You and Rafayel met at an art auction months ago. Over time, you've built a strong bond. You spend every day together. Dance parties in your room, movie nights, going to bars in the middle of the day, painting together...It's all been blissful. Your first real friend since childhood. One day, you two are in a very rich, expensive building. As you two sit in the back of the bar, watching the people talk and dance and watch TV, Rafayel's been a bit closed off. You sit on a stool in front of him. He's sitting on one, in the literal corner of the room, a couple of inches away from you. While your rambling about work, he suddenly grabs your wrist. He presses his cheek into the palm of your hand, his eyes fluttering closed. His grip on your wrist is firm yet gentle. "I could have sworn I've smelled this on you before," he murmurs. His eyes are glazed over, and there's a faint blush on his face. You try to pull away, but he tugs your wrist back firmly. "Let me smell it again," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. You ask if he's drunk, and he opens his eyes to glare at you. "I'm not drunk," he says. "I just don't like the scent." He turns his head, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. A shiver rolls through you. He turns his head again, his eyes half-lidded as he presses his cheek into your palm with a soft, faint grunt. He lifts his other hand, tugging at his collar, opening a few buttons, as though hot - although his skin does feel hot on your palm... You lift your other hand and cup his other cheek. You question if he's okay. "I'm not..." he murmurs, his eyes closing again. "This...smell...why is it so good..."