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houseofhyde · 2 days ago

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manchild.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. tfatws. synopsis. bucky can't help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you. warnings. smut ( pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy ), no use of y/n, angst, fluff, frenemies to lovers, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky ( if that even makes sense ) ( it doesn't ), jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky's hobby is baking bc i said so. reader inclusivity. bucky can pick the reader up ( but he's literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️ ), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader's hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian ( neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian ) word count. 16.3k hyde’s input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don't let this flop, it's my birthday tomorrow and i'm not above crying over poorly-received erotica ( i'm joking ) ( no i'm not )

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain.

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail.

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

“You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B.

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice.

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it.

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds.

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?”

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers. I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers.

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked.

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?”

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He��s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder. “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes.

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde ! · 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

#bucky barnes smut #james buchanan barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #bucky x reader

3K notes · View notes

cityselcouth · 16 days ago

Text

runway

pairing: rafayel x reader

summary: when your top model meets with an accident that keeps him off his feet for a while, you have no choice but to take on the arrogant Qi Rafayel in his absence. dealing with a creative rut and a temperamental model who has endless amounts of audacity when you have fashion week to worry about is no easy task, and he certainly doesn't make it any better.....does he?

themes: strangers to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mild enemies/annoyances to lovers, celebrity! au, model! rafayel, fashion designer! mc, fluff, angst, slowburn, sexual tension, profanity, alcohol consumption, abadonment issues, petnames, lots of banter, explicit sexual content (fingering, nipple sucking, praise, cowgirl, protected sex), plot with porn, mc is a girlboss with a temper, rafayel is a brat and an asshole, they're both flawed and emotionally constipated lmao

word count: 35.7k

playlist: vogue by madonna, fashion killa by a$ap rocky, xs by rina sawayama, glamorous by fergie & ludacris, fashion! by lady gaga, disturbia by rihanna, louboutins by nesra, city of blinding lights by u2, empire state of mind (part ii) by alicia keys.

lyns notes: i rewatched 'the devil wears prada' (one of my fav movies fr) and this was born 🫡 I am a self proclaimed fashion girlie so this was a total blast to write and celebrity aus are my fav!! unfortunately I have not made it as an intern during fashion week yet, so please excuse the inevitable inaccuracies. model raf you will always be famous to me. enjoy <3

Your coffee was cold.

Simone stared at you nervously, her years of working as your assistant telling her all she needed to know in that moment. She watched as your fingers drummed against the dark wood of your desk, picking up on all the signs of your distress. Your lips pulled into a grimace, the slight tick in your jaw, and how you looked at the cup of coffee before you. All your employees knew that you were strictly a hot coffee drinker.

“How is he?”

She scrambled to answer. “Xavier is….recovering.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly. “Elaborate.”

“His leg is broken in two places. Some scratches, but thats the extent of his injuries. He was lucky.”

Your frustration with the situation at hand knew no bounds, and your mood soured even further with the new information. Clicking your tongue, you pressed your index finger and thumb against your temple, already feeling one of your headaches coming on. “Send a bouquet with a card to his hospital room.”

“Of course.” Simone pulled out her phone and began making the arrangements. “Anything else?”

“Coffee that isn’t frigid.”

Nodding quickly, she walked over and plucked up the cup from your table, giving you a final nod and stepping out of your office. Out of the dozens of assistants you had had, Simone had turned out to be the most competent and tolerable of all, and unlike her predecessors, had withstood your sky-high expectations and sharp tongue.

One word people would use to describe you is difficult. Others included delightful descriptions such as ‘unreasonable’ and ‘overbearing’, or perhaps the synonyms so many journalists had used in their pieces about you, including but not limited to: uptight, stubborn and ill-tempered. It was to the point where you had to applaud them for their creativity and commitment to the bit, never failing to find a new word to describe you in a bad light, even if you were the fashion world's current darling.

But this world you were so blessed to be a part of was cutthroat and unforgiving. Smiles and pretty manners would have never gotten you out of the tiny apartments you lived in after graduating from fashion school. Even sheer talent wasn’t enough, so you steeled yourself over those arduous years, using your ambition like the sharp tool it was to overcome the hurdles that had blocked your way to the top.

You had built your brand from the bottom up, and it had been worth it. Every tear, every candle you burned late at night, and every nick on your now-perfectly manicured fingers had gotten you to where you were. Some would say you had your success handed to you, but you knew better. You remembered all the times you nearly gave up, all the years you spent running around and interning for brands that treated you like trash. One couldn’t just forget their roots, even if everyone around them insisted on pretending they didn’t exist.

And so here you were, at twenty-seven years old: Y/n L/n, one of the youngest successful fashion designers in the world, and the founder and CEO of luxury fashion label, Lumiere.

For a brand that was merely five years old, it had quickly turned into a status symbol. Owning a single piece of clothing from any one of Lumiere’s high-end collections set one apart instantly. Your designs were exquisite, and your ability to take any fabric and turn it into a work of art was truly extraordinary. Every collection you breathed life into stunned critics and fellow designers alike, cementing your position as one of the most respected creatives in the industry today.

Respected or not, being a woman in power was a tough act to keep up. Sitting on the throne meant you had to rule with an iron fist. You weren’t allowed to slip up or make mistakes.

Especially not with Paris Fashion Week coming up.

The spring and summer collections would be revealed to the world at the most important fashion week. Everything had been going smoothly under your careful watch.

Until, of course, right now.

Yesterday, your top model met with an accident. Xavier Shen had been with you since the very start of Lumiere and was practically synonymous with its branding. Together, the two of you had taken the world's hottest runways by storm with his award-winning walk and your impeccable designs. In terms of real friendships, he might have been the only one you had.

And now, when you needed him, he was out of commission. There was no way he’d be walking for anyone any time soon.

Your black Louboutins pressed into the carpet beneath your feet as you fought off the wave of annoyance that cut through your concern for Xavier. It wasn’t really aimed at him, no, it was because you couldn’t have possibly predicted such a thing happening.

Money– you had lots of it. More than you could count, and enough to never worry about making a dent in your bank balance ever again. What was most important to you now was control.

Simone rushed back in, placing a steaming cup of coffee on your desk with a polite smile. “Anything else?”

Picking up the cup and taking a sip, you savoured the hot, bitter flavour that coated your taste buds. “A closer for the show would be nice. And someone to model the new line.”

Xavier had always been the one to fill in those shoes, sometimes quite literally. Now, you were left to figure out how to replace him temporarily while retaining the integrity of your brand. You couldn’t just take on anybody.

She didn’t flinch at your cold tone. “Sylus Qin?”

You shook your head, resting your elbows against the mahogany of your desk and cupping the mug of coffee, letting its warmth seep into your skin. “He’s walking for the Dior show, which is only an hour before ours. And he doesn’t particularly fit our image.” Sylus was, no doubt, an excellent model and a current favourite, but wasn’t what you wanted representing your brand. “And don’t even think of recommending Zayne Li. He’s been Miu Miu’s poster boy for the last year, and I have no intention of riding on their coattails.”

Simone began listing models, but none seemed fitting. Yes, this was a problem that you had to solve as quickly as possible, but you refused to settle for anything but the best. As she rattled off names, you turned your attention to the floor-to-ceiling window panes that adorned the back of your office, which revealed a stunning view of the city below. The sun was setting, spilling its orange-red rays all over the buildings and buzzing streets of New York.

It didn’t matter how many times you had been met with this view, it would never grow tiresome. New York would forever be your second love after fashion. It was unforgiving as it was generous, a contradictory quality you liked to think you shared with it.

“What about Qi Rafayel?”

You turned back to her at the unfamiliar name, raising a singular eyebrow. “Who?”

“Rafayel,” she repeated his name, tapping the screen of her tablet and approaching you, holding it out for you to see. On it was the cover of the most recent Vogue issue, and on it was a man covered in colour, the white shirt he wore a victim of this photoshoot's concept. Hues of blue and fuchsia painted his cheekbones and neck, and his dark eyes seemed to stare right into your soul, his features somehow striking a balance between sharp and gentle all at once.

“Tell me more.”

“He’s probably the most talked about in modelling right now. GQ named him Model of the Year.” She droned on about everything she knew, and you were once again reminded of her competency. “He’s under the Lemuria Modelling Agency and has achieved supermodel status with how sensational his walk is.”

You hummed, intrigued now. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s very selective about who he walks for, which makes everyone want him even more, of course. Word is that he isn’t walking for any fashion week shows yet. He’s refused all offers.”

Oh? Most models jumped at any chance they got to walk for fashion week. It was the pinnacle of the modelling world as much as it was for the fashion world, with every model competing for the coveted few spots on the runway.

Leaning forward, you studied the magazine cover for a few more seconds. He did seem to give off the same regal air that Xavier did, at least from the shoot you were looking at, which meant it was at least worth considering taking him on. Potential was something you’d have to bet on.

“This might do,” you muttered, waving your hand in her direction. “Arrange a meeting with him and his manager and add it to my schedule.”

Rafayel adored a good party.

Sprawled out on the length of his couch with one arm hanging off of it, he lifted his glass with a satisfied half-smile, cocking his head as he observed the chaos that unfolded around him. The mess currently being made would undoubtedly be a problem, but it was one that a future version of himself would have to deal with. Right now, he was content with being the facilitator.

The bass reverberated through his body, the music so obnoxiously loud that it somehow managed to drown out the raucous laughter and chatter that travelled around the large room. He tipped back the glass, savouring the burn of the alcohol that kissed his throat so soothingly. It provided a pleasant buzz, one that he had been carefully maintaining all evening and the night so far.

People were dancing on his coffee table. Corners of the large room were occupied by pairs that were a little too close, but the darkness provided them with privacy. Beautiful women sauntered around, a couple hovering around him like moths to a flame. One even sat on the velvet armrest of the couch, right behind where his head lay and reached out to touch his hair, which would have annoyed him if he wasn’t halfway to drunk already. The attention didn’t faze him in the slightest, he was used to being at the centre of it.

He was the life of every party, the drug that kept it going, and everyone wanted a piece of that sweet high. His parties were all the rage, and anyone with so much as a speck of fame wanted to be in attendance at them, singers, actors and fellow models alike.

Sighing blissfully, he downed the rest of his drink. The delightful thing about alcohol was that once you had had enough of it, you hardly noticed the taste. He looked up at the woman who so boldly played with his hair, watching how she batted her eyelashes and flashed a coy smile at him. A smirk teased at his lips as he entertained the idea of taking his fun a little further.

Nothing could possibly ruin such a perfect night.

“RAFAYEL!”

Oh dear.

He didn’t have to look to know who had yelled his name. There was only one person in the world who could say his name with such astronomical levels of exasperation. His manager spotted him and stormed over, setting one foot furiously in front of the other until he was right beside the couch. Rafayel lazily opened an eye, peering up at the intruder.

“Lovely to see you, Thomas. Here to join in the fun?”

Thomas scowled. “I suggest throwing that expensive phone of yours out if it doesn’t work.”

“It works just fine.”

“Then why haven’t you bothered to answer any of my calls?”

The model sighed and sat up, giving the women at his side an apologetic look. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, charm oozing out of every syllable that spilled from him. “I need to talk to my friend here, and I’ll be right back.”

With practised grace, he got to his feet and beckoned for Thomas to follow him into the kitchen, which was miraculously deserted. Leaning against the marble counter, he picked up a bottle of gin and poured it into a clean glass before offering it to the frazzled man. When all he received in return was a glare, he shrugged and tipped it back.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,” Thomas said through gritted teeth, tapping his foot against the floor and folding his arms over his chest. Rafayel barely flinched at his agitation, used to it by this point.

“I’ve been busy.”

