Work Text:
abysswalker is following you back.
You’d stared at that notification for two days straight, paralyzed.
You and abysswalker were following each other now, which meant you could message him.
It should be easy.
“Hi. Hope you’re feeling better.”
“How’s your head? Did you finally get some rest?”
But it wasn’t easy at all.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Rafayel had almost certainly seen the pictures of your art installation circulating online.
What if he hated it? What if you’d described it all wrong, and the moment he finally saw it, he realized you’d failed?
Or maybe he hadn’t looked at all. Maybe he didn’t care enough. Maybe he’d already forgotten you. Maybe Rafayel had long since moved on, already unaware he’d ever even followed you in the first place.
You stared at your phone. At the notification in your history.
Stop it. Don’t be a coward.
You’d been a fan of abysswalker for so long. You’d been dying to know who the artist really was.
You’d be stupid to let this moment slip through your fingers.
You took a deep, steadying breath and tapped on abysswalker’s profile.
The app crashed.
You groaned. Was this some cosmic warning? Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling you to back off.
When the app finally reopened, your heart lurched. You had two missed notifications.
2 unread message(s) from abysswalker.
Goddammit, your stupid phone. Stupid app. How had you not seen these?
It must have glitched when your phone died and you restarted it. Caleb was always calling you a boomer because you never closed any of your apps.
You dragged a hand down your face, feeling your pulse spike.
You opened the messages, and the first thing you noticed was the timestamps. A day ago. Rafayel had messaged you a full day ago, and you’d left him on delivered for over twenty-four hours.
abysswalker
1 Day ago 10:50 AM
Um. okay. I follow you back and you don’t even react? I really thought you’d be drooling at my feet the second I followed you. I was expecting at least a little enthusiasm.
abysswalker
1 Day ago 3:42 PM
Wow. And now I see you liked my new post but didn’t even open my message. Are you playing mind games with me? Because that’s rude. Period.
You
5:02 PM
I’m not playing “mind games” with you. My app literally wasn’t working. I didn’t even see your messages until just now.
Rafayel’s messages pissed you off so much that you didn’t even think, you just typed and hit send.
Then you paused, lip caught between your teeth.
Well, there was now no doubt about it. With that attitude, abysswalker was definitely Rafayel. It was strange, though. Online, he was so… deliberate. Composed. So unlike the (insufferable) person you’d met in real life.
And of course you’d liked the post. How could you not?
He’d shared it yesterday while you were in bed. Recovering. From literally being kidnapped and held hostage. Caleb had been at your apartment the entire day, making sure you ate, resting with you and watching movies.
And then there was abysswalker, creating and posting online, while you’d been curled up under blankets eating macaroni and cheese. It made you feel lazy.
abysswalker
5:03 PM
Lies! I saw you active for two days straight. A little worrying, honestly. do you even have a job or was that a lie, too?
You
5:04 PM
Why would I lie to you? Seriously, what would I even get out of that? And yes, I do have a job! did you not see my art piece online? I’ve just been resting, okay?! you know, from everything we went through!!
abysswalker
5:05 PM
Your art piece? My art piece, you mean. You were inspired by me, so I was the one who made it happen. By the way, did you read the comments online? Everyone thinks you straight-up stole my idea and that I’ll be mad. Check my comments. It’s hilarious.
Wait. What? Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like it had hit the floor.
People were actually saying you stole abysswalker’s art?
You frantically tapped back to abysswalker’s profile, scrolling like a maniac until you found the post: “The surface awaits, but my arms do not reach it.”
You paused. One second. Just one. Then you tapped to open the comments, and your heart thudded in your ears.
@strawberrydoodles: wow so they literally ripped your whole concept and didn’t credit you at all. And yeah, of course it’s for some celebrity auction… disgusting.
@curiouseyes: this is the exact kind of thing that makes me not want to post online. People make genuine art and some corporation literally copies it for clout.
