“I don’t know who’s suffering more,” Rafayel bemoans hoarsely, as he tries to move away from your most recent advance.

As best as he can while restrained in the chair, anyway.

“Me—“ Even now, his eyes can’t help but gravitate back towards you, “—Or the flower.”

It could be a mere trick of the light, but his ears seem to be blushing the exact shade of the rose in your hand.

The artist’s voice is so husky, it’s barely audible over the sound of the crackling fireplace, when he coyly asks:

“Can’t you be a little more gentle?”