His manager scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Busy? You call this being busy?” He gestured to the doorway that led back to the party, making Rafayel wish he was still there, instead of here, facing the wrath of his uptight manager when he wasn’t as drunk as he wished he was for it. Rolling his eyes, he prepared to give his usual excuses and get it over with so that he could go back to his fun.

“Look–”

“No, you look,” Thomas took a step forward. “Your shoot for Vogue was three weeks ago. Since then, you’ve had numerous offers to walk in fashion week. More than any model I’ve previously managed.” The way he phrased it was incredulous, as if he couldn’t fathom how he had managed such a thing. “So I’m gonna need you to tell me why you’ve turned all of them down.”

Ugh. If Rafayel had been just a little faster, he could have been in his bedroom with that woman and avoided this interaction altogether. He placed the glass back down, running a finger along the rim of it as he hummed.

“None of the brands spoke to me.”

Thomas looked like he was about to implode. He shut his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “You just have to walk. Pose a little. There's no speaking involved. You should know what your job entails by now.”

Rafayel placed a hand over his heart, feeling rather attacked at the moment. “Don’t patronise me.”

To that, he was met with a mirthless laugh. “Patronise you? You’re too smart for me to even try, and yet you still insist on acting like a child.” It was always entertaining when his manager lost his patience like this, and he always turned it into a game of sorts, testing to see just how far he could push back.

“You wound me, my friend.”

“Your aunt expects you to walk for fashion week.”

Of course, she did. Immediately, his easy-going persona vanished, and he clicked his tongue in an attempt to push down his irritation. “Talia wants me to do so much, doesn’t she?”

He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it didn’t matter. His opinion rarely ever did when it was up against his aunts, but he supposed it was his fault. He was the one who had decided working under her would be a good idea, thinking that the familial connection would help further his career. It turned out, however, that while it had certainly given him a headstart, he had become her favourite project.

Back in her prime, Talia had been an extremely successful supermodel herself. After getting married, she didn’t return to the runway, but instead started her own modelling agency: Lemuria Modelling Agency. Since she knew the ins and outs of the business so intimately, she had experienced what felt like overnight success with it.

When Rafayel came along, it was as if she wanted to live vicariously through him, pushing him into shoots and brand deals for fashion houses that she had once worked for herself. It was only recently that he put his foot down and insisted on choosing his projects for himself, refusing to be a puppet for any longer. Surprisingly, she had agreed, and it had somehow worked out even better than before, with his career taking off like never before.

He had no intention of turning out to be another version of her, even if he had technically followed in her footsteps. He was well aware of his worth and he’d be damned if he allowed himself to settle for anything less than perfect.

“You have another offer for fashion week and a contract for a couple of months.”

“I’m not interested.” His answer was immediate. He disliked speaking of work during his downtime, but since he had been ignoring all of his calls, he didn’t have the right to complain about that right now.

“You haven’t even heard who it's for yet.” Thomas groaned. “Lumiere is a highly respected brand. It’s short notice, but you’re lucky you’re being offered the position at all.”

“I don’t care how great they are,” he muttered dryly, reaching for the bottle once again. He despised being told what to do, regarding himself as a free spirit despite his perfectionist tendencies.

For a moment, he thought he had won this argument, taking the other man's silence as acceptance. His presumptuous joy was short-lived.

“Get your head in the fucking game, Rafayel. This whole stuck-up artist thing you have going on might have worked out in your favour so far, but it won’t cut it in the long run.” Thomas snapped, sufficiently vexed. “You will take on Lumiere, and you will walk for them. I don’t care if I have to drag you to Paris kicking and screaming, you're coming.”

Rafayel bit back his surprise at the outburst, feeling his pride take a hit at Thomas’s words. Stuck-up artist? If life had gone the way he had intended it to, then perhaps he would have been exactly that. Not that he was complaining about the life he had now, he enjoyed every second of it thoroughly, for he was nothing if not a patron of indulgence. Still, the accusation stung just a tad.

He was caught so off-guard that he couldn’t respond with his normal unbothered quips. The man in front of him didn’t let up on his glare, but finally moved out of Rafayel’s personal space, clicking his tongue in triumph like a disappointed father would at his child.

“We have a meeting scheduled with them for next week. Don’t be late. And for god’s sake, check your phone. I’ll send over the details.”

With that final statement, Thomas walked out, as eager to leave the party as Rafayel had been to rejoin it just a few minutes ago. With nothing left to do but nurse his bruised ego, he poured himself another drink to keep him company while he sulked over how that conversation had gone so terribly.

You stepped out of the car, immediately holding a hand over your face at a distance that let you see what was in front of you while simultaneously shielding yourself from the onslaught of camera flashes and paparazzi yelling at you to spare them a glance. Forcing a neutral expression, you let your feet carry you to the entrance of the restaurant as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to escape the unwanted attention.

Frankly, you should have been used to the paparazzi by now after having dealt with it for five years and counting, but there was something so jarring about having cameras shoved in your face or following you while you tried to go about your daily life. When you started out, all you had wanted to do was create your clothing, but fame had come along with your accomplishments, launching you into a spotlight that was meant for your designs. You had media training and publicists working to keep your image squeaky-clean.

The ambience on the inside provided you with respite from the press, and the tension in your shoulders instantly dissipated. Warm, dim lighting and the pleasant clinking of glasses and cutlery travelled all around you, combining with the smooth jazz that played, creating a melody of its own. This was one of your favourite places to dine, which was precisely why you had chosen it for today.

Walking further into the restaurant, you spotted the person you were here to meet and made your way over. The woman sitting at the reserved table scanned the menu.

“Gabriette,” You smiled pleasantly, making your presence known. She looked up at you, eyes lighting up.

“Y/n!”

Gabriette got to her feet and embraced you politely, giving you a customary kiss on each cheek in greeting. You returned the gesture before removing your coat, draping it on the empty seat across from hers and sitting down.

“I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” You picked up your menu as a server filled your glass with some water, flipping through the pages.

“Not at all! I’m so glad we could make time to meet.”

Gabriette Dubois was a celebrity fashion designer, much like yourself, whom you had met years ago while in Paris for your first ever fashion week. She was a little older than you but somehow managed to not look a day over twenty-five, petite in every sense of the word. Her own fashion house, Dubois Designs, was all the rage just as yours was. This meant that while you were friendly with her, she was less of a friend and more of an acquaintance.

Competitor would have been the right word.

“How have you been?” She was in New York for a few weeks and insisted on having lunch with you. She was far from your favourite person, but you knew the importance of nurturing and maintaining connections. If not for that pesky reason, you would have cut all contact with her a long time ago. Your temper made it so that you lacked patience when it came to people like her, but thankfully, she lived in Paris, which meant you only had to bite your tongue and force a smile on occasion.

“I’ve been fantastic,” she beamed, her French accent curling the ends of her words. “I’ve been busy the whole time I have been in this city, but you know how it is. The busier you are, the better business is, yes?” The subtle brag was not lost on you.

You suspected she was the one who had called the press. They loved tailing you around anyway, but catching two high-profile fashion designers together? That was the same thing as finding gold to them.

“I know what you mean.” You ordered a glass of red wine after agreeing with her. She opted for some rosé. “Finding time to rest is rare.”

“I bet you miss the days when Lumiere was still a small little thing,” she said with the same smile on her face, but you weren’t naive enough to miss the slight condescending lilt of her voice. While she treated you perfectly well, you knew that she didn’t quite see you as an equal, purposely choosing to turn a blind eye to your achievements. She thought of you as beneath her, even though your success outshone even hers at times.

You didn’t need her approval. All this was a formality anyways.

“Sometimes,” you admitted good-naturedly, choosing not to take the bait. The drinks arrived, and you took a nice, long sip of yours, reminding yourself of why you even agreed to meet her in the first place. “Sorry, I just remembered, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

Gabriette might have had a superiority complex, but this also meant she loved to shove all her accomplishments in other people's faces. Bragging was something she viewed as her birthright, and you had mastered the art of using it to your advantage.

The server returned, and the two of you placed your orders before resuming conversation. “Ask away.”

“It’s about a model,” you started carefully. “My top model is out of commission right now, and I need a replacement for a little while.”

She leaned back in her seat and sipped her rosé. “Oh yes, I heard about Xavier. Go on.”

No doubt she assumed you were about to ask her to help you find someone to take his place. You had no intention of doing such a thing since you were going to meet your potential temporary replacement in three days, thanks to Simone. What you wanted was a little information from someone who had directly had contact with him.

“You’ve worked with Rafayel before, haven’t you?”

You phrased it as if you didn’t know this already, when in reality, you had done your research. It wasn’t your job to do so– you could have easily gotten any of your employees to do it– but this was a big deal. You refused to have just anyone take Xavier’s place, even if it was only for a short while. Simone had already run a background check on him, and you had to admit that from all the surface-level knowledge that you had that he did fit with your brand's image quite well.

Gabriette peered at you from over her glass, raising an eyebrow as she nodded slowly. “Yeah, a couple of years ago. Why?”

“I hadn’t really heard of him until recently.” You placed your glass down, and at that moment, the server returned with your food. She didn’t bother to hide her scoff as she picked up her fork, digging into her salad immediately.

“That’s on you. Rafayel has been around for a while.” She took a bite of lettuce and croutons, taking her time with the morsel before she pounced once more, taking a concealed jab at you. “But I guess it’s expected when you live under a rock. If you weren’t so caught up with insisting on only working with Xavier for even a minute, you would have seen him around.”

You refused to let her get under your skin. So what if you were picky about who you took on? Consistency was something you valued, and you had your reasons, ones that you didn’t have to divulge to her and waste your breath.

A tired exhale left your lips. “I’m thinking of taking him on.”

“Good luck with that.”

Huh. You sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Rafayel is a talented model, no one can say anything about that, but I doubt you’d be able to handle him.”

Handle him? Oddly enough, this statement of hers sounded less like a concealed insult and more genuine. Feigning indifference, you nibbled at your own food. “Why so?”

She laughed curtly, toying with her fork. “He’s a great way to make headlines, that's for sure. The world loves him right now, even with his scandalous behaviour, but when it comes down to it…” You made a mental note to look into what she meant by scandalous behaviour later when she trailed off, silently prompting her to continue.

Gabriette pressed her lips together, a flash of irritation taking over her eyes for a brief moment, but it wasn’t aimed at you.

“He’s a total nightmare to work with.”

Rafayel waltzed into the meeting room ten minutes late, his head held up high like he owned the place.

This did not amuse you, the actual owner.

A man who you could only assume was his manager entered behind him, looking so defeated that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because you had no sympathy for people who wasted your time like they had. Simone had gotten you a second cup of coffee to pass the time, and you had just about finished it, ignoring the last few dregs in the cup in favour of narrowing your eyes at the two men.

“I’m so sorry about the delay,” he said quickly, taking a seat at the table after Rafeyel did. “There was– er– unavoidable traffic. I’m Thomas, Rafayel’s manager. Your assistant spoke with me last week.” The excuse was pathetic, and you didn’t miss the brief scathing look he sent the model when he stumbled over the words. The latter looked utterly unbothered, his elbow on the armrest of the chair, his chin resting on his palm.

If you weren’t in such a terrible situation, you would have probably asked them to leave, but not only were you running on a tight schedule, but you were also fresh out of options.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

You looked at Rafayel to finally asses him in person, mild surprise running through you when you realised he was already staring right at you. Most people avoided eye contact with you because of how intense you could be, but he seemed to be having no such trouble; his eyes locked onto yours, a bored look lingering in them.

