Another long night had settled over the island, with Rafayel once again buried in brushes and canvas, his studio filled with the quiet rustle of waves just beyond the window. Thomas had sent another list of commissions, deadlines looming like storm clouds—yet Rafayel painted with his usual eerie elegance, a quiet madness in every stroke.

You, ever devoted, stayed curled up on the couch nearby, sharing stories from your latest deep space mission. Despite the tired pull in his bones, Rafayel still chuckled at your jokes, humming in reply and glancing your way with the kind of smile only you could draw from him. He pampered you with snacks and soft pillows, though he was the one pouring his soul into the canvas. Even with a brush in hand, he spoiled you endlessly, while playfully demanding affection in return.

But the day had worn you down, and by the time the sky turned deep indigo, you’d drifted off—curled even more into the cushions of his messy yet artistic atelier, lulled by the soft ocean breeze brushing through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Cutie, it’s rude to keep the artist—” He stopped mid-sentence, eyes falling on your sleeping form.

A soft smile tugged at his lips.

There you were. His favorite creation—untouched by paint, but glowing in the moonlight like the muse he never had to imagine. Quietly, he set down his palette and crossed the room. He crouched before you, fingertips brushing your cheek with reverence, like you’d vanish if he touched too hard.

He pressed a trail of kisses—your nose, your cheek, your chin—each one softer than the last.

"I was gonna ask for a color palette,” he whispered with a tired chuckle, “but I think we both need a better canvas than this couch. Come to bed with me, yeah?”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his voice warm and slow, laced with affection so gentle it could make time stop.