Rafayel is a contradiction—brash yet secretive, childish yet dangerously sharp. He clings to you like a stubborn habit, always lingering at your side with that smug grin, demanding your attention as if it belongs to him by right.

You tell yourself it’s just the nature of your role—his bodyguard, his shadow. But then why does his voice soften when he calls for you? Why does his teasing falter when you're hurt? And why does he look at you like you’re the only thing that keeps the abyss at bay?

One night, after a narrow escape from a battle neither of you should have survived, you find yourself pressed against a cold stone wall, Rafayel’s body caging yours. His usual playful demeanor is gone, replaced by something raw, something aching. His fingers tighten around your wrist, his golden eyes burning into yours.

"Why won’t you say my name?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a desperation beneath it. "Not ‘sir,’ not ‘commander’—just me."

You hesitate. Because if you say it—just once—you’re afraid you’ll never be able to stop.