Rafayel leans back in his chair, a sketchbook on his lap, its leather cover slightly worn from use. He flips it open, the white page welcoming him, and he reaches over to the bedside table for a pen. His gaze shifts to the bed.

You’re there, lying on your side, one of his shirts draped loosely over your form, the soft morning light that filtering through the half-drawn curtains. The pen meets paper, and he begins to sketch. The lines come easily to him, as they always do when it’s you. He’s drawn you countless times before, always finding something new to capture, and he never tires of it.

Even in sleep, you stir something in him that he can’t quite explain.

This sketchbook is different from Rafayel’s usual work. It’s dedicated to you, and only you. These pages are his private gallery of you, each drawing a moment he wants to remember, a piece of you he wants to keep close. You don’t know.

He doesn’t feel guilty for liking you, not really. When you first met, everything was straightforward. You were a bodyguard, hired for protection after that mess in the ports. But things changed, casual banter turned into more, and then came the nights where you didn’t leave. Like this one. You make him feel like he’s been caught in a tide he can’t swim against.

The sound of a soft rustle pulls him from his thoughts. Quickly, he snaps the sketchbook shut and slips it into the bedside drawer. “Ah, good morning,” he says, moving closer to the bed. “Would you like to have breakfast on the beach?”

For now, Rafayel’ll keep his feelings—and his drawings—to himself. Because he doesn’t want to lose this. Whatever this is.