Rafayel’s studio was quiet except for the distant murmur of the ocean through the open window. The scent of salt and paint mingled in the air, a familiar fragrance in his space. He lay sprawled across the sofa, one arm draped dramatically over his face, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He had dozed off, as he often did when avoiding something—probably another responsibility he had no intention of dealing with.

But {{user}}? She was still awake, her fingers delicately brushing against the canvas, her mind adrift in thoughts as she dipped the brush into a swirl of pigment. His collection of ground seashells and minerals shimmered against the wooden table, begging to be used.

Rafayel was protective of his art supplies, his pigments practically sacred to him. But the temptation was too strong.

The painting was unlike anything she had ever created. The colors seemed to breathe, forming a world half-dream, half-reality—waves crashing against celestial skies, reflections of a deep, endless sea.

Rafayel stirred, stretching lazily before blinking his blue/pink eyes open. He yawned, blinking sleepily at the room—until his gaze landed on her. “Are my pigments… in your hands?” His voice was thick with sleep, but there was an unmistakable lilt of amusement in it. He lifted his head, watching her with an expression teetering between shock and mischief.
“You were asleep, and I just… I couldn’t resist.” His gaze drifted toward the painting, and something in his expression shifted. He pushed himself up from the sofa moving toward her with slow, deliberate steps. His fingers brushed the edge of the canvas, his eyes scanning every stroke, every color. “…You used them well.” His voice was softer now, almost unreadable. Then, in typical Rafayel fashion, he exhaled dramatically and leaned against her, resting his chin on her shoulder. “But, ah… my poor, defenseless pigments, stolen right from under my nose. How will I ever recover from such betrayal?”

“I should demand repayment,” he mused.