@CancelTheArc: look at The Arc and this ‘celebrity auction’ bs. they didn’t even TRY to hide that it’s your work. @abysswalker, your art is iconic, don’t let this slide 😭
You
5:19 PM
OMG. Rafayel, I’m so sorry. What should I do?? This is a disaster. Should I contact my boss? Should the gallery issue an apology? Am I going to lose my job??
abysswalker
5:19 PM
Woah chill. What is this your first time getting hate comments or something?
You
5:20 PM
YES!! And I can’t just chill!! Someone literally changed their handle to ‘CancelTheArc’!!
abysswalker
5:20 PM
You do realize your workplace is a nonprofit, right? The Arc isn’t some clout-chasing corporation. That’s not how taxpayer-funded institutions work. You can’t “cancel” that.
You
5:21 PM
YES YOU CAN!! omg im screwed. I’m so going to get fired.
abysswalker
5:21 PM
Last I checked, the arc wasn’t in my posts, looking at my comments. but fine if you’re losing your mind that much, I can issue a statement or something. Just say you had my permission.
You
5:22 PM
That’s literally lying!
abysswalker
5:22 PM
Oh wow, horror of horrors lying on the internet. I don’t even know what you want from me!! You displayed the title of my piece in your gallery. That’s not a crime. Relax.
You
5:23 PM
But Rafayel, people are literally saying I stole your work and didn’t credit you! Is that how you feel?
abysswalker
5:25 PM
Um hello?? Are you stupid? Another artist being inspired by your work is literally the highest form of flattery. Only morons think people can steal ideas. As if their ideas aren’t all recycled garbage anyway. You know, your whole anonymous dedication thing I found insanely hot but this backpedaling? Definitely not helping your sex appeal.
You
5:26 PM
EXCUSE ME?? I’m worried about losing my job and you’re worried about my sex appeal??
You
5:30 PM
…wait, did you really find my dedication to you insanely hot?
·𖥸·
You’d ordered the new placards from the museum’s sign-making vendor, and now you were busy updating the labels for the pieces currently out on loan to The Arc.
It was tedious, boring work, but at least it was something to do. You were still recovering from everything that had happened. Most of your coworkers were surprised you’d come back to work so soon.
Tara had said that if she had been kidnapped, she’d have taken an entire month off, maybe even a year.
But what would you have done? Take a long absence, lose your paycheck, stay in your apartment staring at nothing? It wasn’t like you could go on vacation with no money in your bank account.
You couldn’t afford that. You needed your job. You needed something to do.
Besides, sitting in your apartment meant staring at the suspicious wet spot forming on your bedroom ceiling. If you looked and noticed it getting bigger, then that would mean facing yet another problem.
So running away from all your problems it was!
You knelt in front of the pedestal, slid the placard into place, and took a step back.
You leaned closer, squinting at the sign.
The name.
“The Aeg of Bronze – Auguste Rodin – (1840–19119177)”
And the date.
The Aeg of Bronze? The Aeg of Bronze?
Had you really ordered a sign like that? With a date that looked like it had been typed by a drunken koala?
You pressed your fingers to your forehead and groaned.
You’d never made mistakes like this before. But the past few days had left your brain scattered. You’d barely slept, and honestly texting with Rafayel hadn’t helped.
After the high of messaging abysswalker finally wore off, reality came crashing back.
Rafayel wasn’t just abysswalker, your online obsession, he was also Rafayel, the model. The one plastered on billboards outside your workplace. His abs, inconveniently, right in your line of sight every morning.
Meeting Rafayel had actually pummeled your self-esteem straight into the dirt. When you had just started to feel proud of yourself, too.
College had been brutal, but you had survived. You earned your degree. You got a job. You moved out on your own. Only 10–15% of foster kids earned a college degree in their twenties. Ten to fifteen percent.
But you made it. You beat the odds. You came out the other side. Look at you now.
Still here you were, in the best situation you could hope for. With crippling student debt in an industry dominated by nepo babies and legacy families, messing up placards.
