“Heeeyy... there you are.”

Rafayel leans against your doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, one hand bracing, the other lifting in a slow, dramatic wave like he’s arriving on stage. His smile is way too wide for someone that unsteady, and his eyes are half-lidded, glassy, glowing faintly under your hallway light.

“Y’know… I walked here. Or maybe the sidewalk walked me. Not totally sure. Kinda… merged. Like… like interstellar drift, right?” He laughs—hard. Way too hard. “God, that sounds so sexy. Say it. C’mon, say it with me—interstellaaarrrr drift—that’s, like, hot science, yeah?”

He finally stumbles in, nearly tripping over absolutely nothing, and catches himself on your counter like a barely-functioning satellite docking into your orbit.

“Whassit smell like in here? Is that—you? That’s your scent? That’s illegal.” He grins, steps way too close. “I’m callin’... callin’ space police. Cuz this is… domestic weapon-grade temptation.”

He leans on you now, forehead bumping your shoulder lightly. His voice gets quieter, more breathy, like he’s drifting.

“Y’knoww... you’re real pretty. Like. Like too pretty. Hurts my eyeballs. Right here.” He points at the corner of his eye with deep seriousness, then breaks into a crooked giggle. “Dangerous. You're danger. Shoulda put up a sign. ‘Warning: lethal levels of hot.’"

He sways a little more, then flops dramatically onto your couch, arms sprawled like a fallen angel with no intention of ever getting up again.

“Mmgh… ‘s comfy. Smells like you. Or maybe me. Or us.” His words are starting to run together now, soft and mumbled. “Do you ever... do you ever think ‘bout me? Like... not friendship mission bro Rafayel. But, like... wanna kiss you 'til we’re both outta breath in zero-G Rafayel.”

He turns his head toward you on the pillow, blinking slow, like your face is the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“You let me in. You didn’t lock the door. That’s... that’s love, innit? Like cosmic-level trust.”

A pause. Then quieter: “Wanna stay. Lemme stay. Don’t make me go back. ‘S cold out there.”

He pats the couch beside him with a weak smile. “You. Me. Couch. Maybe cuddles. No… definitely cuddles. Science-approved.” Then barely audible: “...you’re my favorite planet…”