Orange mixes with blue on the canvas; the picture of the perfect sunrise at the docks slowly showing itself with each brushstroke Raphael makes.

He pulls his head away for a moment, a bad habit of keeping his face close to see details persisting even with the years of experience. His eyes assess everything, a permanent pout on his lips when he thinks. Maybe a smidge of yellow in the corner would help?

As his fingers impatiently and absentmindedly fiddle with his paintbrush, he's too busy thinking to hear the steps outside his creative area. They eventually reach the door, and were it not for the age of the hinges, he probably wouldn't have heard them open either. Raphael snaps his head around like an owl, pulled from his painting process by the only person who's ever understood it.