Rafayel had a billionaire father. On no planet would he ever be interested in you.
The worst part? You couldn’t talk to Tara or Xavier about it. They were your coworkers, and also your friends, and yes, they were nice, great even, but also… nepo babies. Tara’s family ran a boutique gallery downtown, and she’d grown up attending openings and rubbing elbows with famous artists. Xavier’s dad had been a collector for decades; their family had donated heavily to The Arc and other galleries.
Tara had actually dated a model not too long ago, and you were pretty sure Xavier himself had been a model at one point.
They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t understand putting your heart on the line for a billionaire’s son, just for kicks, was a terrible idea.
You exhaled a long and shaky breath. Maybe a month off wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
“You’ve been staring at that statue’s dick for a while now. Haven’t gotten any action lately?”
Your head snapped toward the voice. “Rafayel! What are you doing here?”
What was he doing here? How long had he been watching? And how long had you been spacing out?
Rafayel stepped closer. “I figured I’d come to you,” he said. “Since you haven’t been answering any of my texts.”
“I’m working,” you said defensively. “My phone isn’t even on me.”
He took another step closer. Leaning just slightly, he read the placard over your shoulder. “‘The Egg of Bronze,’” he said, emphasizing the typo. “You know, if you had your phone on you, you could’ve used spellcheck.”
“Okay, yes! Fine, I made a mistake! Fire me.” You shoved the placard toward him. “Here. You want it? It’s worthless, and I just cost the museum seventy bucks.”
“I don’t want your useless sign,” Rafayel said. “I want lunch. I’m starving.”
You stared up at him. “…Okay?” you said. “So go get some then?”
He let out a small huff and stepped closer still. “What about coming with me? You said you would.”
“What? When?” you asked. “I never said that.”
“What!” Rafayel almost stomped his foot. “I literally texted you, ‘We should get lunch sometime,’ and you said, ‘Sounds like a great idea!’”
“No,” you said. “You said you eat lunch at 12:30 every day, and I said, ‘Great, good for you.’”
Rafayel waved his phone in front of your face. “Well, I have proof, and you don’t.”
“I have proof, too,” you said. “My phone’s just in my locker.”
Rafayel tilted his head. “Okay, so are you coming with me or not? Because FYI, it’s already 12:43.”
“Rafayel, I’m working,” you said. “Expecting me to drop everything just because you want me to is disrespectful to me and my time.”
“What about respecting my time?” he asked. “I’ve been out there for thirty minutes. When you didn’t appear, I had to track you down. My car’s probably covered in tickets by now.”
“Rafayel!”
The two of you reached Rafayel’s car, and your eyes immediately landed on a bright yellow parking ticket under the wiper.
“Rafayel, this is a loading dock,” you said. “You can’t park here.”
He grabbed the ticket with one hand, gave it a scoff, and tossed it over his shoulder like it didn’t exist.
“Rafayel!” you cried again. “You actually have to pay that!”
“And what will they do if I don’t?” he asked, opening the passenger side for you. “Arrest me?”
“Yes!”
Rafayel blinked a couple of times. “Oh.”
You gave him an incredulous look and then dipped down to slide into the passenger seat.
Your jaw dropped. You felt like you’d climbed into a spaceship rather than a car. How much could a car like this cost?
While Rafayel settled behind the wheel and started the engine, you secretly googled it.
7.8 times your yearly salary.
“You’re paying for lunch,” you said. If Rafayel had fuck-you money, the least he could do was cover your meal.
Rafayel gave you a sideways glance as he maneuvered the car onto the street. “No need for that,” he said. “We’re going to my place. I’ll cook. Seafood okay?”
“Wait, like your house?” you asked. “Why not just a restaurant nearby?”
“Public eating is gross,” Rafayel said.
“Right.” You rubbed your eyes, surrendering. There was no winning with this guy.
