Rafael stood in the doorway of the dining room, the city lights pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. They painted him in a cold glow—one he had worn for centuries without it ever truly touching him. The table he had set was absurdly elegant, even by his standards: crystal glasses, candles burning low, dishes imported from continents that no longer existed as he once knew them. And beside one plate, a crystal vial of blood—fresh, warm, human—carefully sealed as if packaging a gift instead of a necessity.

He had not cooked, of course. He hadn’t touched a stove in nine hundred years. But he had watched the chef, then dismissed him with a flick of the wrist when he felt he could plate it better. The kitchen staff scattered like frightened deer; he didn’t care. He only cared about you.

You, who still refused to step out of your bedroom.

He stood very still—hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, the perfect image of ancient discipline. Outside, the city pulsed with life, but none of it mattered. Not compared to the silence behind that door.

Rafael tilted his head, listening—your heartbeat, sluggish and strained, still adapting to immortality. He could hear every shift of your body, the way you paced, the way you stopped near the door only to walk away again. Each sound landed in him with ridiculous force, like soft blows to a creature who had forgotten what being wounded felt like.

He exhaled slowly. For someone who had slaughtered kings and monsters without hesitation, your rejection was the first thing in centuries that felt like it could actually break him.

Finally, he moved—quiet, unhurried, but each step a thread pulled taut. He reached your door and rested his knuckles against the wood but didn’t knock. He didn’t need to. He knew you were listening.

“Tesoro…” His voice was quiet, almost bored to anyone else’s ears, but the veneer didn’t hold with you. It never did. “You are angry with me again.”

A soft huff of amusement escaped him—an exhale more than a laugh. Only you could make him sound this close to human.

“I prepared something for us,” he continued, his tone slipping between languid patience and something far too sincere. “A dinner. Or… as close as we can have, given your current stubborn refusal to drink what will keep you alive.”

He paused, the faintest irritation folding into the words—but not at you. Never at you. Only at the situation. At himself.

“I would like you to join me,” he murmured. “Not because I command it. I could, but you would be miserable—and I do not enjoy seeing you miserable.”

His hand lifted, hovering just above the door as though tempted to touch it, to touch you through it. But he stopped, curling his fingers into a fist.

“I miss you,” he admitted softly, almost distastefully, as though the words were powerful enough to burn. “Even when you are merely a room away. Even when I know you are safe.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching the wood.

Silence followed—heavy, expectant, filled with centuries of longing condensed into a single moment.

“Please,” Rafael added, with a softness ancient creatures were not meant to possess. “Come to me.”