Now that you were looking at him in person, you had to admit that he was quite breathtaking. You had watched a couple of his most famous runway moments, but the way he looked through a screen did not compare to the real thing. He was positively gorgeous, which wasn’t something you thought all that often, considering you were surrounded by beautiful people all the time. Rafayel, however, was in a league of his own, with soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead and into his mesmerising eyes. Smooth skin that surely had skincare companies begging him to be in their advertisements, lips that were the perfect pinkish hue, and elegant, high cheekbones; he was a work of art.

A work of art whose impudence was currently pissing you off.

“Rafayel,” You finally directly addressed him. “I take it that you’ve agreed to model for Lumiere for the next four months.”

His lips twitched. “It seems that I have.”

“We’re thrilled to have you on board.” You gestured to Simone. “My assistant here has drawn up the contract, which you can take to look over before signing it.” Dutifully, she placed a file before them, which he picked up, flipping through and scanning over the details and terms.

This is where the meeting would usually end. He’d smile, nod and leave, and you’d go back to your office and hopefully review some of the recent sketches you had done. They needed some reworking as soon as possible, especially if you wanted to stay on schedule.

Except it didn’t.

He tossed the contract back on the table. “Thats all well and good, but I have a condition of my own.”

His manager glanced at him apprehensively. Your look on your face must have betrayed how bewildered you felt, because the edge of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement ever so slightly at your reaction.

“A….condition?” You echoed his words incredulously, fingers curling around the Montblanc pen you were just about to hand to him. His smile widened, and he nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the edge of the table like he was about to divulge to you a secret you should have been dying to know.

“Whatever you make me wear, I have to approve of it. I have to like it, or I don’t wear it.”

You weren’t quite sure you had heard him right at first, blinking twice as you registered what he had just said. Honestly, even the idea was so ridiculous that you were sure you had misinterpreted, because this wasn’t a condition. It was a demand, one that he expected you to meet, as if it wasn’t completely audacious of him to do so.

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. This is a dealbreaker.”

Thomas looked so alarmed that it would have been funny in any other context. Clearly, he had no hand in this and was just as caught off guard as you were, but nowhere near as outraged.

Simone realised the meeting was going awry, and swiftly swooped in, clearing her throat before you exploded right then and there in the conference room. She was surprised that the pen you were holding hadn't snapped in two yet with how tight your grip on it was.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said smoothly, taking over for you as you glowered. “We’re delighted to have you working with us, Mr. Qi.”

No part of you was delighted. Sure, he ticked off all the boxes: attractive, seasoned and acclaimed, but there was something about how he carried himself that didn’t sit quite right with you. This had nothing to do with any of the scandals that he had found himself in, though you had looked into them to make sure it wouldn’t impact your brand. Dating scandals and rumours of him being a womaniser– stuff like that never held any weight for too long, especially not for a man. You didn’t care about his personal life, no, your annoyance stemmed from his haughty attitude.

Rafayel grinned, not bothering to even look at her, winking at you instead for good measure. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

The fucking audacity.

Once they had left, you stormed into your office, your stilettos carrying the heavy weight of the pure, unadulterated rage you felt at that instant. Simone followed, bracing herself for the inevitable downpour of your wrath and clutching her tablet in the hopes it would help her calm you down. Of course, she knew there was no shot in hell of that happening; when you were like this, it would take nothing short of a miracle to placate you.

To say you were a proud person would be an understatement. There were not very many instances where you willingly let someone else have control in a situation, and you were well aware of what your work was worth. There was a reason you were at the top of the game.

It made his condition all the more absurd.

“He has to approve of it?” You seethed, spinning around to glare at the only person around to take the brunt of your fury. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Simone winced, “It’s certainly….an odd request.”

“A request? A request would be if he asked us for tea, Simone. This is an insult.” He had to have known that, too, unless he was a total idiot. You were starting to believe that because models didn’t choose what they wore. The implication was that you didn’t know how to dress your models, as if all the skills you had honed were worth nothing. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Despite having just met him, the smug look he had given you was already burned into your memory. You couldn’t remember the last time you had outright disliked someone this quickly.

“Rafayel is eccentric, yes,” Simone said tentatively. He had sounded so confident, like it was a given that you would agree. “But maybe he didn’t mean to offend you?”

“Xavier would never do this,” You groaned, mourning the absence of your darling top model. “Tell me, is there a chance we can get someone else on board instead?”

Unfortunately, you knew the answer without her giving it to you. Keeping your brand's image intact was of utmost importance to you, and you were nothing if not meticulous. Xavier’s sudden unavailability had thrown a real wrench in all your careful planning, and though it wasn’t his fault, it still left you extremely frustrated. Replacing him was nearly impossible, and you were lucky to have chanced upon Rafayel.

Undoubtedly, he would fit in with your curation seamlessly. He’d look fantastic modelling your clothing, and he’d be perfect for the PFW show. The hype that currently existed around him would also help tremendously. Your publicist was about to have an absolute field day with this collaboration.

“He’s our only viable option at the moment. The chances of him disapproving of your clothes are slim to none, anyway.” Your assistant said comfortingly. “It’ll be fine.”

God, you hoped so.

QI RAFAYEL SIGNED WITH LUMIERE?

Word is that the most elusive model of the decade has put down roots with the hottest brand, and boy, does the partnership seem fitting! It’s a wonder, especially with Rafayel's sudden disappearance from the modelling scene right at the height of his career. Known for his fearlessness when it comes to experimental designs and his ability to embody any look, the model is truly at the top of his game, so it makes perfect sense for him to work with a brand that shares that very status.

We can’t wait to witness his comeback with Lumiere very soon!

The fitting room was in chaos when you arrived.

You grimaced at the disarray you were met with; stylists rushing around and shouting various instructions at each other. There were different types of fabric all around, clothing items you could recognise at a single glance, falling off their hangers and display mannequins. Amidst it all stood Rafayel, who looked utterly uninterested, his arms over his chest, wrinkling the deep purple Ralph Lauren shirt he was wearing. The colour suited him.

But why was he still in his personal clothes? In two hours, he was to be at a shoot for the brand's website and social media pages, but here he was, just standing around. At least his makeup was done, you supposed.

“Miss Y/n!” One of the stylists paused her movements and greeted you. “We are right on track!”

Were they? You glanced around at the confusion, stepping over the shoes that were right in front of the doorway and walked up closer to one of the mannequins. Wordlessly, you held your hand out, and immediately they all knew what to do, scrambling to hand you a pin. Placing it between your teeth, you folded over a part of the waist of the pants to readjust the pleating and secured it in place.

“It doesn’t seem like it.” Your eyes sliced back to the model, who was now looking right at you. “He’s not ready.”

Typically, you would never visit a fitting like this, trusting your employees to get the job done. You were too busy to make the time to show up for things like these, simply giving the orders and checking in once the job was done. Even Xavier didn’t get any surprise pop-ins from you, and he was someone you actually cared for.

But no part of you inherently trusted Rafayel to cooperate. The stylist who handed you the pin dropped her voice and signalled towards him. “He’s a little difficult.”

Of course.

Leaving the mannequin, you walked up to Rafayel and levelled him with a stare. “Would you care to enlighten me as to why you’re giving my stylists a hard time?”

He looked around and pointed to the clothing that another stylist held up with a helpless expression. It was a lovely white silk shirt with an asymmetrical cut, the buttons starting at the right shoulder and ending at the left side of the waist. This was paired with trousers to complete the look, but it wasn’t supposed to take away from the shirt, which was the main event.

“I’m not wearing this.”

Irritation was a feeling you were well-versed in. The way it flared up inside of you so quickly when he spoke was still shocking.

“And why not?” You briefly wondered why everyone around you seemed to take pleasure in wasting your time as of late. This was only one of the outfits he had to be photographed in, the others lined up neatly on a clothing rack.

“It’s boring,” Rafayel said casually, as if he were remarking on the weather. “Where's the colour? The life? I look at it and feel nothing.”

Oh, he felt nothing, did he? Briefly, you wondered if he’d feel the slap you were so tempted to give him. All he had done since stepping into your building was insult you and parade around like he was better than everyone, and you didn’t take either of those things lightly. “It’s the highest quality silk and stitching.”

“Everything you’re having me wear is in black and white.”

“I’m so glad you can tell colour.”

Your stylists flinched a little at your apathetic tone, despite being all too used to your snippy remarks. You were hard on everyone who worked for you, but that was only because you held your employees to the same high standards that you did yourself when it came to the work they were supposed to do. Their paychecks certainly made up for it, as did your generosity when it came to granting them leave.

“Black and white is plain.” He sighed dramatically, like the lack of colour was personally offending him. “Chanel already has that rodeo down to the ‘t’.

His audacity left you astounded once more, and you were even more pissed off when you unwittingly realised that he had a point. Still, even if Chanel did have a thing for black and white styling, you liked to think that you had put your unique spin on the clothes that distinguished them from competing brands. You didn’t just think it; you knew your designs were amazing. The man in front of you didn’t allow you to tell him this, since he had already started speaking again.

“If I wanted to wear Chanel, I would have accepted their offer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You knew damn well that it was a good thing he had agreed to work for you, but that didn’t mean he had to. Rafayel’s lips tipped upwards, as if your annoyance entertained him. “I already told you. I find black and white boring, and even though it’s all I see right now,” he gestured around the room and at the clothing rack, “I don’t think it’s all you’re capable of.”

Was that a compliment? If it was, he was shit at giving them out. Not that you were any better, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t your job to be nice, it was your job to make sure things got done the way you wanted them.

So, against all your severely miffed instincts, you sucked in a deep breath to calm yourself down. “This collection is already public. We just need the pictures for social media.”

He looked disappointed. “Fine. I’ll make an exception just this once.”

How positively saintly of him. You wondered if he expected you to drop and kiss his feet for making such a compromise.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t going to get any of that. You pressed your lips together, deciding you had wasted enough of your time already and that it was time to get back to those sketches of yours you had been putting off. Nodding curtly, you moved to leave, but he opened his mouth again.

“A word of advice?”

Well, wasn’t he chatty today? You sighed, pressing two fingers against your temple and rubbing in the hopes it would soothe you. “You’re going to give it to me even if I say no, aren’t you?”

He proved you right. “If your Paris Fashion Week collection is going to be as uninspired as this, then I suggest you start rethinking it.”

The stylist closest to the two of you gasped.

Uninspired? This was a collection you had revealed recently at a show a couple of weeks ago, and critics had been all over it, practically kissing your feet with the amount of praise they had dished out. Uninspired definitely wasn’t one of the words they had used to describe it.

You didn’t miss the smirk on his lips as he watched you react to his harsh words. He had gotten under your skin, and he knew it. It had been so long since someone had managed to do so that you forgot how it felt, and you despised the feeling. Your eyebrows raised in fury that was plain as day, leaning away from him like his presence stung just as much as his words did.

Rafayel didn’t want to admit it, but he was having way too much fun with this. The day he first showed up at the Lumiere building, he was pretty much dragged there against his will by Thomas. He had heard of it in passing and was expecting yet another high-fashion brand that had lost all its integrity in favour of stagnating and staying relevant through its namesake. When he had looked into its previous seasons, however, he began to begrudgingly appreciate the creativity of their clothing, as well as its authenticity.

Finding out that Lumiere was only five years old came as a surprise, as did the news of the meeting with the founder and head of the company herself. To say that was unconventional would be an understatement. Typically, these types of meetings consisted of him only meeting an assistant or two, but never the designers themselves. Sure, eventually he’d speak to them at a show or afterparty he was obligated to be at, but never had he met them upfront like this.

Moreover, he certainly hadn’t expected the designer to be a beautiful young woman. Rafayel had always had an eye for pretty things, so one look at you was enough for him to see that you were just that. Beautiful didn’t even cut it, actually, so much so that you could probably walk in your own fashion shows.