You let him drive wherever he wanted, sinking back into the seat and staring out at the passing scenery. Soon, Rafayel’s car turned onto a bridge spanning calm, glimmering water.
You sat up, squinting toward the horizon. An island appeared ahead.
“Do you live in Whitesand Bay?” you asked.
“Yep,” he said.
Oh, why had you agreed to this? What did he want from you? Were you supposed to entertain him?
Rafayel turned onto a quiet residential lane, and without a second thought, he drove straight off it and into the grass, crossing a lawn, stopping in front of a concrete wall with a metal gate.
The engine cut. He got out.
Oh. Right. This is where he was parking. Of course.
You leaned against the passenger door to push, but Rafayel swung it open from the other side at the same time. The sudden lack of resistance nearly sent you tumbling into him and he had to catch you.
“Sorry,” you said, embarrassed.
You followed him through the gate, along a winding stone path lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and sculpted topiaries. At the path’s end, a massive white house rose before you.
You weren’t going to lie: you secretly hated anyone your age who owned a home. Maybe you could’ve saved for a down payment too, if your father were a billionaire, and if it weren’t for student loans bleeding your bank account every month, your car payment, and rent that climbed higher every year for an apartment with peeling paint and a ceiling leak.
You promised yourself you wouldn’t comment. You’d be cool. Detached.
But the second you climbed the exterior steps and followed him into the kitchen, a small gasp escaped your lips.
The space was enormous, bright white and pristine, but what truly stole your attention were the windows.
“Your windows are gorgeous,” you said without thinking, drifting toward them.
They were massive cathedral arches, stretching all the way to the ceiling, flooding the room with warm afternoon light.
“I’m going to steal this idea,” you said. “If I ever buy a house. I love the church windows. I’ve never seen them done like this. At least, not in a way I’ve liked.”
Not surprising. Rafayel had impeccable taste. You’d known that. You respected him as an artist, even if you were still undecided about him as a person.
He opened the double-door freezer, humming. “Hmm, stealing my ideas again? Is that your thing now?”
“Hey!” you said, spinning around. “You know I still feel bad about that.”
“Why?” Rafayel asked, pulling a bag of shrimp from the freezer and swinging the refrigerator door closed with the side of his foot. “I fixed it for you, didn’t I?”
“No!” you threw your hands up in exasperation. “You posted a screenshot of your Notes app. You wrote, ‘I saw the display at the Arc for the charity auction. I liked it. So can everyone stop whining now?’ And that blew up! It got more engagement than your original post! Now even more people are talking about it, and somehow I’ve gained even more haters!”
Rafayel dumped the frozen shrimp into a glass bowl and slid it beneath the faucet, turning the water on full blast.
“This is why you leave it alone, like I told you.” He separated two shrimp stuck together. “Lesson learned.”
You scowled.
Rafayel glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you? And you like shrimp?” He swirled the bowl under the water. “Because if you can’t eat this, I genuinely don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.” A pause. “Might have to toss you into the sea.”
“I’m not allergic,” you said flatly. “But I don’t really eat shrimp often.”
“Wrong answer,” Rafayel said. “And I’ll prove it to you.”
You sighed, giving in, sliding onto a barstool at the far end of the island.
Rafayel’s kitchen was massive, so you couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing. He was tossing the shrimp with something, then sliding them into a hot pan that sizzled.
You weren’t much of a cook yourself. No one had ever taught you, and you still used that as an excuse. But Caleb had figured it out on his own. He’d probably have a meltdown if he knew how much money you’d spent on takeout instead of learning to make a single meal.
Resting your cheeks in your hands, you propped your elbows on the counter. “I guess you’re right about eating at home. If I had a kitchen like this, I probably wouldn’t even bother going out. And you live in Whitesand Bay; you could eat on the beach anytime you wanted.”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” Rafayel said.
Next, he boiled water and started cooking pasta. That part you could follow. You’d made yourself instant ramen a time or two. But then he tossed the pasta into the same pan as the shrimp, added other ingredients, poured in a splash of wine, and you were lost again.
