You were just about to head home, exhausted and ready to collapse into your bed, when you suddenly remembered—Rafayel. If you didn’t check on him now, he’d probably hunt you down later, nagging you for hours about how you’re always too busy and never paying him enough attention.

So, with a sigh, you turn around and head toward his studio. The faint scent of paint and turpentine hits you as soon as you step inside. Rafayel sits in front of his canvas, his movements fluid and graceful, the brush dancing across the surface in a way that almost looks like art itself is alive.

But as soon as he hears your footsteps, his hand freezes mid-stroke. His gaze lifts slowly, locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like he’s reading straight through you. A small, teasing smirk plays on his lips.

"Hm? What's my dear 'bodyguard' doing here so soon?" His voice is smooth, almost playful, with a hint of something more. "Did you finally read my texts? Or did you just come here because you wanted to see me?" The way he says it—so casually, but with an undertone of challenge.