So you were pretty. Rafayel was aware enough of it, and although he tended to gravitate towards that, you weren’t exactly his type. He typically went for women who were generous with the smiles they gave him and found pleasure in his reputation, the type who giggled at everything he said and touched his arm to make sure their intentions were clear. As far as he was concerned, a type meant there was a pattern involved, and that would be the best way to describe the women he had gotten involved with in the past.

You were too intense for his taste, with your calculating gaze and perfectly pinned-up hair without a single strand out of place. Breathtaking in the most intimidating way. He was all for dancing through life while having a good time and breaking a few rules if he had to. You, on the other hand, looked like you had written the rules and expected everyone else to abide by them.

It was probably a good thing that he didn’t want to get with someone who was technically his boss.

But you were oh-so easy to rile up.

“Uninspired?” You hissed, and if looks could kill, the one you were giving him right now would have probably landed him six feet under. “Excuse me?”

Feisty. My, my, he was going to have a blast with this. Shrugging, he started unbuttoning the front of his shirt, and the stylists, who had been standing frozen while the two of you had a stare-off, jumped back into action. They seemed relieved that he was finally cooperating, one of them assisting him with his shirt and the other holding the one you designed open and ready to slip onto his body.

Your eyes dropped to his now exposed torso as the shirt was peeled off of him for just a second before you sliced them back up to his. That infuriating smirk remained on his face throughout.

“Need some clarification?”

So this is what Gabriette meant when she said he was a nightmare to work with.

“There is nothing uninspired about my clothing,” you snapped, unable to keep your temper from flaring up anymore. “From now on, keep any advice you have to yourself.”

Everything that had come out of his mouth so far had been unwanted, and you were starting to think he was doing it on purpose, especially with how he was watching your every reaction like a hawk. Refusing to dignify him with one, you turned and walked out of the room, emerging into the hallways of the Lumiere building. The familiarity of the decor and soothing warm lighting should have helped with your agitation, but nothing of the sort happened.

Now, you understood why Gabriette said all that stuff about not being able to handle him.

Four months of this madness before everything would go back to normal. In comparison to other things you’ve dealt with in the past, this was trivial. You were a professional, considered a damn genius for your work and the sheer levels of success you were graced with at such a young age. There was nothing you couldn’t do, even if it was dealing with a self-important model that seemingly took pleasure in irking you.

In any case, you could refrain from pushing him out of a window.

“Oh, these are great. I’m gonna have to hide them from Jeremiah.”

Xavier placed the box of chocolates you had gotten him on the coffee table in front of where he sat on the couch. You joined him there, eyes lingering on the cast on his leg that spanned from his ankle up to just below his knee. He caught you staring at it in contempt and grinned.

“Wanna sign it?”

You scoffed and leaned against the throw pillows. “You know I don’t.”

Despite your hectic schedule, you had made sure to set aside some time to visit the injured man now that he had returned from the hospital. His roommate had let you in when you arrived, since Xavier was strictly instructed to stay off his feet as much as possible. The irony of that wasn’t lost to either of you.

“Worth a shot.”

He was pretty much homebound and stuck in that cast for twelve weeks, and after that would have to go through physical therapy for a bit before he was back on his feet. It was certainly a blow to his career’s momentum, especially since it quite literally depended on his ability to walk. Eventually, he’d get back onto the runway, you knew, but you couldn’t help but feel bad.

Considering all this, he seemed to be in a good mood, smiling gently at you. Xavier, unlike you, had endless amounts of patience and had a temperament that was as angelic as he looked. He was plenty successful, and Lumiere was by no means the only fashion house he modelled for, even if it was the one he worked with the most. He had seen the ambitious girl who powered through all the doubts thrown in her face when you had taken the leap and started your brand, and had stuck by you ever since.

This was why he was your only true friend. He had seen something in you when you hadn’t quite figured yourself out just yet. For the past five years, he had stayed by your side without wavering even once, and as a result of this, he could read you like you were an open book.

“You’re upset with me.” He noted. You sighed, shaking your head.

“No, I’m upset with the circumstance.” You gestured towards his leg. “The timing is terrible.”

Xavier quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Apologies. The next time I plan on breaking my bones, I’ll let you know in advance.”

“Please let there never be another time,” You let out a tired sigh. “Replacing you is a hassle. Get better. I need you back at work.”

“And here I thought you missed me for me.” He lightly teased.

“You know I do.” You looked at him meaningfully. “You know what I mean.”

He did. You had never been the best at being vulnerable or expressing yourself, but he had long since learnt how to read between the lines.

“I’ve heard that you managed to find someone to fill in.” He circled back to your point about replacing him and looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to fill him in on all the happenings he had missed. Things were progressing slower than you would have liked, but smoothly, nonetheless.

Except for one little thing. One person, more accurately.

If you were being honest, you didn’t particularly want to talk about the cause of all your recent headaches. Instead, you eyed his cast again, trying your best to keep the bitterness out of your voice. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s just a dull ache now,” he reached down and scratched over the plaster. “And it’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt.” Then, he gave you a pointed look. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re changing the subject?”

Damn. You pulled your hair free from its tight ponytail, letting it cascade over your shoulders and letting your scalp breathe. It wasn’t often you let your guard down like this, but you knew you were safe with Xavier. You also knew that you needed to be as relaxed as possible if you were going to talk about your latest problem.

“I did find someone to fill in.” Your lips twisted in displeasure. “But I’m counting down the days till you return.”

“That bad?”

“Rafayel is impossible.”

Xavier cocked his head to the side. “Thats new. You generally comment on someone's incompetence.”

“Oh, he’s plenty competent.” It was the truth. You almost wished he were terrible at his job, but that wasn’t the case. The pictures for your social media had turned out amazing, and you had spent quite a lot of time looking over them, trying to find a reason to be unsatisfied, but to no avail.

A great model. An exasperating person.

Over the past two weeks, you had seen too much of him. He was constantly complaining about something, showing up late, or making snide comments and going out of his way to make everyone’s jobs harder. You had heard of models that thought they were untouchable, but Rafayel was a whole other level, a bona-fide diva.

If you weren’t so desperate, you would have already fired him. Desperation was not a feeling you enjoyed, but you didn’t want to go through the hassle of having to select someone else to fill in the void Xavier had left in his absence.

“So, what do you mean by impossible?” He propped an arm on the couch's backrest, rubbing the back of his neck.

You indulged Xavier with the details, telling him all about Rafayel’s complaints about your clothing and all the ways he had managed to drive you up the wall. You were frustrated with his behaviour, but also with yourself for being so caught up about it when you had more important things to worry about.

A charity gala you were supposed to attend next week. Prepping for Paris Fashion Week.

“Oh, Y/n. He does sound like a handful.” Xavier muttered sympathetically after you had aired out all your grievances. His admission made you feel a lot better about the situation.

“He’s more than a handful.”

“But I’ve never seen you back down from any challenge.” He remarked. “And thats basically what he’s doing. Challenging you.”

He was right, you weren’t someone who backed down easily. Your conversation drifted to other things: his time at the hospital, the terrible food they made him eat, and other such tragedies. You realised how much you truly missed having Xavier around, being able to talk to someone like this wasn’t something you were able to do often.

You made a mental note to visit him as much as possible.

“It’s a challenge,” Xavier reminded before you left, popping one of the chocolates you had gotten him in his mouth as he gave you one last piece of advice about your Rafayel problem. “Don’t let him win.”

Behind a camera, Qi Rafayel was more than tolerable.

So much about the man pissed you off. From his slow manner of speaking that tested your patience, to the lazy half-grin he seemed to perpetually have plastered on his face, you could probably list out all the things about him you disliked. He made it so easy with his incessant attempts at driving you up the wall.

Still, it was evident that even with all his antics, he was a professional.

Now, he was in archival Lumiere, one of the collections from the start of your career. There were only a few pieces of the structured jacket he wore in circulation since they were handmade. In fact, he was wearing the very piece that had appeared on the runway all those years ago. It hung from his shoulders as he posed, staring into the camera as it shuttered.

You had personally chosen this piece for this shoot, asking your stylists to work with it because you knew he wouldn’t be able to complain. It was a stunning jacket, and apparently, he agreed.

Every few seconds, he’d change the pose, each more dramatic than the last. A hand raised in a flourish near his face, back facing the camera, with him looking back at it, legs spread with his arms behind his head as he stared straight ahead through a half-lidded gaze. Watching him go through the motions like it was second nature was mesmerising.

You were starting to understand his appeal. There was a certain playfulness to his sensuality, and he knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. Something about him felt dangerous, unpredictable in an exciting way, and that quality of his was his greatest selling point.

The makeup on him was bolder this time, accentuating his siren-esque features. His hair was artfully slicked back, different from his normal look and showing off his forehead.

He was going to be on the cover of Elle, styled with Lumiere, of course. In this particular issue, they were going to include a one-on-one interview with you as well, which was why you were present at the shoot. After they were done with him, they’d be taking a couple of shots of you to include with your interview.

And it seemed they had just wrapped up.

The intense expression on his face immediately dropped, giving way to a relaxed one, his eyes travelling around the room until they met yours. The photographer thanked him for his time, but he was already moving towards you. As he approached, a staff member popped up at your side.

“Would you like some coffee, miss?”

You turned to the woman who asked you the question. “Hot, without any sugar.”

She nodded and looked at Rafayel, who had stopped by your side. “And for you, sir?”

“Cold coffee. As much whipped cream and sugar as you can manage.” He dropped a wink in with his order for good measure, and the staff faltered ever so slightly, trying to hide how charmed she was as she left to get the drinks. Once she was gone, he looked at you, his perfect pink lips twitching.

It was obvious that he wanted to say something, and it would no doubt be something that ticked you off. Still, you relented and finally asked.

“What is it?”

He studied you for a moment. “Nothing. It’s just so predictable that you take your coffee plain.”

You bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I never said there was,” He drawled, and then dropped the subject. “Seems like it's your turn to get behind the camera, Miss Designer. Ready?”

“It’s not my first time,” You said as the staff returned with your coffees. Grabbing yours, you took a slow sip and continued. “We had to model quite a bit in fashion school for various projects and assignments.”

It wasn’t as if you were claiming to be better than him, but you did have some experience. He hummed an idle tune, bringing the straw of his drink to his mouth and sipping it in delight.

You had to bite back a frown at the monstrosity he received, the swirls of whipped cream over milky coffee. There were even sprinkles on the damn thing. You understood his comment about your order being predictable because that being his somehow made a lot of sense. Globs of the whipped cream spilt over the side of the glass and slipped down its length, the entire thing was over the top and messy.

A lot like him, you supposed.

“Want some?” He asked cheekily, tilting the glass in your direction. He knew you were going to refuse, but the way you scrunched your nose and did such a terrible job at hiding your aversion was too entertaining to pass up on.

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

You shot Rafayel a displeased look, scanning him from top to bottom. The jacket you had so carefully handstitched was unbuttoned and open so that his abs could peak through in the pictures. You didn’t let your eyes linger there, snapping them back up to his.

“Don’t stain the jacket.” You muttered sternly, adjusting the collar of your top and centring your jewellery with one hand, the other gripping the handle of your cup. He was holding his coffee too close to himself for your liking, especially with the way the top of the whipped cream was leaning to the side, as if it was about to tip over any second now.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that.”

The patronising lilt of his voice told you that he was trying to get a rise out of you, but you knew he liked the jacket. When he had been made to put it on, he had looked at it appreciatively and hadn’t complained even once, which felt like nothing short of a miracle. You purposely looked anywhere but him, instead opting to watch the photographer set up for your turn.