A few minutes later, he circled the island with two steaming bowls, sliding one toward you.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked.
“Oh! No, thank you,” you said, picking up the bowl. “I’m still on the clock.”
Rafayel only blinked back at you.
“I have to go back to work,” you said.
“Ohhh, right,” he said. “Fixing other people’s dumb mistakes all day. Must be exhausting working with people who can’t read.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but the first bite hit your tongue and—oh. My. God. “Rafayel, this is ridiculously good!”
He smirked triumphantly. “See? Told you.”
“I never said it would be bad!” you said, shoving his shoulder. “I just said I don’t usually eat shrimp. But wow. Ten out of ten. Honestly, best pasta I’ve ever had. Way better than spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti? This is spaghetti. Spaghetti is a type of noodle, not a dish,” he said, frowning.
“Oh my god, you know what I meant,” you said. “You sound just like Sylus sometimes. So pretentious.”
Rafayel’s frown deepened, colder this time. “Sylus? Who’s Sylus? Your boyfriend?”
You nearly choked. “No, Sylus isn’t my boyfriend. What, am I not allowed to have male friends without dating them?”
“…And how many male friends would that be?” Rafayel asked, voice clipped.
You laughed. “And how exactly is that any of your business?”
Rafayel looked down, twirling his pasta, a faint pout on his lips.
“What?” you asked. “Is there something you want to say?”
He looked up suddenly. “Yes. You chew like a cow.”
·𖥸·
“And how did your date go, Rafayel?” Thomas asked him over the phone.
“Terrible!” Rafayel groaned, flopping onto his bed like a deflated balloon. “She didn’t like that I surprised her at work. What’s wrong with her? Solana surprises you with lunch all the time when you’re working, and you love it. And then she called me pretentious! And she has male friends. So many male friends! And then I told her she chews like a cow.” He threw his arm over his eyes. “At least she said she liked the windows… but everyone likes the windows, Thomas. Everyone!”
Thomas was silent a beat. “Alright, looks like we have a lot to unpack here.”
“We don’t need to unpack,” Rafayel said. “We’re gonna pack it all up and go home. It’s over. I’m never seeing her again.”
“Rafayel,” Thomas said patiently, “don’t be ridiculous. You clearly like her.”
“Well, she doesn’t like me,” Rafayel said, rolling onto his pillow. “Which is preposterous. I thought she had good taste.”
“Mind if I offer some advice?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, I do.”
Thomas ignored him. “Invite her to your private showing. You said she likes your art, right? It’s intimate; friends and family only. I’m sure she’d love it.”
“…Fine,” Rafayel said. “But if this fails, you’re paying for the emotional damages.”
“Sure, Rafayel,” Thomas said. “One last thing. Don’t forget about your Virelli photoshoot first thing tomorrow.”
Rafayel groaned again. “I hate Virelli! I thought we agreed never to work with them again.”
“No, you said you loved Virelli,” Thomas replied. “Then you found out their logo was a lion, which you said is the ancestor of a house cat, but by then you’d already signed the contract.”
Rafayel tossed his pillow aside. “Fine! But only if it’s after 8 AM. I need a full eight hours of sleep, minimum.”
“…We leave at 4.”
“Thomas, you’re officially fired.”
·𖥸·
abysswalker
6:28 AM
oh, by the way, im having a private art showing tomorrow night at my studio. only for close friends and family. you’re invited. you can show up if you want. no pressure.
abysswalker
8:06 AM
or don’t. i didn’t even want you there anyway
You
8:48 AM
Seriously, Rafayel? I was sleeping. we already went over this. If I’m not replying, either I haven’t had a chance to check my phone, or I’m swamped with work. or not even conscious. I’m not ignoring you.
You
8:49 AM
If you actually want me to show up, just tell me what time.
abysswalker
8:49 AM
6 sharp. don’t be late!!
