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The sky is the color of a cut peach when Rafayel nudges your gaze to two of his students and plainly notes, “They’re in love.”
His tone, light as it is, brooks no argument. It isn’t gossip, but the declaration of a particularly nosy king. You’re not sure if a professor should have an interest in the romantic lives of his students, let alone share details with an outsider. But you know as well as anyone that Rafayel will as Rafayel does.
You cozy a bit further into your recline on the grassy slope and feign disinterest as you sip from the can in your hand. As you peek at the maybe-couple, the soda fizzles on your lips. One of the students is so casually glamorous that a lovestruck classmate was inevitable. Her fashionably oversized leather trench coat hangs over her thick-soled boots. Her lips are painted the bold, rich color of mahogany and kohl rings her eyes.
The other student was one of the first to mistakenly greet you as Rafayel’s wife. They look—in your opinion—a bit ratty, but it’s clearly by design. Their denim jacket is torn in strategic places. The shirt underneath is faded and their mop of hair is the same texture of Rafayel’s, though wildly overgrown. It’s the sort of aesthetic you imagine many would romanticize when asked to imagine an artiste, just not your artiste.
Of course, the luxury of Rafayel’s wardrobe (you found a receipt once; almost threw up) is very much the exception, not the rule.
Keeping your expression neutral, you blithely reply, “You sound so sure.”
“Can’t you tell?”
Rafayel scoots a bit closer and rests his head on yours. The gesture feels proprietary, and unabashedly intimate. His shoulder is warm and solid against your arm. His pinky has subtly draped itself over yours like the wandering tail of a cat who yearns for attention, but would like to appear as if they’re not so desperate as to beg for it.
You glance at his other students milling about for the celebration. You catch more than a few of them looking back at the two of you, the mirth in their eyes winking like passing fireflies before darting away. They don’t seem disturbed by his blatant display of affection. In fact, they seem delighted.
Shameless, just like their professor. Like attracts like.
Rafayel doesn’t pay them any mind. “Look closely,” he directs. His voice blows warm and low across your temple. He smells clean and suspiciously like your shampoo. “See how fidgety they are? It’s so obvious.”
The mop-headed student can’t decide whether they want to keep their hands in the pockets of their jacket. The other keeps lifting her fingers to the corner of her mouth. It’s unclear whether she means to hide her smile or draw attention to it.
“They could just be good friends.”
“Right,” Rafayel demurs. “Like how we were good friends when we fostered a stray cat together? Or maybe, when you “pretended” to be drunk to get me out of that gala that one time?”
“But we weren’t good friends,” you bluntly point out. “You were my employer. Remember?”
Rafayel snorts. “I’m pretty sure you were the only person who actually believed that.”
Your gaze drifts back to the lovebirds as one throws their head back in a burst of laughter. The other goes still for a fraction of a second and just… stares. And yes, there’s something darling about it, something familiar that makes you feel oddly wizened and fuzzy inside.
“It’s been… maybe a month now?” Rafayel says. “Though who knows when they actually realized their own feelings.”
Again, you’re floored by his confidence in the matter. “A professor’s intuition is a terrifying thing.”
“Intuition?” He hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. It could be that. Or it could be all those portraiture assignments they turned in. You can only draw your pretty classmate so many times before it starts to look suspicious.”
You pause before drawing back to look at him. His eyes, smug and molten in the light of the sunset, slide to yours. “That has to be a violation of some policy right? Telling me all this.”
“Probably,” Rafayel drawls, leaning back onto his elbows. “Are you going to arrest me for it, Miss Hunter?”
His tone is mellow and syrupy, like he’s entertaining the thought of napping. There’s no tension in his expression, no clench of the jaw or wrinkle in his brow. This is all new to you—his contentment. It’s a far cry from what you witnessed in him in Whalefall City, where grief and terror drew his features taut.
For the first time since you met, Rafayel looks… free.
You’d like to keep him this way. Keep him. His gaze softens as he senses the surge of feeling in you: righteous and fierce. You temper it into something calmer. Gentler.
“I don't think disciplining professors is in my job description,” you tease, “But one of these days, I just might.”
Rafayel tilts his head and smiles at you. His look is too bold for the company of his students. It’s an open adoration best suited for lazy mornings in bed or walks on the beach. He shines it on you anyway, his attention so steady that he doesn’t even notice when the student in the denim jacket shyly approaches.
“Professor?”
Rafayel blinks himself back into a semblance of professionalism. His smile is pleasant but the turn of his head is slow. The student flashes an apologetic smile before saying, “The rest of us are going to head out. Some of us were thinking of grabbing drinks. You’re welcome to join but we figured…”
The glance your way isn’t subtle. You can’t help a smile.
“Yeah,” Rafayel gently confirms. “I’ll see you Monday. Tell them thank you for me, will you?”
Before the student can reply, you slyly add, “The two of you are adorable together, by the way.”
You watch with barely disguised satisfaction as the student’s cheeks deepen with a violent blush. You’ve never seen anyone go so red, other than Rafayel.
