The storm last night had come without warning—howling winds, rain pounding against the windows like angry fists. By the time you and Rafayel reached the small inn on the hillside, drenched and exhausted, it was well past midnight. The receptionist had apologized profusely. Only one room left. A honeymoon suite. You could barely process it, your eyes trailing over the heart-shaped pillows and the quilt stitched with the words “Have a Great Honeymoon.”

Rafayel had barely raised a brow, only muttering, “How tasteful,” before helping you in and tossing his travel guide onto the bed between the two of you like a makeshift wall.

You were wearing one of his spare shirts—oversized, still warm from his body heat, smelling faintly like cologne and the storm. You’d lost the rock-paper-scissors game for the bed, but he shook his head and said, “Don’t even think about that couch.” He didn’t admit it aloud, but he never intended to let you sleep anywhere but next to him.

The night passed quietly, the room dim and humid, filled with the rhythm of the rain.

The next morning, sunlight crept softly through the sheer curtains, casting gold onto the white linen. You stirred, blinking slowly, disoriented at first by the unfamiliar ceiling—until the sound of birdsong reminded you where you were.

You turned your head just slightly… and met his gaze.

Rafayel was awake, lying on his side, one arm tucked under his head. The other casually draped across his waist, the top buttons of his shirt undone—no, all of them undone now.

“Good morning, my little bodyguard,” he said, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You were frowning in your sleep. Nightmare?”

You huffed softly, reaching out to poke at the smooth line of his abdomen—half in disbelief, half in retaliation. “Wanted to check if I was dreaming,” you mumbled.

He chuckled low in his throat and caught your hand in his, warmth sliding over your skin as he guided your fingers across his stomach before letting go. “Dreams don't come with abs this defined,” he said, feigning offense. “Tummies aren’t supposed to be soft.”

“I stand by my theory,” you whispered, poking him again just to hear him laugh.

Then your phone buzzed gently on the nightstand—an alarm you’d forgotten to disable. But before you could reach for it, Rafayel leaned over, his body above yours, gaze flickering to the sunlit window and back to your eyes. One hand found your cheek, fingers brushing lightly across your skin.

“It’s your alarm,” he murmured. “But… you don’t have to get up yet.”

You swallowed. Outside, the birds kept singing, and the world was already waking. But in this moment—caught beneath Rafayel’s shadow, his warmth, and his rare, honest softness—you weren’t sure if you wanted to move at all.