But Rafayel wasn’t someone you could just ignore. His presence was magnetic and all-consuming, and even when he was silent, he was distracting. The effect he had was strange and inexplicable, cutting through your general dislike towards him.

Thankfully, the photographer turned to you and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, miss.”

Without sparing Rafayel another glance, you handed your coffee to the staff member closest to you and strutted over, taking your place behind the camera. You took a seat on the stool they had put out for you as a makeup artist came over to give you a touch-up and fix your hair. Focusing on the camera lens, you reminded yourself what you were here for in the first place.

But when your traitorous gaze flickered back to Rafayel, he was already looking at you.

Pages filled with sketches lay strewn out over the desk of your home office, with you hunched over them in concentration. You ran your fingers through your hair and tugged at the ends, your other hand gripping your mechanical pencil.

You may have looked like the picture of productivity, but right now, you were feeling the complete opposite. It was nearly one in the morning, and you had skipped out on dinner in favour of trying to get the conceptual designs for the spring collection done. You had been procrastinating working on them for a while now, but with only three months left before the show, the pressure was starting to set in. You usually never left things to the last minute like this – last year you had the clothes ready by this time – but for reason reason, you were having trouble with it.

All you had added to the sketches were a couple of idle lines that changed absolutely nothing. The ideas were good, very reminiscent of the typical silhouettes you tended to go for, but it felt like something was missing.

It felt uninspired.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud. It was bad enough that you were struggling with what you were supposed to be a genius at, but to use the very words Rafayel did to explain your predicament? That was just humiliating.

Groaning, you ran a hand over your face and leaned back in your chair, your back sore from the horrible posture you had been maintaining for the past two-ish hours. You were distracted, but you couldn’t figure out why, because the only sounds around were the ticking of your clock and the drumming of your foot against the floor.

Finally, you gave up, emerging from your office and into the living room of your penthouse. All the lights were off, but the large ceiling-to-floor windows you had lit up the place just enough, casting shadows around in the moonlight. You had bought the place when Lumiere had just taken off, and you had more money than you ever had in your life. As a result, you ended up with an apartment on the top floor that the elevator opened directly into, that only you had access to and too much space for your good.

The muffled sounds of New York City in the distance kept you company as you padded to your kitchen. Your appetite was non-existent – a result of your hyper-focused state – but you knew you had to eat something.

You had been feeling unsatisfied with your sketches for a while now, and Rafayel’s comments about ensuring nothing was uninspired had hit too close to home. The last thing you wanted to do was release something you were unhappy with or considered subpar.

God knows you hated to admit that insolent man had a point, but he did.

And you had to figure out a way around it fast.

The thing you loved more about New York was how alive it felt.

You walked down the streets, sunglasses perched on your nose. It was a Saturday, and you had decided to take a day off for yourself in the hopes that the reset would grant you some motivation for the spring collection.

So far, you had had no run-ins with the paparazzi. Maybe this was one of those days when they had decided to be more subtle with their approach to getting content, but whatever it was, you were grateful for the sense of privacy it gave you. Realistically, even if it wasn’t the paparazzi, you knew someone would get a picture of you walking in and out of stores and post it online. That was fine, simply part and parcel of the life you had made for yourself.

You were enjoying the peace, the cacophony of the city melting into a song so uniquely New York. You were someone who knew how to enjoy your own company, but perhaps that stemmed from the fact that you had no one else to share it with. Sure, Xavier was there, but you knew the moment the two of you hung out for extensive periods anywhere but his or your place, or the Lumiere building itself, there would be dating rumours springing about everywhere.

Neither of you had the time nor the energy to deal with that nonsense. At least like this, you had control of the narrative, and that peace you loved so much.

Ah, yes, peace. The very thing that shattered immediately as a man ran into you.

Okay, so you hadn’t exactly been paying attention, lost in your thoughts as you walked, but words laced with annoyance immediately tumbled out of your mouth. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

“Jeez, lady, I’m sorry, okay– wait, Y/n?”

Oh no. You knew that voice.

You peered up at the offender, taking in the butter yellow cap that sat over his smushed hair, long lashes framing those beguiling eyes that were currently wide in shock. His hands flew to your arms, gripping them as he steadied both of you at the same time. You had about two seconds to acknowledge the way he was up in your personal space, pushing your sunglasses up to see if you were seeing things correctly.

“Rafayel?”

He swore under his breath, releasing your forearms as he jerked away, glaring. “Could you not yell it out for the entire street to hear?”

Why the hell was he annoyed? He was the one who had walked into you. If anyone had the right to glare like that, it was you. You blinked up at him in exasperation, wondering for the umpteenth time where he got the gall.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You bit sarcastically, “My bad for being the unsuspecting soul you run into. Next time, I hope it's a pole.”

He cast you a droll look that you were sure was meant to last longer, but he seemed skittish today. This was the most casually dressed you had ever seen him, a simple sweatshirt over jeans and….were those sneakers? All you had seen him in up until this moment were shirts and clothing you designed.

Then, without warning, he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him.

Right into a dark, dingy alley.

“What the fuck?” You blurted, more puzzled than anything else, as you yanked your hand out of his touch, holding it close to your body. “Are you high? Why on earth have you–”

“Sorry,” he breathed, holding his palm out in a manner that told you he needed a second. Not that you cared in the slightest, narrowing your eyes at him and propping a hand on your hip.

“You have two minutes to explain why you’ve dragged me with you here.”

A vibrant blush spread across the apples of his cheeks and ears. Well, at least he had the decency to look embarrassed. He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and glanced up a the sky, before looking back at you.

“I was trying to outrun the paps.”

“By running into me?”

“I didn’t plan that!” He snapped, and you had to admit that it was nice to see him be the irritated one for a change. His eyebrows knitted together, an indignant pout taking over his usual, nonchalant countenance. All things considered, it was kind of cute.

“I’m not hearing any explanations.” You reminded him impatiently, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for two whole seconds like he was contemplating whether you were worth explaining it to. You were tempted to tell him that his two minutes were swiftly passing by.

“I ran into an ex of mine.” He confessed finally. “Cassandra Corin. Cassie.”

The name was vaguely familiar– an actress, if you remembered correctly. Blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous. You were sure you had seen some of her work in passing, and so you nodded, prompting him to continue. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Yeah. Well, we were together for like a month, but she’s a very, uh…..dramatic person, if you will. I happened to walk out of a store, and she was right outside with the press, who she had obviously called.” There wasn’t an ounce of fondness in his voice as he spoke about the woman.

“Did she plan for you to be there?” You asked, bewildered.

“I don’t think so, but she’s the type of celebrity that subscribes to the ‘all publicity is good publicity’ agenda. A pic of us together would certainly help with that.” He explained with a surprising amount of patience. “I’ve kind of been lying low as of late, so they’re hungrier than usual to get a couple of shots. I had to run out of there, and I don’t like running.”

Ah, there it was. You should have known he couldn’t go more than five minutes without complaining. Still, you could sympathise with his predicament, having had your fair share of experiences with trying to avoid the paparazzi.

“Right,” you raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t get why you’ve forced me into hiding with you.”

Rafayel mirrored the unimpressed look you were currently giving him. “It would be ten times worse if they saw us together. I was trying to be inconspicuous and you–” He paused, gesturing towards you from top to bottom, “–look anything but.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you let out an offended sound. “Excuse me? I can be inconspicuous.”

You were a vision, dressed in what only someone with too much money would consider casual: a light pink Chanel cardigan over a t-shirt and Prada loafers on your feet. You carried a Hermes Mini Kelly bag on your arm, Miu Miu shades pushed up on your head like a headband as you stared at him, poorly hiding your displeasure.

“No.” Rafayel had to fight back a smile, shaking his head. “You really can’t.”

It wasn’t a bad thing, per se. He knew a thing or two about having a commanding presence, having used his own to his advantage his entire life. Unfortunately, that meant that the two of you in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster, especially when he was trying his damnedest to avoid it.

Your scowl deepened. “You’re insufferable, I hope you know that.”

“I’ve been told it brings out my eyes.”

Unbelievable. His ego had to be sky-high, taller than the Empire State Building. Never before had you wanted to knock someone down a couple of pegs so badly. His tone was light and airy, as if he now found the ordeal funny, and while that infuriated you, there was something melodic about his voice that you couldn’t ignore.

“You love wasting my time, don’t you?” You grumbled under your breath, wondering how on earth you managed to get yourself into such a position and, more importantly, why you were still in it. You could have easily walked out of this stupid alley already. His eyes sparkled, but before he could say anything aggravating, another sound cut through.

MROW!

You startled at the high-pitched yowl, dropping your gaze to find an orange cat sitting by your shoes. It looked fat and happy, like too many restaurants had taken pity on it and fed the little thing leftovers. Its black eyes stared up at you, as if waiting for you to give it something to eat as well, before letting out another pitiful meow.

And how did the man standing in front of you react to this?

Rafayel yelped.

Loudly. Embarrassingly, even. He practically jumped away from you and the cat, hands in front of him in a protective stance. You blinked rapidly, unsure of how to react to that.

“Are you…okay?”

“Do I look okay?” He hissed, the action seeming very catlike. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

That thing? You looked down at the cat that had busied itself with rubbing against your ankles, weaving in between your legs before settling back down into a seated position.

“Rafayel,” you did your best to keep your voice level, speaking slowly, as if you were talking to a skittish animal. “Are you afraid of cats?”

“Nonsense. Why would I be afraid of them?” He eyed the cat with such disdain that one would think it had personally murdered one of his family members, or something along those lines. Regardless of what he had said, he looked terrified, his body language stiff and unnatural. You had never seen him like this, so used to his cavalier attitude and manner of carrying himself. He sniffed, still maintaining a safe distance. “They’re vile creatures. I just don’t want them anywhere near me.”

His mouth was twisted downward in horror, and his eyebrows were raised so high they looked like they disappeared underneath the cap he had on. It resulted in an expression so comical that you had to bite the inside of your cheek in a genuine attempt to keep a straight face, but failed miserably.

You burst into laughter.

It was so sudden that it stunned Rafayel, his lips parting in shock as the sound washed over him. It felt like someone had dumped cold water on him because your laughter was intoxicating, so much brighter than he had anticipated, not that he had. It made you look younger, so much more carefree than you did with the tight-lipped facade you typically donned. Your lips stretched upwards, the edges of your eyes crinkling as you giggled at his expense.

A rare crack in your carefully crafted exterior. Intrigued, the urge to know more about you rose out of nowhere, but he clamped it down immediately.

“You’re laughing at me.” He accused, trying to keep the indignation in his voice.

“I’m sorry!” You managed in between puffs of laughter, and now he knew something had to be very wrong with him, because he nearly told you not to apologise for it. “It’s just–it’s so adorable!” You bent down and scooped up the cat into your arms, forgetting yourself for a moment as you watched the animal snuggle against you. “How can you be scared of this?”

He thought this was ridiculous. A woman like you, dressed head to toe in designer clothing, letting a stray cat all over her. It was completely unexpected and strangely alluring.

“Put that thing down.” He narrowed his eyes at the cat as you scratched under his chin. Just as quickly as it had slipped off, he could see you compose yourself once again. You straightened out your posture, your smile fading and turning less genuine and more polite, practised. He couldn’t help but immediately miss the unfiltered version of you he had just gotten the briefest of glimpses of.

“It’s not a thing, Rafayel, it’s a cat.” You sounded amused. “Look at how harmless it is.”

You held out the cat, and he recoiled away from you, glaring at the feline. He took his cap off, shaking his head and huffing. “It’s a viscous beast. If it scratches or bites you, don’t expect me to help you.”

