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Cotton brushes past his leg once again by an inch, and he glances down at the long trail from the yarn bin to the person hastily creating an outfit for an upcoming deadline. A deadline she put herself.
A mix of blue, violet, and green speckled onto a white base. She told him it was named 'Lady Camden'—he supposes if canvases with paint could have a name, then perhaps yarn cakes having one shouldn't surprise him.
The top she was crocheting took over eight weeks. That was because she was balancing everything alongside this project, insteading of taking everything one by one—of course, his cutie blamed it all on her undiagnosed ADHD, but he decides biting his tongue to keep any witty words out to play against her. He's no different, after all. Doing everything except the project at hand.
Maybe that's why they go so well together.
"Finishing up? That's the third ribbon end you've made," He notices her cut the crocheted block off the yarn.
"Just one more. Ribbon ends come in pairs, silly." She huffs back at him, unassembled pieces of the top scattered on her desk.
"Couldn't you just tie that long strap anyway?" He points the wooden tip of his brush on the upper half of the project.
"No. It looks bulky and I can never tie it right. I might as brute force it."
"Like your coding assignments?"
"You talk crap at my work and yet I graduated just fine,"
"That's because if AI ever does replace your mediocre ass, I'm confident you still have this artistic side to rely on,"
Insults flown like bullets and arrows, and yet no one is hurt. This is his ideal relationship, one that isn't so easy to crumble. One that is built on comfort, and steady as trust.
His wit sharpens when he's with her. As much as he treats it like a joke, being on his toes to always say something back is akin to effort made in a relationship. Both of them being quick to bite back shows eagerness—and eagerness shows want. Something that keeps their relationship aflame.
Not everyone can handle it, and that's what he wants. If it's not everyone's cup of tea, then the only ones sipping are his lips and hers. He prefers it that way. When more people are involved, after all, the flavor starts to shift in favor of them. And then it'll be a taste Rafayel isn't familiar with anymore.
And to adapt is something he's never longed to do. Everyone always tells him to adapt. But not a single person has done the same for him, until his cutie came along. In fact, everything has always been in favor of either her or him, equally balanced.
She was the only one that tried to dip her toes in his colors. Blue mixes in with red, his colors being her welcoming warmth in the vast ocean.
"I should make something for you," She brings him back to reality. "With whatever's left of this cake." Lifting the yarn, she shows him how much of it is left.
Simple words, but to be included into something she really loved to do is the cupid's arrow to Rafayel's heart. He doesn't mind if what she makes is a simple hairclip—to match with your girl? Most would beg for the chance—the sea god finds himself lucky he doesn't need to whenever he's with his miss bodyguard.
"What would you even make with less that 200 grams of that? I'm not a size extra small, if that's what you're thinking,"
"I know. Your ego puts extra large to shame."
With a souvenir for each, she brings home paint all over her face from their bickering. He brings home a crocheted tie that she promised she would adorn with beads next time she visited.
Yet another reason to love this studio of his—an easy place for her to come to. His space that's been colored both his and hers.