It was 4 p.m. on Saturday, and your stomach was twisting itself into knots. Whitesand Bay was at least a half-hour drive away, and you still hadn’t decided what to wear.
What did one even wear to a private art showing at a billionaire’s son’s house?
You’d spent the entire day panic-texting Tara until she finally lost patience and showed up, leaving a dress on your doorstep. “Just wear this,” she said.
You stared at your reflection. The dress was perfect. Classy, sophisticated, exactly the kind of thing you were supposed to wear. But it didn’t feel like you. It felt like a costume.
And then your phone lit up. With a text message from your brother.
*~! *~!
Not Caleb, your foster real brother. It was from Nate, your half brother. He was twice your age and someone you’d only met a handful of times.
Nate
4:16 PM
hey, did our mother send you the text she sent me?
*~! *~!
You
4:16 PM
no. I have her blocked.
Nate
4:17 PM
haha. so… any idea how she’s doing financially?
You
4:17 PM
no. I have her blocked.
Nate
4:18 PM
well, she asked me for $500
You
4:18 PM
What? She asked you for money? Did you give her that?
Nate
4:19 PM
yeah, she said needed it for bills, so…
*~! *~! *~!
You doubted she needed the money for bills. And if she did, there was only one reason she was $500 short to begin with.
You stared at your reflection, your eyes stinging. Mothers were supposed to guide you, to cheer you on, to help you get ready for prom—or for an event where a guy you liked asked you out and you were terrified. She was supposed to be here to tell you that you were pretty enough. That you were smart enough. That the boy you had a crush on wasn’t going to point and laugh at you when he found out you liked him.
*~! *~! *~! *~! *~!
She wasn’t supposed to ask you for money. She wasn’t supposed to take you from Josephine and Caleb, the only real family you’d ever had, every time she was sober just to relapse again.
*~! *~! *~! *~! *~! *~! *~! *~! *~!
You clutched your chest. Shit.
You were way too old for this. Somewhere along the line, you’d have to stop letting every little thing set you off.
How in the world did your body manage to handle being kidnapped and held hostage better than being reminded that your mother existed? How did that even make any sense?
The burn in your chest spread like fire, tight and insistent. A panic attack was unavoidable now.
This was quite a normal pattern for you actually. You think you’re fine, you think you’re on top of all the stress in your life, but what you really you do is you push and you push and you push and you push and you push and you push
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
and you push and you push and you push
You sank to the floor in front of the mirror, hugging your knees.
and you push and you push and you push and you push
Tears streamed down your face as you stared at yourself in the mirror.
and you push and you
You pushed everything down until you couldn’t anymore and it all came crawling back up through your throat and lungs.
Who even cared about some stupid art exhibition? Rafayel didn’t even want you there anyway.
6 PM came and went.
·𖥸·
abysswalker
6:39 PM
wow, traffic must be bad huh? did you get lost on your way here? the address isn’t that hard… 21 Mariner’s View, Whitesand Bay, Linkon City
abysswalker
7:22 PM
helloooooo? everyone’s already here. are you actually coming or should I start without you?
abysswalker
7:45 PM
ok I know you said you’re not ignoring me but… come on
abysswalker
7:51 PM
hello?!?!? did you die?? should I call the cops??
abysswalker
8:01 PM
seriously starting to think this is intentional 😒
abysswalker
8:30 PM
if you didn’t want to come, just say no next time
abysswalker
8:33 PM
honestly, ignoring me like this is way worse than just saying no
abysswalker
9:22 PM
you didn’t get kidnapped again, did you? because I’m kinda worried
abysswalker
9:58 PM
oh, btw I had a surprise for you, I guess that doesn’t matter now
abysswalker
10:10 PM
you’re a real asshole, you know that? leaving me on read and not showing up… that’s cold. super cold
abysswalker
10:16 PM
unless… you were actually kidnapped, in which case, disregard all my previous messages
abysswalker
10:43 PM
actually, nevermind. kidnapped or not, you’re still rude as hell.
