out of his comfort zone. And she liked that—seeing him a little flustered, a little unsure, because it reminded her that beneath all the bravado, Rafayel had a heart that could be reached.
”You’re just saying that, Rafayel.” She breathed out, once more attempting to keep her voice steady even as his cocky look returned.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t just say that,” Rafayel hummed, leaning down closer to her face with his smile fading into a smirk. “Now Miss Bodyguard has her beauty captured evermore by yours truly. Obviously, my painting makes you look even more beautiful than I could ever imagine,” he added cheekily, grinning at Ezza even as she slightly scowled and pinched his cheek, earning a whine from the cat-tempered male.
He had already set aside his sketchbook, leaning back slightly to brush a hand back through his hair, a smile on his lips as he winked over at Ezza. She sighed in relief, letting herself relax completely, paying no heed to the slight discomfort of still having her dress on and sticking to her skin while soaking in the bathtub.
Ah, Rafayel and his sudden bursts of inspiration anywhere at any time.
For a moment, all the playful banter and teasing they usually exchanged was stripped away, leaving behind only the truth of what he felt. “I’m thinking,” he began, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “When Lemurians fall in love with someone… all our senses are committed to perceiving them without question.”
The confession was so unexpected, so raw, that Ezza’s breath hitched. To her, his eyes, usually so sharp and mischievous, were softened by an uncharacteristic vulnerability.
The weight of his words settling into her with a gravity she hadn’t anticipated.
Without breaking eye contact, her hand, which had been resting on the edge of the tub, moved instinctively, her fingers trembling slightly as they found their way to his lips. She traced them lightly, a touch so gentle it was almost ghostly.
“Senses? Like… this?” she asked, her voice barely audible.
Rafayel’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, his breath hitching slightly as he felt the warmth of her fingers against his cool skin. A breathy chuckle escaped him, a sound that was almost a sigh, holding onto her outreached hand ever so gently, bringing it to his lips, before kissing the tip of her finger, his lips soft and warm, lingering as if savoring the moment. “Your way of triggering my ‘senses’ has only touched the surface.”
Ezza’s pulse quickened as she traced her finger along his chin, slowly moving down the base of his neck. His skin was cool to the touch, and she could feel the tension in his muscles as her finger traveled lower.
Rafayel’s cheeks and ears flushed a deep red, his breath catching as he whispered, “Are all humans idiots?” The question almost rhetorical, his voice laced with both curiosity and disbelief.
Ezza gulped, her eyes never leaving his, the charged tension between them growing thicker with every passing second. Before she could think twice, she pulled him towards her, the water splashing and rippling around them.
Rafayel was momentarily startled, but he recovered quickly, his eyes darkening as he maneuvered their positions swiftly, his movements graceful and fluid despite the confined space of the tub, his body pressing against hers, his weight balancing on both his hands holding on each side of the tub. The water lapped at their skin, the sensation of their wet clothes clinging to their bodies heightening the intensity of the moment.
The candlelight flickered over Rafayel’s features, casting shadows that made his expression even more unreadable. He leaned in, his breath warm against her lips, his eyes locked onto hers with a ferocity that made her heart race, a twinkle of mischief and something deeper shining in them as the moonlight filtered through the window, glazing his side profile in a silvery glow.
“Someone’s intentions are as clear as day,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
Ezza let out a breathy, low chuckle, her hand tracing the outline of his jaw. “You clearly like it.”
Rafayel’s lips curled into a wicked grin as he leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers. “Only because you’re the one doing it.”
Ezza’s hand, which had been exploring his chest, now grazed down his torso, making him hitch. His eyes flicked down to where her hand rested, then back up to her wide eyes, a predatory glint in his gaze.
“Rafayel, your body is so cold… ah!” she gasped as he suddenly moved, his body shifting so that he was pressed even closer against her and in one fluid movement, he closed the distance between them, his lips crashing against hers with a fervor that spoke of pent-up emotions and unspoken desires.
The kiss was anything but gentle. It was raw, intense, and all-consuming, as if years of yearning were being poured into this single moment. Rafayel’s hand cupped the back of Ezza’s head, pulling her even closer, deepening the kiss with a hunger that left her breathless. His other hand gripped her waist, the pressure firm, grounding her as the world around them seemed to blur into nothingness.
Ezza responded with equal passion, her body arching into his as she returned the kiss with a fervor of her own. Her fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him impossibly closer, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. Every touch, every brush of their lips, sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her veins, igniting a fire that burned hotter with each passing second.
The kiss grew more intense, more desperate, as if they were both trying to convey a lifetime’s worth of feelings in this one act. Rafayel’s lips moved against hers with a demanding urgency, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he deepened the kiss further, his tongue sliding against hers in a heated dance that left them both gasping for air.
Ezza’s senses were overwhelmed by him—the coolness of his skin, the taste of him on her lips, the feel of his strong hands holding her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to this world. And perhaps she was.
When they finally broke apart, it was only because they were both desperate for air. Their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths coming in ragged pants, the reality of what just happened slowly sinking in.
“And you’re warm. I like that,” he said, his voice tinged with a mix of desire and something deeper, something she couldn’t quite place. The sight of her swollen lips made him bite his lower lip, that urge to just kiss her again.
Ezza bit her lower lip, feeling the lingering aftereffects of their kiss on her tingling lips, her hand now cupping his cheek gently, as if he were something fragile, something precious. “Rafayel, you seem... different.”
He furrowed his brows, his eyes closing as he instinctively leaned into her touch, savoring the warmth she offered. “Will you still like me no matter who I become?”
Ezza searched his face, seeing the nervousness, the adoration, and the yearning that he was trying so hard to hide. There was a charged silence between them, the only sound the rain pounding against the windows and the soft lapping of water in the tub.
Without a word, she reached up and gently tugged on his necklace, bringing him closer. Her lips found his collarbone, and she left a love bite on his skin, a silent answer to his question.
For what seemed like forever, Rafayel stayed there, his body pressed against hers, panting as if he had just surfaced from the depths of the ocean. When he finally pulled back, Rafayel was more flushed than he had been moments before, his ocean-indigo eyes flashing dangerously as they met Ezza’s. The intensity in his gaze made her breath hitch, a combination of desire and something more profound, something she had never seen in him before.
“I need to tell you this,” she said, her voice a whisper in the candlelit room. Her fingers traced the love bite she had left on his collarbone, the mark standing out against his pale skin. “When humans fall in love with someone, we try to leave a unique mark on them. Something that shows they belong to us… and we to them.”
He tilted his head slightly, half-lidded eyes searching hers. The weight of his gaze made her feel as if he was looking deep into her soul, seeking out every hidden thought and feeling. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him, as the corners of his lips turned up in a small, genuine smile.
“If you say so…,” Rafayel murmured, his voice laced with something tender. His hand reached up to gently caress her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin with a touch so light it sent shivers down her spine. “Join me then. Let’s drown in the ocean. Together.”
Outside, the storm continued to rage, but inside the studio, it felt as if time had stopped, the only sounds that mattered were the soft gasps and sighs that escaped their lips as they lost themselves in each other.
And as the storm finally began to subside, the rain slowing to a gentle patter against the windows, the two of them remained tangled together in the bathtub, the water now still and calm, much like the new understanding they had found within each other.
The future, uncertain as it was, no longer felt daunting. Not when they had each other.