The quick reply he expected from your end never came, because when he met your gaze again, you were staring at him – at his head, specifically. For all he knew, you were taking note of how terrible he looked now that he had lost the cap. Those things always made his scalp sweat, but they were his best bet at hiding his face without coming off looking too suspicious.

“Your hair is curly.”

Your cadence was back to being clipped, short, but there was something different there as well. Softer.

“Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us the real-life Sherlock Holmes.” He snorted, running his fingers through his tangled locks, before offering up the explanation you were clearly expecting. “Stylists usually end up straightening it. Something about it fitting my image better.”

“I see.” You studied him for a moment longer before looking back down at the cat. You quite liked his natural hair, but then again, he could probably pull off a trash bag and somehow make it look stylish. Not that he’d ever agree to that, but the thought almost made you laugh again.

Speaking of trash bags, you looked distastefully at your surroundings. “Can we get out of here now? I’m sure the press would have moved on by now.”

“Only if you lose the cat.”

You sat behind your desk, going over some paperwork. It was the less exciting part of your job, and you always ended up letting it pile up until you had an unreasonable amount to get through all at once. Most of your employees had gone home already, and you had sent Simone on her way as well.

The bright light of your office made your eyes hurt after the long day you had had, and you pressed your palms against them, sighing deeply.

“Wow. Do you just live here?”

The hell? You glanced up to see Rafayel standing by the door, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, looking right at you. The sight of him made something in the pit of your stomach turn.

Ever since the incident with the cat from a week ago, being around him no longer boiled your blood as much as it once did. He had been going out of his way to interact with you a lot more, and you hadn’t done anything to discourage it. Make no mistake, he still got on your nerves, but you tolerated him for some reason, even when he got too casual with you.

Perhaps you had been a little too lenient.

“What are you doing here?” You demanded, pushing the paperwork to the side and narrowing your eyes at him. He pushed off the wall and walked over to your desk, plopping down in the seat across from you without any invitation to do so.

“I could ask you the same question. I had a meeting with Andrew about rehearsals for fashion week, but I left my jacket behind, so I came back for it. Your office is the only one with the light still on, and my curiosity won. Your turn to tell me why you’re still here since it's–” he glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist. “ –Nine p.m.”

You waved your hand over the papers in front of you. “Work.”

“But you’re the only one here. Do you do this often?” He frowned, and if you paid close attention, his voice had a note of disapproval. That made sense, he seemed like the type of person to abhor working even a second overtime. Unfortunately, you were well-versed in it.

“Most days, yes.”

He blinked. “Okay, no. Get your things. We’re leaving.”

Definitely too lenient. “We are?”

“Yep, come on. You can do….whatever you’re doing now tomorrow.” He got to his feet and stared at you expectantly, evidently waiting for you to follow suit. “I don’t think you know what a break is, but you’re going to take one right now.”

Wow. Truly, the man had unprecedented levels of entitlement to try and boss you around when technically, you were his boss. Scoffing under your breath, your defiant gaze met his stubborn one.

“I’m busy.”

“You’ll be just as busy tomorrow.”

This was ridiculous. No one dared to speak to you so brazenly, and yet there he was, doing just that if there wouldn’t be a single consequence. What you should have done was tell him to piss off and leave you alone so you finish your work like you had set out to do.

So why on earth did you grab your coat and follow him out of your office instead?

“Is this another instance of you wasting my time, Rafayel?” You asked as you approached his car in the parking lot. You still weren’t sure what possessed you to actually follow him, but it was too late to back out of it now. A smirk teased his lips.

“Maybe.” His response resulted in you grumbling under your breath, and he laughed, fishing his keys out of his pocket and pressing a button to unlock his sleek, black Mercedes. He slid into the drivers seat and cocked his head in your direction. “Get in.”

God help you, because for some reason, you complied. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?” You settled in the passenger seat, taking in the interior, because, of course, the seats were covered in bright red leather. It was as unashamedly flashy as he was in every sense of the word.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

Rafayel started the car, smoothly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. With one hand on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel, the scene of him driving was ridiculously attractive for something so normal. You told yourself it was just because he was a conventionally attractive person. “Of course, you don’t. Relax, Miss Designer, don’t you ever loosen up?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“I figured. You look like the type to not know the meaning of fun” And clearly, he was a stranger to the concept of holding his tongue. One glance at the offended look on your face only made him want to tease you even more. Not too long ago, he was convinced the only expressions you were capable of were scowls and glares, but he had recently learned that you had an entire arsenal of them. Your nose would scrunch when you were disgusted, your lips would part when you were caught off guard, and if something happened to amuse you, you wouldn’t smile immediately. Instead, the smile would start in your eyes, and oftentimes stay there.

It felt like he was slowly but surely unlocking new sides to you, and he wanted nothing more than to unravel all of them. Most of all, he wanted to figure out how to get that pretty laugh out of you once more.

For no reason in particular. He was just a naturally curious person.

“Look,” he reasoned with you. “You’re gonna have to trust me on this one, alright? It’s not far off and it's worth it.”

“...Fine.” You finally relented, relaxing just a little as you leaned back in the passenger seat and busied yourself by looking out of the window as he drove. Minutes later, he pulled up by a modern-looking structure that consisted of only a ground floor. Once he parked, he cleared his throat.

“Ready?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be ready for,” you said dryly, undoing your seatbelt and getting out of the car. He grinned like he had won the lottery.

“That’s what makes it even better.” Faulty logic and all, he led you to the entrance of the building and opened the door, sauntering inside like he owned the place. You lingered outside, noting how all the lights were off, and it clearly looked like it was closed.

You couldn’t not be suspicious. “Are we trespassing?”

“Nah. Trespassing would mean we’re here without permission.” Rafayel gestured for you to follow him into the darkness, the moonlight filtering in through the door and letting you see just enough of him to not lose your bearings. He reached out and felt around the wall before humming triumphantly and flipping a switch. “There we go. Stop thinking so much and trust me, yeah?”

Squinting to readjust your eyesight to the now-bright lighting, you were left even more dumbfounded than before. “We’re in an….art gallery?”

White walls with frames hanging on them surrounded you, each with little plaques under the art pieces with the artist's information. Some of the walls were constructed in the centre of the room for people to walk around as they inspected the art. There didn’t seem to be any sort of theme with the current display, from what you could tell.

“Again, with those deduction skills,” he teased, and strangely enough, you didn’t want to slap him for it. “I’ll have you know that art can be very therapeutic. Great for taking a break from working”

It wasn’t every day you found yourself spontaneously being dragged to an art gallery, and having company was something even rarer. You had long since made peace with your lifestyle and its lonesome nature, but you were admittedly enjoying his presence, even if it was a little too chaotic for your liking.

“I’m pretty sure thats to do with creating it.” You almost smiled when he glared at you for your rebuttal. Huffing, he turned and walked further into the gallery, leaving you with no choice but to follow along. You were well aware that you were encouraging his crazy behaviour, but it wasn’t like you could stop now.

So you picked up your pace, pulling your coat around yourself tighter as you took in the different art pieces. Portraits, landscapes and some abstract pieces, the different art styles captivated you. You had always had an affinity for art, since fashion was so intrinsically intertwined with it.

Lost in your thoughts, you almost walked right into his back. Fortunately, he turned around at the perfect moment and reached out, hand on your shoulder. The contact snapped you out of it, and you looked up at him only to find an apprehensive look in his eyes. That didn’t make much sense though, considering how cocky and self-assured he was.

Raising your eyebrows in silent question, he sighed and moved out of your line of sight, revealing a wall.

Your eyes widened, all the air in your lungs leaving you at once.

The wall was covered in artwork of the sea. Every single piece was extremely detailed, some moody with their depictions of storms and deadly waves and others painting a picture of the sea at its calmest.

It was stunning, and even that word felt like an understatement. It simply did not do what you were currently looking at justice. The artist had captured the terrifying beauty of the sea so perfectly that looking at it stirred something akin to inspiration inside of you.

To you, the seafom resembled lace. The wheels in your head began to turn as more comparisons burst forth – the sand could be chiffon, and the waves themselves draped like silk. It had been so long since you had felt creativity like this that all you could do was stare, letting your skills take over and work through all the ideas that rushed forth, feeling overwhelmed and delighted all at once.

A singular plaque on the wall sat low and hidden away, tucked under all the art. You crouched down slightly, eager to know the person who had inspired you once more.

Anonymous.

You blinked, rising to your full height as you looked back at the art, dazed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

You spun around, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him. His stance was relaxed, hands in his pockets, and his eyes trained on the artwork. At first, you had thought you had misheard him, but the tone of his voice and the way he was looking at the paintings with what could only be described as pride told you otherwise.

“You made these?”

Your disbelief was unmistakable, and it stung a little. He chuckled at the incredulity in your voice as you asked the question, nodding slowly. “Surprised?”

“Very, yes.” You glanced between the art and him. “Why have you shown me this, Rafayel?”

“You don’t think very much of me,” It was a statement, rather than a question. He said it with a small simper, but it was unlike the one he usually wore. It was genuine, if not a little sad, no traces of that signature smirk of his as he met your eyes now.

“You’ve never given me a reason to.”

“Well, there you go. Here’s your reason.” His voice was oddly quiet. “To think of me better, that is.”

You truly didn’t know what to make of that. Only one question remained in your mind as you eyed the artist's plaque that held no information about the man beside you. “Why have you chosen to be anonymous? Your work is wonderful.”

Pride flickered to life in his eyes once more, like your compliment meant something. “Because this way, people will appreciate my art for what it is, without my affiliation. I’m not an idiot, Y/n, I know the entire world knows who I am. The moment they find out I’m the one who painted these, it won’t just be about the art anymore. It’ll be about me. Sure, it would get a lot more attention than it does here, sitting in the back of a barely known art gallery, but at least whatever attention it does get is real.”

Oh.

Rafayel was shallow, with a silver tongue he didn’t know how to control. He infuriated you to no end and thought much too highly of himself for his own good. He was vain, arrogant, and about a dozen other things that you thought of as faults.

But he was so much more. As of late, you were beginning to see who he was past all of that. You saw the man who was irrationally afraid of cats and, for some reason, went out of his way to talk to you. You saw the artist behind the model, curls and all. The softer smiles and perceptiveness that you would have never attributed to him before.

“I won’t say this often, so don’t get used to it.” You said slowly, glancing back at him. “But you were right, I did need a break. Thank you for this.”

He and you weren’t so different. Both of you were artists in your own right, seeking control over the art you created. The only difference was that he held that control by distancing himself from his work, whereas you were the very essence of yourself. Both of you had pride that clashed and egos that didn’t take kindly to bruising.

You no longer knew what to make of Qi Rafayel. That should have scared you.

But when he flashed you a boyish grin at your admittance to him being right, you realised that it didn’t.

It was past ten when Rafayel dropped you back home.

You made a beeline for your home office, forgetting to take off your shoes in your frenzied state. Within minutes, you were hunched over new, fresh pieces of paper, your old sketches discarded in a trash can and forgotten about. Your pencil flew over the pages as you frantically began to draw out new designs, eager to capture the ideas that had been swirling around in your head the moment you saw those paintings.

Inspiration was powerful, but fleeting. For the next two hours, you poured everything out onto those pages, and it felt like you were submerged underwater, unable to come up for air until you were finished. Your newest collection came to fruition that night, born from an unexpected muse.

When you were done and the sound of waves in your mind receded, you were left with the sounds of the city and a sense of tired satisfaction.

Jimmy Choo's were meant to be savoured. They were the type of shoes that people glided in, they made the simple act of walking an experience to remember.

They were not meant for the furious strides of one very livid fashion designer.

“Andrew!” Your model's manager flinched at the sharpness in your voice as you addressed him. “Why on earth are they not walking yet?”