The bus smelled faintly of disinfectant and damp jackets, a hollow hum under feet as you headed toward Whitesand Bay.
Crying all night had left your face swollen, and just when you thought you couldn’t feel worse, you saw Rafayel’s texts. You moved to answer, until you noticed he’d blocked you!
Adrenaline surged. You put on your jeans, yanked on one of Caleb’s oversized sweatshirts and practically sprinted out the door, catching the next bus without even thinking.
Rafayel was going to pay for this. You didn’t text him back one time, so he blocks you?
Seriously. His ego was ridiculous. You were going to give him a piece of your mind.
Granted, you’d sort of stood him up. But come on, it wasn’t intentional. And he hadn’t even given you a chance to explain yourself!
When you stepped off the bus, Rafayel’s front gate was closed and locked. Great.
You skirted along the edge of the property, silently hoping there was some kind of security, so someone could at least tell Rafayel you were here.
The lawn ended abruptly, and as you rounded the corner, warm sand pressed beneath your shoes. One turn of the path later, and you were standing right on the beach. The ocean stretched out before you, quiet except for the gentle crash of waves.
A figure sat on the sand ahead, a dark shape against the dim glow of the moon. Was that Rafayel?
Your pace quickened, spraying sand with each step.
And then he turned and you both locked eyes at the same time.
“You jerk! Blocking me? That’s so mature—”
“Oh, so now you decide to show your face—Oh my god! What the hell happened to you!”
His mouth hung open for a second. You retreated half a step, self-conscious under his gaze.
“Wait, did someone actually kidnap you again?” he asked. “Did they kidnap you and force you to wear clothes from the—” He trailed off when he caught your expression. His brows softened, something in his posture shifted. “Hey, are you okay?”
You wanted to be strong. To Argue. You wanted to tell Rafayel all the ways in which he was wrong and you were right and demand he apologize to you.
But you couldn’t. All you could do was look away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill anyway. “No,” you said, your face crumpling.
You hadn’t noticed him move, but suddenly he was there, pressing you to his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly.
Your face buried against his shoulder, you hugged him back, hot tears soaking into the fabric of his suit. Oh god, he was in a suit. A nice, expensive-looking suit. And here you were ruining it.
You pushed him back lightly. He let you go, but the instant he did, you regretted it.
“I had a feeling something awful happened,” Rafayel said. “I knew there was no way you’d skip my art show for nothing.”
“No, you didn’t,” you snapped, pushing him again with more force. “You blew up at me and then you blocked me!”
“Uh, pretty sure one of my texts said if something bad actually happened, you should ignore everything I said.”
You leveled him with a stare.
“I’m sorry! Please forgive me!” Rafayel said, eyes wide and pleading. “I’ll do anything. Just give me one more chance.”
“Are you ever going to pull a stunt like that again?” you asked, arms crossed.
“Not if you actually respond to my messages…” he grumbled.
“Rafayel,” you sighed. “I’m really not much of a texter.”
“I know,” he said. “You’re horrible at it.”
You shot him another look, but he just tugged gently on your hand. “Come on inside. I have something that’ll cheer you up,” he said.
He led you up the slope of sand toward the back of his house. A wall of towering windows greeted you, with a door that matched. It was already open.
Rafayel crouched and picked up a canvas resting on the floor. “Here,” he said, spinning it around. “This is for you.”
You let out a soft gasp. It was the piece, your piece. Hands reaching up, waves bending the light, a figure just beneath the surface of the water.
The original.
“You’re giving this to me?” you asked.
Rafayel nodded. “Yes. I give my art to friends. I make too much anyway. Better it goes somewhere it’s appreciated than just sits collecting dust.”
You stepped closer to the canvas, letting your fingers brush along the ridges of paint. “Rafayel,” you said softly, “why not sell these? People would pay so much; you could make a fortune.”
