© 2025 Kaela Seraphine. All Rights Reserved

“Miss Bodyguard, you’re late. Again.”

You step into the coastal studio just in time to see Rafayel—draped in a linen shirt, barefoot, and dramatically sprawled across a velvet couch like some tragic romantic poet. Charcoal smudged his cheek, and a half-finished painting smoldered behind him, quite literally.

“Raf,” you sigh, kicking the door shut behind you, “you set your easel on fire.”

He raises a brow. “I call it ‘spontaneous inspiration.’”

You march over and douse the canvas with a flick from your mini extinguisher. Again.

"And I call it a fire hazard."

He pouts. “You’re so harsh. No wonder my muse left me. Probably afraid of you.”

You arch a brow. “You’re the one who hired a bodyguard.”

“To protect my fragile genius” he says, standing. All six feet of chaotic, paint-splattered, infuriatingly handsome genius. His red-tinted curls bounced slightly as he moved closer, heat emanating from his skin—not just metaphorically.

You hold your ground. You always do.

“Any actual threats today?”

He shrugs. “Only the existential kind.”

“Try me.”

Rafayel walks toward his massive window overlooking the sea. The horizon blazed orange, the way it only does when a storm’s threatening to meet the sunset. Fitting, you think. He turns, silhouette backlit by firelight and ocean spray.

“Sometimes,” he begins slowly, “I wonder if all this beauty I paint… is just me trying to make up for the ugly parts I hide.”

You blink. That… was not the answer you expected.

“That’s not the kind of threat I meant,” you say, voice gentler now. “But… I’ll add it to the list.”

He smirks. “Miss Bodyguard getting soft on me?”

“I’m only soft for dumb rich artists who forget their security codes and accidentally set their kitchen on fire with toast.”

He gasps. “It was one time!”

You snort. But then, his gaze settles on you with something… quieter.

“Stay for dinner?” he asks, almost shyly. “I know I’m supposed to be the client, but… it gets quiet here when the flames die down.”