“There’s just been a small delay–”

“I am in no mood for excuses.” You snapped, sweeping your gaze over the lineup of models standing ready but doing absolutely nothing. “Honestly, I’m starting to think I’m surrounded by imbeciles. First, I find out that the hems of an entire rack of shirts have been messed up and have to spend my entire morning explaining how to fix that problem to people who apparently don’t know how to do their jobs. Then I come here to check on how rehearsal is going, only to see that it hasn’t even begun.”

Andrew scrambled to appease you. “We’re starting right away!”

With that strangled declaration, he jumped into action, snapping his fingers in the direction of the models. “All of you! Behind the curtain, stat! In order, I want all of you walking out like you will for the show, understood? Chop Chop!”

Rafayel watched you from the end of the line, moving along with it until he was positioned correctly. This was the first rehearsal for the Paris Fashion Week show that was rapidly approaching, with only about two months left before the final day. Today, all that was taking place were run-throughs of the walks and setting the order of the models walking. His position was confirmed since the start, he would be the last one to walk, the much-anticipated closer of the show.

He noticed your tense shoulders, the way your lips were pressed together in a thin, displeased line. The first model walked out, and you studied her like a hawk, no doubt mentally filing away all your criticisms. Imposing as ever, your bad mood was evident.

For some crazy reason, he wanted to help alleviate it. He had seen past this untouchable facade you put up and had peeked through the cracks in your walls a couple of times now, when your pink lips curled upward just slightly, and your eyes glimmered a little brighter than usual. When you were just yourself, instead of the persona you played to stay at the top.

It seemed to him that you didn’t let anyone see that side of you. Instead, you did everything in your power to avoid letting it show.

What a lonely existence that must have been.

He walked out onto the practice runway when it was his turn, one foot in front of the other as he glided smoothly, focusing on a spot on the wall directly in front of him. It was the same old routine he had practised and perfected for years now.

When he reached the end, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before turning around. His view shifted to you, and he let it linger, savouring the way you stared at him. For a split second, he was sure your expression softened, but just as quickly, that softness vanished. He continued his walk until he disappeared behind the curtain once more.

Another run-through with Andrew yelling out the changes he wanted each model to make, and then they were all afforded a generous ten-minute break. Rafeyel did not know why he found himself gravitating towards where you stood.

“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the models?” You raised an eyebrow as he approached you, trying your best to sound as indifferent as possible. That wasn’t something you typically had trouble with, but now it felt a little harder to do when faced with the intensity of his attention.

“When have I ever done anything I was supposed to?”

You exhaled, shaking your head bemusedly. “Don’t sound so proud of it.”

“You look stressed.” Rafayel's voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he actually cared. You snuffed out that thought. He had been on your mind a dangerous amount as of late, but there was a perfectly rational explanation for that: he had inspired you.

“I’m always stressed. I’ve been on my feet all day.” You rubbed the spot between your eyebrows with your index and middle finger, smoothening out the frown that had formed.

“Have you learnt nothing from being around me? What happened to taking breaks?” He groaned, but it was more theatrical than genuinely perturbed. “Or do you need me around to make sure you take them?”

Absolutely not. Having Rafayel around was proving to be detrimental to your sanity for reasons entirely different to those expected. You tilted your head towards the other models and waved your hand in their general direction. “What I need you to do is your job, not loiter around here.”

He laughed like you had told the world's funniest joke, pinning you in place with a knowing look. “Oh, just admit it already. I’m the most entertainment you’ve had in a while. You love being around me, even if you don’t want to admit it.

You pursed your lips. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Is it, though?” His habit of incessantly questioning you was getting old, but that addictive drawl of his voice pulled you right back in. “You’re smiling.”

To your mild dismay, you realised he was right. Now that he pointed it out, you could feel how the apples of your cheeks were raised with the upward curve of the sides of your mouth. Scoffing, you tried your best to erase any evidence of the sort as you turned away, but to no avail.

“Your break is over, you can stop pestering me now.” But your tone was lighter than it had been all day. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and walked off, joining the group of models who were gearing up to practice their walks once more. As the distance between the two of you increased, you realised with a start that you unfortunately did quite like being around him.

But there wasn’t a rule that said you had to admit to such a thing. Rafayel was like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning, or a lagoon in the middle of a desert. Unpredictable and against everything you knew to be true about life, and yet…

There was something undeniably charged between the two of you, from the way he sought you out and how you let him linger. Neither of you dared to acknowledge this, however, keeping your distance literally and figuratively.

As he paraded down the runway once again with the elegance of a swan but the flamboyance of a peacock, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was that predictability and control you so desperately clung to that held you back. The second you let yourself go for just a little while, you found the inspiration you had been so desperately waiting for.

The past week had you being more productive than you had in months, your designs for fashion week already in production. With how everything was going, the collection for the runway would be ready by next week, which would finally put everything back on track. You had to constantly check in to ensure things were going exactly how you wanted them to, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you could let go of your tight hold and just breathe.

And if a certain pretty boy was plaguing your thoughts, well, that was no one else's business.

Maybe he was rubbing off on you.

“This way.” You turned the corner into yet another hallway, causing Rafayel to wonder just how big the Lumiere building was. You had summoned him there out of the blue, giving him no explanation as to why you wanted him there and only reminding him to be on time. The request was definitely unlike your usual self, more aligned with his impulsive nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

And so there he was, following you through the endless corridors. When he had asked why he was there, all he received was an uncharacteristically mischievous look in your eyes and nothing more. When he probed for answers, you only said one thing: “I thought you liked surprises.”

Never in a million years had he expected you, of all people, to throw his words back in his face. You had successfully piqued his curiosity, and he trailed behind you now, eager to see what you had in store.

Finally, you stopped in front of a door and brought out a pair of keys. “Currently, only select individuals have access to this room,” you informed him as you unlocked it, before pausing and looking at him. “You’ll be the first and only person who isn’t from Lumiere itself to witness what I’m about to show you. It goes without saying that it’s a secret for now.”

“I feel like the Sherlock joke has gone a little too far,” he muttered dryly. “You have a thing for suspense now.”

Your lips twitched, and you pushed the door open, letting him enter first. When he did, he froze in place, jaw falling open as he made sense of what he was looking at.

Mannequins filled the room, the same number as the number of models there were for the fashion week show. Each form had complete outfits on, and each one was exquisite in ways he couldn’t properly describe the way it deserved. Navy blue satin gowns with hand-stitched embroidery and ivory-coloured lace hems, intricate golden beading on cream corset tops, deep turquoise shirts made of the finest silk, and skirts that looked like waterfalls, layered with intent, short in the front and long in the back. Netted tops and coats with the most gorgeous pearl detailing he had ever seen, flowy chiffon shirts that were artfully tucked into white pants – every piece was thoughtfully designed and lovingly put together.

Rafayel was rendered completely speechless.

“Introducing Lumiere’s 20[XX] Spring Collection.” You announced, stepping beside him and regarding your work with pride. Your hands were tucked behind your back, your stance bashful, but he could tell you were anything but. You knew what your work was worth, and you weren’t shy about it.

He wasn’t the type of person who was used to having nothing to say – quite the opposite – but there he was, rooted to the spot in awe as you walked over to one of the mannequins and slightly adjusted the skirt on it. The simple action told him just how much each piece meant to you, how well you knew them. He intimately understood the familiarity an artist had with their work, but seeing that mirrored in you was something else entirely.

“Y/n,” he breathed out, “This is…”

“I’m hoping you’re going to say ‘impressive.’ It might be a little too late to walk for Chanel now.” There you were again, throwing his own words back in his face, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why he liked it so much. It was so completely unlike you.

“It’s more than impressive, you’ve outdone yourself.” He said, finally managing to break out of the reverie he had found himself in.

“Is that so?” You looked over your shoulder back at him, the slightest of smiles teasing your lips. “You haven’t even seen what you’re going to wear yet.”

Without so much as another glance in his direction, you gracefully weaved through the mannequins to the back of the room. It was all he could do to follow along, doing his utmost best not to knock anything over as he gaped. As he passed each outfit up close, details he hadn't seen before revealed themselves, and he had to resist reaching out to touch.

And in the back, on the final mannequin, was the garment that took his breath away.

A shirt made from blood red organza silk that had an iridescent quality to it, shifting colours when the light hit it from different angles. From red to blue to violet, Rafayel found himself entranced by its ever-changing nature, eyeing the pale blue pearl details on the collar with deep appreciation. It was completely sheer, with subtle winding patterns stitched into the delicate fabric that resembled coral.

“I hand-stitched this one myself, and in three weeks, you’ll be the one wearing it to close my show.” You said softly, trailing your fingers over the sleeve with care. You toyed with the end of it, watching how his eyes went wide and lips parted in something close to reverence.

“It’s phenomenal. All of it is.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, taking a step closer to you and the mannequin. “It’s so different from anything I’ve seen, especially from you.”

“Yeah, well, I realised that I didn’t just want to put out a collection that meant nothing.” It was true, the very thing that had driven you as you had put the collection around you together. “Fashion is more than just clothing. It’s an art form. It’s supposed to evoke a feeling, to be able to tell a story and have its own identity.”

The devotion you possessed towards your work was admirable, it was so plainly obvious that this was exactly what you were meant to do. Utterly enamoured, he spoke, “It’s gonna be one hell of a show.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You had been around him long enough to know he wasn’t someone who took anything too seriously, but the earnest look he was giving you that he definitely took this – and by extension, you – very seriously.

“Good, but I don’t want to just want to put on any show. I want it to be a performance.” You aimed to leave an impact, for people to leave the show and think about the experience for weeks, maybe even months, after. Rafayel realised that you were trusting him with enabling that by divulging your vision to him.

“Then it’s an honour to be one of your performers.”

That earned him a proper smile, not just the hint of one. It was small but mighty, starting in your eyes like your smiles always did, but this one was the rare type that reached your mouth and lit up your features. He found himself feeling winded for the second time in the past ten minutes, but this time it was because of you and not the clothing. At least he could explain the latter option.

“In that case, what do you think about a more permanent position at Lumiere?”

It wasn’t like this was the first time he had been offered this, but shock infiltrated his system anyway. “Like Xavier Shen?”

You nodded. “Like Xavier. A brand ambassador.” Waving a hand around, you continued, “You fit with Lumiere’s image and the vision I have for my brand, so I believe you won’t disappoint. I don’t say that lightly, or to every model. Of course, I’m not forcing anything on you, and you can take your time to think about it.”

Such plainly stated praise from the impossible-to-please Y/n L/n was practically unheard of, but there you were, staring at him with finality in your eyes. Arms folded over your chest, hair pinned up in that perfect bun as always and stiletto-clad feet, you were the same as always and yet he couldn’t seem to perceive you as he had in the past.

Thomas would be overjoyed at him finally taking something seriously. His aunt would certainly approve of the collaboration, and he’d be walking for a fashion house he actually cared about. It seemed perfect.

“I don’t need time.” Rafayel looked at the shirt that he would soon be wearing. “You’ve got yourself a new brand ambassador.”

The airhostess led you to your seat in first class, dragging your carry-on suitcase behind her. Once your bag was in the overhead cabin and you were settled in your seat, she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks menu and a cart, patiently waiting for your order. You leaned back in the plush seat and scanned over the available options.

“A glass of Dom Pérignon, please.”

God knows, you’d need the drink. Alcohol now acquired, you took a leisurely sip and tried your best to relax, but that was easier said than done. Boarding was still going on, and in about half an hour, you’d be airborne. The thought caused your stomach to churn.

To say you weren’t a fan of flying would be an understatement. Sure, you had to do it a lot for work and should’ve probably been used to it by now, but that wasn’t the case at all. Oftentimes, you found yourself clutching at the armrests for dear life during take-off, which, in your opinion, was the worst bit, and remained on edge throughout the flight. Even the comfort of first class didn’t help very much.