He shrugged casually. “Nah. I do this for me. For fun. Turning it into work would ruin it. I couldn’t risk ever losing the joy in something I love.”
“Thank you,” you said. “For giving this to me. It really means a lot. This is going to be the most valuable thing in my apartment. An abysswalker original.”
“I already told you, it has no monetary value,” he said. “And don’t even think about selling it. If I see it on eBay, I’m suing you. Got it?”
You rolled your eyes. “I wasn’t talking about money. This is sentimental. It’s priceless to me.”
“Oh,” Rafayel said, looking away. “Well, then… good.”
“Rafayel… are you blushing?”
“No,” he said quickly, stiffening.
“Yes, you are!” you laughed, pointing. “Your ears! Look at them; they’re bright red!”
“They’re not red!” he insisted, pressing both hands to his ears.
“Alright,” you said, grinning, “I’ll let you off the hook this time. You’ve earned some bonus points for being nice today.”
You carefully set the canvas back on the floor, aware of Rafayel’s eyes on you. He didn’t look away.
“Are you still not okay?” he asked. “Do you want anything? Need anything? Seriously, tell me if there’s anything I can do.”
You shook your head and wiped at your cheeks. “I’m fine, really. Just family stuff I’m still figuring out. Not your problem.”
“What kind of family stuff?” he asked.
“Nothing you need to handle,” you said. “I don’t want to unload all of that on you.”
Rafayel’s hands found your face, warm and firm. He tilted your head gently so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. “If you’re sure…” he said. His thumbs traced just below your eyes. “Because, you know, I’ve got some experience with family stuff. Remember when my father refused to pay my ransom?”
You let out a startled laugh. “Oh my god. How could I forget?”
“Just a casual near-death experience,” he said dryly. “My father leaving us to rot. Please, continue laughing.”
“The kidnappers were super pissed when they found out your dad hated you,” you said.
“Yes,” he said. “And they broke my nose about it.”
“Mm,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “Pretty sure the nurse said it wasn’t broken. She called it ‘slightly tender’ and blamed the blood on your abnormally giant sinus cavities.”
“That nurse had no compassion!” Rafayel said. “Let her take a boot to the face and see how ‘slightly tender’ she feels afterward.”
“Is there a single person you don’t have beef with?” you asked.
“I don’t have beef with Thomas,” he protested, hands still framing your face. “And I don’t have beef with you.”
“Since when?” you asked. “We argue constantly.”
“That’s not arguing,” he said. “It’s… romantic tension.”
“O-oh,” your voice wobbled. “That’s what it is?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, ears blazing red again. “I’ve concluded every insult you’ve ever thrown at me is just repressed affection. You’re welcome for the diagnosis.”
“Repressed affec—?” you sputtered, cutting yourself off. “I do not have repressed affection! If anyone here has that, it’s you!”
“How? How is it me?” Rafayel asked. “I invite you to lunch. I cook for you. I personally ask you to my art show—and you don’t even show up! I am carrying this entire operation. When exactly are you planning to reciprocate?”
You stared at him, stunned. Your hands moved slowly up his arms, tracing the lines of his forearms, to his wrists, still holding your face in his hands. His expression was unwavering, serious.
“I could fix that,” you said softly. “Right now.”
You rose onto your tiptoes, brushing your lips against his briefly, a whisper of contact before settling back onto your heels.
Rafayel’s hand shot to the back of your head, and pulled you into him, crashing his lips against yours.
He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall with a thud, and the kiss deepened, his hands sliding from your jaw to your neck.
Blinding industrial floodlights snapped on overhead. You both jerked apart, startled, breath catching in your throats.
“Rafayel, I’m really sorry your date didn’t work out,” Thomas said, stepping inside with a grocery bag. “But I brought those cheesy fish crackers you like. Thought we could—” He froze, eyes wide. “Oh… hello.”
“Thomas! You’re fired! Actually fired this time!”