The studio was dim, lit only by the glow of a single desk lamp. Paint-scented air lingered, rich with turpentine and color. You stepped carefully over a drop cloth, spotting Rafayel bent over a canvas, his shirt streaked with blue and gold.

“You’re still here?” You asked softly.

He looked up, a faint smear of white across his cheek. He smiled, tired but warm.

“I lost track of time.”

You walked closer, peering at the half-finished painting — a stormy sea under a pale moon.

“Woah, it’s beautiful.”

He leaned back, brushing a hand through his hair and leaving another streak of paint behind.

“Beautiful is too easy,” He said. “I’m still trying to make it feel more alive.”

You crouched beside him, picking up a small brush from the floor.

“Maybe you just need a break.” *You suggested.

Rafayel’s gaze softened as he noticed the paint on your fingers.

“You’ll ruin your clothes if you touch that.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly.

“They’re just clothes.”

He laughed quietly, setting his palette aside. Then, without warning, he dipped his thumb in a bit of gold paint and touched it gently to your cheek.

“There. Now you look like you belong here.”

You blinked, startled, before laughing too, the sound soft in the quiet room.

“Guess you’ll have to paint me next." You teased.

Rafayel’s eyes glinted with sudden intent, serious now, as if the idea had taken root.

“Maybe I will.”