“Oh, we’re not—” The student chokes, before melting into a sheepish smile. “Um. Thanks, Mrs. Qi.”
When the student in the denim jacket rejoins the others, the girl in the leather coat is the first to extend her hand.
“Mrs. Qi…” Rafayel muses as they make their trek across the meadow. His eyes find their way back to yours. His smirk is trouble incarnate, handsome and characteristically mischievous.
A touch to the arm is all it takes to coax you into laying beside him, your back flat on the grass. Rafayel turns on his side to look at you. Behind him, a stripe of sky’s turning lilac and a distant tree sways, its branches dotted with the tentative bloom of spring.
How fitting for him to be born in the season that brings color back to the world. A time of renewal.
The Sea God can’t die, he'd assured you. Only reborn.
He lowers his head towards you but you’re quicker. With a firm hand on his shoulder, you hiss, “Rafayel. Not here.”
His students aren’t even out of sight yet.
Rafayel clearly doesn’t care. His expression promptly falls into his signature pout. Under different circumstances, you’d be inclined to surrender and kiss it off.
“But it’s my birthday,” he whines.
As if you haven’t done enough to spoil him.
The corner of Rafayel’s mouth twitches under your glare, but his pout doesn’t budge. It’s adorable. He knows it. Your gaze travels from the mole on his nose to the cradle of his cupid’s bow, its path the exact shape of the crack in your resolve.
You nudge him back with a stern frown. “Come on, Professor. Let’s go for a walk.”
"So, be honest," Rafayel probes, "how many "good friends" have you brought here, really?"
Your cheeks warm as you shift your weight from toe to toe. “More than zero,” you admit.
You’ve led him to a small memorial garden at the far edge of campus, where a paved labyrinth's coiled beneath an old camphor tree. You did your best to recount its history on the walk over. It was built in honor of a Zen buddhist priest who taught at the school for decades, if memory serves right. Her name is written beside a small pond smattered with lily pads. The lotuses are yet to bloom. Unfortunately, even with the help of the flashlight on Rafayel’s phone, you can barely read the plaque.
You dim the light and cast your gaze across the rest of the flora—the slender spokes of the bamboo palms and white-tipped gardenia buds. “Can you blame me? It’s nice here,” you say fondly. “Secluded.”
“What a scandalous thing to say.”
You roll your eyes as you move past him. He falls in step with you in short order, hands in his pockets.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” you snap, though there isn't any heat to it. “Most of the time, I came alone.”
The garden was a hideaway. A refuge. A place to catch your breath. You once failed an exam and spent a whole afternoon on one of the benches, staring blankly into the camphor leaves. You’ve loved here. You’ve wept. You’ve lost track of the number of times you’ve walked the stone path with a question in mind hoping to find an answer or peace at the center.
It’s a mostly forgotten landmark. It isn’t on any lists. That what makes it all the more precious.
“I once slept on that bench in junior year,” you say, pointing. “Overnight, I mean. My roommate booted me out for a night with our TA.”
Rafayel gives you a low whistle as you guide him to the labyrinth. “Was it worth it?”
“They’re still together.”
“Then it was a noble sacrifice.”
You smirk and give him a shrug.
Maybe it’s the twilight. Maybe you’re riding the high of your successful birthday operations or your mood’s gone a bit wonky after visiting all these old haunts. Whatever it is, it possesses you to be daring.
As Rafayel moves past you to walk along the curve of the labyrinth, you toe at one of the polished stones and comment, “Could’ve been us.”
Rafayel doesn’t quite stumble, but there’s a hiccup in his step. He turns on his heel to stare at you with that dopey fish-eyed look he’s been wearing all day. It’s incandescently tender, lays his love like a bubble in your hands, and you ache with the responsibility of making sure it never breaks.
“You know I’m going to marry you, right?”
A champagne sort of feeling rushes through you—golden and effervescent. The world’s spin seems to slow beneath your feet. You knew, you knew, but it’s different to know and hear it, and it’s unfair that this man could give and steal away your breath so easily, that you could love him so fiercely it’s like your lungs have never known air.
Rafayel’s ears are flushed above his shoulders. You know the nip in the air isn’t to blame. Part of you wants to stride towards him and slide your hand beneath his coat, just to see if the bond is glimmering as wonderfully as you feel. But before you can move, let alone speak, Rafayel resumes his walk.
He follows the edge of the labyrinth to a starting point that mirrors yours. “Hey,” he says, sending a smile over the paved arcs and loops. “How many steps do you think it’ll take for us to meet in the middle?”
You smother your grin, instead turning an exaggeratedly pensive frown onto the maze. “A lot less than fifty,” you decide.
Rafayel scoffs. “Well that’s a copout.”
“Does it matter?” You counter.
Whatever the number is, you’ll walk it.
After a beat, Rafayel softly replies. “No. It doesn’t.”
A breeze blows through the camphor leaves as you step onto the stones.
How many questions have you asked this labyrinth, not knowing that Rafayel was the answer?
You take your time walking. You keep count.