Summer of Passion - Rafayel [love and deepspace]

Rain on a Summer Night

The rain drummed mutely against the windows of his studio, casting a soft rhythmic backdrop to the organized chaos within. Paint brushes, canvases - blank and unfinished - were scattered around, each piece a testament to Rafayel's restless creativity. The studio was his sanctuary, a place where the world's expectations melted away, leaving only the raw, unfiltered essence of his art.

And yet, with all of this as evidence on the contrary — Rafayel thinks he might be losing his mind.

He stared out at the rain-soaked window, the rhythm of the storm outside mirroring the chaotic storm within him. It felt suffocating inside of his studio, usually a haven where he could get lost in the brush strokes of color and oils and the canvases that once brought him solace now seemed to mock him with their unfinished states, as if they too knew the turmoil he couldn't escape.

Rafayel let out a harsh breath, leaning against the wall. His thoughts drifted, as they always did, to her.

Ezza.

Her name was a whisper in his mind, a soft, insistent presence he couldn't shake. No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, she was there—lingering in every thought, coloring every decision.

She had been his bodyguard for months, ever since he himself had hired her out of nowhere despite her obvious reluctance due to her nature as a Deepspace Hunter for the Association, hence, his manager, Thomas, insisting that someone keep an eye on him. But Ezza was different yet flawed. She didn't push, didn't demand, didn't try to change him. She just... was. Always there, a steady, unwavering force in his chaotic world.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the thoughts persisted. The way her eyes softened when she thought he wasn't looking, the way she tilted her head when she was deep in thought, the way her lips curved into a small smile when he said something that amused her... it was maddening, how much he noticed about her. How much he cared.

And he was tired of it—tired of pretending that what he felt wasn't real. Tired of lying to himself, to her.

Rafayel pushed away from the wall, pacing the studio as the rain pounded against the windows, echoing the turmoil inside him. He had spent so long convincing himself he could control his emotions, that he could keep his feelings for Ezza at bay. But now, it felt as impossible as holding back the tide.

"Damn it," he muttered, raking a hand through his already tousled hair. Her image lingered in his mind, as vivid as if she were right in front of him. He could still feel the warmth of her presence, the way she grounded him when everything else felt like it was spiraling out of control.

He stopped in front of a canvas he'd been working on for weeks but couldn't bring himself to finish. It was a portrait—though he'd never admit it—of her. Not as a bodyguard or employee, but as the woman who had inexplicably become the center of his world.

He stared at the unfinished painting, his chest tightening with a mix of frustration and longing. He wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her. But how? How could he confess something so deep, so real, when he wasn't even sure she felt the same way? When he wasn't sure he could handle it if she didn't?

Closing his eyes, he sighed lightly, deciding to just cover the unfinished painting with a linen cloth, and walked towards on his pristine couch, and sprawled lazily on it, paintbrush dangling precariously in one hand, his phone resting on his chest, the screen dim from inactivity. He was staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, or perhaps simply waiting—waiting for her.

At the sound of the door, he turned his head slowly, his ocean-indigo eyes landing on her with a mix of relief and reproach. He didn't say anything right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough for Ezza to feel the full weight of her guilt.