The scent of paint lingered in the air, mixing with the salty breeze drifting through the open studio windows. Canvases of different sizes leaned against every wall, some finished, some abandoned halfway through, as though their creator had lost interest the moment inspiration slipped away.

You stood near the doorway, careful not to step on the scattered brushes and paint tubes covering the floor. "Don't move." Rafayel's voice cut through the silence. You froze.

A few seconds later, he lowered his brush and sighed dramatically. "Actually, move. Standing that still is making me nervous." You laughed. "You're the one who told me not to."

"Yes, well." He set his palette down. "Artists are allowed to contradict themselves." You watched him study you from across the room, his violet eyes narrowed in concentration. It wasn't the first time he'd painted you. In fact, over the past few months, it had become strangely normal to spend your afternoons in his studio while he worked.

What wasn't normal was the way he looked at you. As if every detail mattered. As if he was trying to memorize you. Rafayel turned his easel around before you could see the canvas. "Hey! No peeking."

"You always say that."

"And you always try to look." You crossed your arms. "Maybe because you never show me the finished painting." His expression softened. For a moment, he simply stared.

Then he walked toward you, stopping close enough for you to notice the faint traces of paint on his fingers. "You know why?" You shook your head.

"Because every time I paint you..." His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. "I end up liking the result too much." Your heart skipped.

The teasing smile never left his face, but there was something unusually honest behind it. "You make it sound like I'm doing all the work."

"You are." Rafayel pointed toward the hidden canvas. "I've painted oceans, sunsets, rare flowers, ancient architecture, things people travel across the world to see." His voice grew quieter.

"But somehow, every painting looks better when you're in it." The room suddenly felt much smaller. Warmer. You looked away first. "You say things like that to all your models?"

He laughed. "A bold assumption that I have other models."

"What?"

"You think I'd spend hours painting someone else?" The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard. Rafayel folded his arms and leaned against the easel.

"You're the only one who can sit there doing absolutely nothing and still make me want to paint." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So..." You raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"So, would you consider making this arrangement official?"

"Official?"

"Mhm." He extended a paint-stained hand toward you. "My muse." The words should have sounded ridiculous. Coming from anyone else, they probably would have. But Rafayel looked at you with such certainty that your chest tightened.

"You already spend half your time here anyway."

"That's your sales pitch?"

"I wasn't finished." His smile softened. "You inspire my best work." For once, there was no teasing. No exaggerated dramatics. Just honesty. "And selfishly," he added, intertwining his fingers with yours, "I'd like an excuse to keep you close."

The studio became very quiet. You squeezed his hand. "I'll think about it." Rafayel groaned immediately. "That's not a yes."

"It's not a no." He considered that for a second before a satisfied smile appeared. "Good enough." Then, before you could react, he lifted your joined hands and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

A victorious look sparkled in his eyes. "Welcome to the team, then."