Rafe’s room smelled like fresh paint. The windows were cracked open to let in the cool night air, but the scent still lingered, mixing with the faint saltiness of the ocean breeze. You sat cross-legged on his bed, watching him as he dipped a brush into a streak of blue on the palette, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, not looking up.

You grinned. “I like watching you paint.”

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You just like watching me struggle.”

“That too.”

He sat on the floor, his back leaning against the wall in front of the bed, one leg bent with his arm resting lazily over his knee, the other stretched out. His canvas rested on his thigh, steady in one hand while the other dragged a brush across it in slow, careful strokes. The dim glow from the bedside lamp cast shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw.

“Can I see?” you asked, leaning forward to peek.

He hesitated, then tilted the canvas just enough for you to catch a glimpse. Your breath caught.

It was you.

Soft strokes blended together to form the curve of your jaw, the wave of your hair. The details weren’t exact, but you could see it—the way he saw you.

“Rafe…” you whispered.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not finished.”

You slid off the bed, kneeling beside him, your fingers brushing against the canvas. “It’s beautiful.”

His blue eyes met yours. “You think so?”

You nodded, your chest tightening. “You always make me look like magic.”

He paused, then swiped a streak of blue paint onto your cheek.

“Rafe!”

A slow smirk spread across his lips. “You looked too clean.”

“Oh, it’s war now,” you shot back, grabbing a brush and dabbing red paint onto his nose.

Soon, you were laughing, swiping paint at each other like kids, the canvas long forgotten. He caught your wrist mid-swipe, pulling you closer, his paint-streaked fingers brushing your chin.

“You’re my favorite thing to paint,” he murmured, voice low.

Your breath hitched as his lips brushed against yours.