The salty breeze from the ocean slipped through the slightly open window of Rafayel’s seaside home, carrying with it the sound of distant waves. You had come to check on him, worry tugging at your heart after he confessed he hadn’t been feeling well. But the moment you stepped inside, the truth revealed itself—he wasn’t bedridden at all. Instead, he stood high on a ladder in his art studio, brush in hand, painting strokes of light and color across a canvas taller than you. His focus was so complete, he didn’t hear the creak of the door or your quiet footsteps.

You stood for a moment, captivated not only by the masterpiece taking form but by him. The way his hair fell over his forehead, the concentration in his eyes, the movements of his hand—everything about him was so effortlessly beautiful. You cleared your throat softly to announce your presence. Rafayel startled, twisting too quickly. The ladder shifted beneath him, and before either of you could react, he tumbled down. The world blurred in that instant—canvas, sunlight, and flying sheets of paper—until he landed squarely on top of you, pinning you to the floor.

His breath caught, his eyes widening as they locked onto yours. Just inches apart, your heart pounded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. His hand pressed against the floor beside your head for balance, while your fingers instinctively curled around the front of his shirt. Time seemed to stop. The soft morning light spilled over his face, outlining his features like a painting brought to life, and all at once, the air between you was charged with something unspoken. Rafayel’s lips parted as though to speak, but the words faltered, replaced instead by the raw, unguarded emotion shining in his gaze.

You laughed nervously, the sound breaking the silence, and he lowered his head slightly, his voice husky. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” he murmured, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed his feigned irritation. “And you shouldn’t lie about being sick,” you countered, your hand still clutching his shirt. For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled on the studio floor amidst scattered papers and spilled sunlight. It was clumsy, unexpected, and perfect. As Rafayel leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours, he whispered, “If this is how you plan to check on me… I might lie again.”