Work Text:
One of the best things about Rafayel was how unpredictable his schedule was.
As a painter whose works sold for thousands of dollars, Rafayel had a lot of spare time. Of course, it was subject to his moods. Once he got in the mood to paint, he could be holed up in his workroom for days. Weeks, even.
But, the free time did come with its perks.
You realised something was different the moment you opened your bag.
Your workday had already been terrible. Emails piling up like accusations for a problem you didn't even cause, meetings that definitely should’ve been messages, and the kind of tired that made your jaw ache from holding yourself together. You’d ducked into the break room on autopilot, barely looking at what you were doing as you reached inside your bag.
Your fingers brushed fabric. Then paper. Then something still warm seven hours after it was packed.
You frowned and pulled it out.
A neatly packed lunch sat in your hands, clearly wrapped with care, the container secured with a ribbon you recognised immediately. Rafayel’s handwriting peeked out from a folded note tucked beneath it.
You stared at it for a long moment.
Rafayel did that a lot. Small acts of love without announcing himself; like a tide that had moved in when you weren't watching. He was famous for setting little acts up for you to receive while you were brushing your teeth, or while you were halfway out the door.
You sat down slowly and opened the container.
Inside was soup, still warm, nestled beside neatly cut avocado and rice, arranged with caution. Like someone cared enough to make sure that your food was pretty to look at. Like you mattered. The reminder that you mattered in this corporate hell-hole would’ve brought a genuine tear to your eye if you had any energy left.
There was a second container too. Fruit, sliced just so. Another container with stewed vegetables with a little packet of salt. And, of course, there was always something sweet tucked into the corner. Raf would never forget that part.
You smiled despite yourself.
The avocado caught your eye first. Perfectly ripe, green without a single bruise.
You remembered how he’d chosen them.
You’d been at the market together earlier that week, Rafayel drifting ahead of you, utterly unconcerned with the looks he got as he lifted avocados to his face and inhaled deeply.
“You can’t smell ripeness with these kinds of avocados,” you’d told him, laughing.
“You can if you know what you’re doing,” he’d replied, offended, nose pressed reverently to the fruit. “This one is... anxious. Never buy anxious produce. Are you writing this down?”
You scoffed and rolled your eyes.
Rafayel had rejected thirteen before settling on ten beautiful avocados, triumphant. “These are calm,” he’d said. “They trust us. Now all we have to do is kill them.”
You shook your head now, smiling into the soup.
The soup itself pulled another memory loose. Last week, the rain was coming down harder than forecast, and the sky was cracking open just as you were leaving the market alone. You had run the whole way home, shoes soaked through, hair plastered to your face, clutching a bag of groceries.
Rafayel had opened the door and immediately gone still.
“You’re drenched,” he’d said, voice full of concern, ushering you inside, not caring to give his usual spiel about you tracking mud inside.
“You said we needed soup,” you’d replied, breathless. “So I got us soup ingredients.”
He hadn’t scolded you, for once. He was too blinded by your grin and your shining eyes as you remembered being a child who loved the rain. Looking at you like that, Rafayel was too moonstruck to do anything but stare.
Eventually, he had come back into his body, and he took the bags from your hands, wrapped you in a towel, and stood behind you while the pot simmered, chin resting on your shoulder, murmuring comments about storms and fate and how the rain clearly had terrible timing.
You lifted the spoon now and took a sip.
It tasted like that night. Like sensation returned slowly to frozen fingers. Like someone lovingly waiting for you at home.
Your phone buzzed on the table.
A message from him.
Did you find it?
Can you tell this avocado is the even-tempered one?
Your chest tightened.
You typed back before you could overthink it.
I found it. It’s perfect.
There was a pause. Then:
Good! Eat it all, cutie. And bring your appetite when you get home! I have something amazing simmering in the big pot right now!
You leaned back in your chair, the noise of work fading for just a moment. The awful emails. The deadlines. The weight of the day.
You pictured him at home. Probably already cleaning up the wares from making dinner, probably already missing you in that Rafayel way he never admitted outright.
You took another bite.
It steadied you.
And for the first time all day, you remembered exactly where you belonged. Where you were going back to when this was over. To the man who packed your lunch like it was a love letter and waited for you like you were the centre of his world.
His muse, as he liked to call you.
You finished the soup.
On the note, he had written a flowery You got this! ♡. You smiled, folded the note carefully, and put it back in your bag.
You went back to work lighter than before, carrying home with you in every small bite.