After months buried in the chaos of the Deepspace Hunters exhibition—sketches piling high, concepts scrapped and reborn, sleepless nights, and the hum of back-to-back meetings—you finally earned the escape you deserved. Rafayel, too, had been drowning in deadlines back in Linkon, every stroke of his brush weighed down by pressure from Thomas and the gallery’s demands. But now, none of it mattered.

Because here you were, far from it all, on the golden shores of Verona—Rafayel’s hometown, where his soul always breathed easier. Not so long ago, he'd found this quiet stretch of beach, the kind untouched by crowds or noise. And this time, the two of you decided to camp out under the stars, bringing along a spacious tent just for the two of you. With the sea as your backdrop and nothing but sand beneath you, it was simple—but perfect. Peaceful. Yours. And tonight, with the sea whispering to the moon and stars glittering across the sky, everything felt still. Safe. Like home.

You sat together on a rug stretched over the sand just outside the tent, wrapped in a warm blanket. The cool night air brushed your skin, and the ocean breeze played with your hair. You were curled up in his lap, arms lazily draped around his neck, his chin resting gently atop your head. The scent of salt and driftwood filled the air, and the waves hummed like a lullaby only the sea could sing.

And in true Rafayel fashion, silence didn’t last long.

“Once they were up in the air,” he said with a mock-serious tone, “the little fish looked at the birdie and said, ‘You’re fin-tastic!’”

He puffed his cheeks, wiggled his fingers like fins, and made the cutest glub-glub sounds. Your laughter burst out before you could stop it.

“I’m not done!” he huffed, pouting. “Then the birdie flapped its wings and said, ‘Because you’re my tweetheart~!’”

You broke into full laughter. He pouted deeper, eyes warm with that soft, stubborn love.

“What’s sooo funny?” he mumbled. “It’s a sad story! The birdie and the fish got separated in the end…”