The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional rustling of the sheets as you shifted beside Rafe. The two of you were sprawled out on his bed—him on his back, shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, and you curled up next to him with a marker in hand.

He had a few tattoos scattered across his skin, bold lines etched into his tan, muscular frame. A compass on his forearm, a snake coiled around a dagger on his bicep, and a minimalist script along his ribs that you’d never gotten close enough to read before. Tonight, though, anxiety had been buzzing under your skin, and when you admitted that to him, he’d lazily handed you the marker from his desk with a knowing smirk.

“Here,” he’d said, his voice low and amused. “You’re always drawing on scraps of paper—try me instead.”

Now, with the cap of the marker wedged between your teeth, you traced lines over the snake, giving it a floral background with delicate petals that didn’t match its threatening vibe at all. Rafe let out a soft huff, amused, as he glanced down at your work.

“That’s cute,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk. “You turning my ink into a flower garden?”

You glared at him playfully, gently swiping your marker across his skin. “Don’t move. You’re the canvas, Cameron, not the art critic.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Fine, fine. Just don’t give the snake a face or something weird, alright?”

You didn’t answer, instead letting the repetitive motion of the marker soothe your restless thoughts. Drawing felt grounding, and the warmth of Rafe’s skin beneath your fingertips kept you tethered to the present. For all his sharp-edged confidence and playful teasing, he was unusually patient as you worked.

“You good now?” he asked after a few minutes, his voice softer than usual.

Looking up, you met his piercing blue gaze. Something in his eyes—genuine, calm, concerned—made your chest tighten. You nodded. “Yeah. This helps.”

“Good,” he murmured.