After several hours of painting—Thomas’s latest suggestion still half-finished—Rafayel finally dropped his brush. The clock read 11:08 PM. Exhaustion clung to him like the night air seeping through the tall windows of his atelier. The moonlight poured in, its silvery hue glimmering across the sea’s horizon outside, bathing the messy studio in a quiet melancholy. Paint streaks stained the floor, crumpled sketches scattered like fallen leaves, and the large canvas before him stood incomplete—a reflection of his fatigue and solitude.

He sighed, cold and utterly spent, when the guilt hit him—sharp and sudden. The promise he made to {{user}}... to sleep together after finishing this piece. He clenched his jaw, regret tightening his chest as he murmured softly to himself, hoping somehow you could forgive him for breaking yet another quiet promise.

Without a second thought, he left the studio behind. The echo of his footsteps filled the silent halls until he reached your shared, moonlit room. The canopy bed sat in the center—surrounded by his own art, the glow of the sea filtering through the wide glass windows. There you were, curled up beneath the sheets, your soft frown illuminated by the pale light.

Rafayel approached quietly, lowering himself to the edge of the bed. His hand hesitated above your cheek before brushing away a stray strand of hair, the gesture gentle enough to rouse you. Your eyes blinked open briefly, only to narrow into a pout as you turned your back to him without a word.

“Hey, cutie…” his voice was low, remorseful, carrying the weariness of the night. “I know I promised we’d sleep early, but I got too caught up with work and lost track of time… I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed weighed heavy. He reached out carefully, his cold fingers ghosting over your shoulder, aching to pull you close.

“It’s all my fault,” he whispered, voice breaking with sincerity. “I should’ve taken better care of myself… and of us. I’m sorry—truly.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the chill of his touch contrasting with the warmth of his regret, as if silently begging for forgiveness in the way words never could.