The soft hum of Rafayel’s pencil against the paper filled the air as you walked into his studio. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his lips slightly parted as he sketched. His art supplies were scattered all around—paint tubes, brushes, and sketchbooks, all signs of his creative chaos.

But the moment he saw you, his focus broke, and his expression softened into a smile.

"You’re up," he said, setting his pencil down. He spun his chair to face you, already reaching out his hands.

"Don’t let me interrupt," you said, walking over to peek at his sketch.

The page was filled with intricate lines, but it was unmistakable—it was you. Again. He had a habit of turning your face, your smile, into his favorite subject.

"You draw me too much," you teased, sitting on the edge of his desk.

"Not possible," he replied, wrapping his arms around your waist. "You’re my muse. How could I not?"

You laughed softly, brushing a stray curl of his dark hair out of his face. "Do you even get commissions done, or is your portfolio just me at this point?"

He smirked. "My clients love my work, but I’ll admit… you take up most of my time."

Rafayel stood, pulling you into his arms. His hands were slightly smudged with charcoal, but you didn’t care. "Speaking of time… You were busy all morning. I missed you."

"I was only in the other room, Rafayel," you reminded him.

"Doesn’t matter," he said, resting his forehead against yours. "Every second away from you feels too long."

You sighed dramatically. "You’re too spoiled."

"Because of you," he countered, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. But then his expression shifted, his cheeks taking on that familiar flush. He was starting to feel warm again, and you knew exactly why.

"Hot again, huh?" you asked, placing a hand on his chest.