When you landed in Paris, there would be exactly ten days before the start of Fashion Week. You would be at your busiest since NYFW, and the added stress of anticipating that only added to your jittery state. Sighing deeply, you closed your eyes for a moment to ground yourself, index and middle finger rubbing against your temple.

“Well, hello there, neighbour. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your eyes flew open, settling on the culprit of the voice.

Rafayel stood in the booth right next to yours, looking the opposite of how you felt, completely at ease in this setting.

“Why are you here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The same as you, I presume, to get to Paris. Did you expect me to take a boat or something?” And then, as if he owned the place (which was his usual way of carrying himself), he rested his arms over the walls of your small enclosure, chin propped in his palm. “I guess Thomas booked the same flight as yours.”

“It certainly seems that way. Are you going to bother me the entire flight?” You felt mildly embarrassed at how you had blurted out the question so disgracefully.

“As much as I possibly can, yes.” He beamed like he had delivered the best news of your life. “Isn't it lucky our seats are so close?”

“Such a blessing,” You deadpanned, needing another drink despite your current one not being anywhere close to finished. The rest of the first class was completely empty, which meant you were stuck with his relentless pestering, whether you liked it or not, confined to the same space as him for the next seven and a half hours.

Brilliant.

Rafayel snorted. “I’m going to pretend that you meant that.” The airhostess appeared once again with her cart, and he opted for whiskey, neat and on the rocks. Once he had obtained his drink, he turned to you and held his glass out. “Cheers.”

You were too busy giving him an unimpressed look to remember your flying anxiety, until one of the airhostesses stepped into the first class section and announced that the takeoff would be soon. Immediately, you put your drink in its holder and frantically gripped the armrest as she went through the motions of the safety debrief. Rafayel sat down in his own seat, but looked over at you in amusement.

“You seriously pay attention to these things?”

“What does it look like?”

“I mean, haven’t you been on enough flights to know the basics by now?” He fastened his seatbelt as the safety instructions were done, and the lights dimmed, the plane getting ready for take-off.

“It doesn’t hurt to be reminded.” You muttered under your breath, but the cadence of your voice had taken a shaky turn, which was a far cry from its usual firm, clipped nature. Rafayel shot you an inquisitive look before noticing the death grip you had on the armrest and the tense set of your shoulders.

Whatever teasing comment that lay on the tip of his tongue dissolved as he dropped his voice. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That was the most unconvincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard.” He tilted his head and studied you for a moment. “You’re pale.”

The plane began to pick up speed, causing you to dig your manicured nails into the leather of the armrest and stare straight ahead at the blank screen in front of you. Usually, you always started a movie by now to distract yourself from your fear, but this time, you had paid so much attention to Rafayel that you had forgotten your routine when it came to flying.

But your silence told Rafayel everything he needed to know. “Hey. Look at me.”

“Rafayel, I am in no mood for your–”

“Tell me about the Spring Collection.”

You whipped your head to him, considerably confused by the sudden change of topic. “What? Why? You’ve seen the entire thing upfront.”

He sighed theatrically and gave you a pointed look. “Just do it, will you?”

This bizarre man. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to understand how his brain worked. Still, if there was one thing you allowed yourself to brag about, it was your work. Crossing your legs, you tried your best to relax in your seat.

“It’s inspired by the sea, which actually, you have yourself to thank for,” you said, getting straight to the point without beating around the bush.

Rafayel’s lips parted. “I do?”

“Your art.” You clarified, giving him a meaningful look. “It really struck a chord in me. One look at it and I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the collection, which was surprising considering I had been going through a bit of a creative rut.” You recalled how your creativity had come rushing back to you all at once, the moment you set your eyes on his paintings.

He told himself he’d dissect the warm feeling in his gut later, a smug look taking over his features. “I am nothing if not inspiring.”

You scoffed under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief at his conceitedness and wondering why-oh-why you found it somewhat endearing now. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” A slow, languid smirk stretched out on his lips as he took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling around in his glass. Your eyes betrayed you, dropping to his mouth and watching as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I’m gonna brag about this forever. Where is the show going to be held?”

“In a cathedral.” You averted your gaze, feeling heat creep up your neck and onto the apples of your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you sipped your champagne in an attempt to soothe your ruffled feathers, hoping it would cool you down and keep your face from flushing.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

“A cathedral, huh? You’re really going all out.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “It’s gonna have a very operatic feel to it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going for,” you admitted, pleasantly surprised that he had grasped exactly what you wanted to put across without you going in depth at all. It was as if he had reached into your mind and taken the words out of your mouth. Even Xavier wasn’t this perceptive.

Now, why on earth were you comparing him to Xavier? This was madness. Something was obviously very wrong with you since your train of thought had never been this outlandish before. You couldn’t make sense of it at all, simply because you had never been subjected to feeling this way before. Why was there a fluttery sensation in the pits of your stomach? What was this warmth that seemed to simmer underneath the expanse of your skin every time he looked at you?

Oh my god. Were you flustered by Qi Rafayel?

As that absolutely insane possibility made itself known, the lights in the cabin flickered back on, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to reality. Rafayel was already watching you, amused, taking another leisurely sip of his drink and blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. Blinking rapidly, you realised that you were already airborne and had made it through take-off without a hitch.

And that was when it hit you: all this talk about the collection and the show had been for your benefit. The model had been distracting you on purpose, somehow picking up on your fear. His presence, one that you had previously considered as bothersome, had been the very thing to calm you down.

You didn’t know what to say.

“Now then,” he picked up the bowlful of salted nuts one of the airhostesses had gotten upon his request, eyes twinkling as he popped a handful into his mouth. “Tell me more.”

Day one of Paris Fashion Week was a whirlwind.

You had been invited to watch two shows that day, the first of which was a Marc Jacobs runway show. The second show was for Dubois Designs, after which Gabriette had made sure to personally meet you and insist that you attend the afterparty as well. The new addition to your schedule gave you less than an hour to get ready for the aforementioned party, since right before it, you had a talk and presentation with Anna Wintour.

Between the glitz and glamour and one too many coffees, it was only the first day, and you had been thrust right back into the chaos you so loved and thrived in.

Dubois Designs was huge in Paris, being the home city of the brand and the founder. Even with your conditional friendship with Gabriette, you could admit that her show had been incredible. The exaggerated silhouettes had been eye-catching, and the craftsmanship was truly remarkable.

You descended the stairs and found yourself in a large, crowded basement. The party itself was in full swing, moody red lighting bathing the entire room while simultaneously keeping it dark. It fit the edgier aesthetic that Dubois Designs tended to lean towards, despite being a luxury fashion house. A DJ was tucked into a corner, mixing the electronic music as the backdrop for people to drink and dance to their heart's content.

Familiar faces stopped and greeted you as you made your way to the bar, knowing you’d definitely need a drink to enjoy all this. The darkness made it a little harder to recognise people, but most of them were well-known faces in the industry, from models to actors and even some well-known influencers. Having to be social at almost midnight was not something you particularly enjoyed, but it was the start of fashion week, and your adrenaline was at an all-time high, making all of this much more tolerable than usual.

Getting yourself a gin and tonic, you began consuming it at a pace that would ensure you had a pleasant buzz in about twenty minutes. The energy around you was palpable, the ebb and flow of it was surprisingly infectious, forcing you to subconsciously loosen up.

“Y/n! You made it!”

The French accent gave her away before she even stepped into your line of sight. Gabriette appeared seemingly out of nowhere, throwing her arms around you and giving you air kisses on both cheeks. You returned the gesture, tentatively returning her hug before pulling away.

“Of course I did. How could I ever refuse a personal invite from you?” You smiled the commercial smile you practised for events such as these. “After a show like that, I knew the afterparty would be just as spectacular.”

It was obvious that she was still riding off the high that the success of her show had brought, but you couldn’t blame her. She laughed, the sound a tad bit too shrill, “You are too kind. I have people to meet, but please, enjoy yourself.”

And with another exaggerated air kiss, she left you to your own devices, continuing on her mission of making rounds through the party. Events like these always tended to be impersonal, interactions were short and fleeting, and the more connections you managed to make in one night, the better. The industry was filled with young people looking to connect, and this was the best way to do so.

You finished your drink while chatting with the creative director of Louis Vuitton, who expressed their excitement for your upcoming show. As you engaged in conversation, you observed the scenes going on all around you, a sense of wistfulness taking over you. There was a point in your life when you thought you’d never belong in this world, back then when it felt too out of reach for a young aspirant such as yourself.

As your eyes swept across the room, they snagged on a familiar pair staring right back at you.

Rafayel cocked his head to the side when he caught your eye, immediately excusing himself from the conversation he had been having and making his way over. Unsure of what compelled you to do the same, you slipped through the crowd until you met him halfway.

“I did not think you would be here,” you admitted once within earshot. You hadn’t seen him for the past two days, with him being busy with photoshoots and other such events, his manager had added to his itinerary at the last minute (to his dismay).

Now that he was before you, his gaze dropped, slowly dragging over your figure from bottom to top like he was committing it to memory. The act sent inexplicable shivers up your spine, and you gripped your glass to show yourself from physically reacting, but that was harder said than done.

He wore a dark red shirt that had shimmery lilies embroidered across it, mostly unbuttoned to expose the smooth skin of his chest and torso. With his hair slightly dishevelled in a way that made him seem effortlessly attractive and the dark lighting casting sharp shadows over his face that brought out the intensity in his typically soft visage, he was truly something to behold.

Devilishly handsome, temptation incarnate.

“Gabriette invited me.” He waved his hand dismissively as he explained, like he didn’t really care. “Something about nurturing goodwill.”

“She’s all about that, isn’t she?” You muttered dryly. The loud music almost made your quip inaudible, but he caught on anyway, delighted at the hint of the sassy nature you possessed under all that seriousness.

“I didn’t think this was your scene.”

You wore a blue drop waist Lumiere mini dress and Isabel Marant fringe boots on your feet. Signature Vivienne Westwood earrings dangled from your ears, glinting through your styled hair whenever the light caught them. The entire outfit was in stark contrast to what he was used to seeing you in, devoid of any formality and primness.

“It’s not, but you know.” A playful smirk adorned your lips as you swayed to the music, looking so much more relaxed than normal. “Goodwill and all.”

God, he could get addicted to that. “Shame, you secretly being a party girl would have made you even more interesting.”

“Am I not interesting enough for you?” Your voice teetered on the edge of mockery with the question, shifting your weight from one foot to the other and staring up at him defiantly.

“Trust me, Y/n, you have no idea just how interesting I think you are.” He said smoothly, plucking your drink out of your hand and placing it off to the side, but before you could reprimand him for doing so, his hand cupped your elbow gently and pulled you along with him.

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a request, but rather a statement he was annoyingly sure you would comply with. You supposed you didn’t have much of a say in the matter with how he was basically dragging you with him, but it had been a while since you found yourself able to be properly irritated with him.

Even in the dim lighting, you were acutely aware of how people watched the two of you, eyes following your every movement, but you knew who they were actually looking at. You might have been Y/n L/n, the fashion industry's darling, but he was Qi Rafayel. You didn’t live under a rock; you knew of his reputation as the life of the party, but now you could see that play out in real time. A party wasn’t a good one without him. In all honesty, that was probably the reason Gabriette invited him in the first place.

Rafayel was made for the spotlight. Wickedly charming with levels of confidence that some would spend their entire life chasing, he basked in the attention being thrown his way like it was a form of currency. Perhaps it was, in a sense, what they exchanged to be able to admire such an alluring soul in his element.

The entire room watched him, but Rafayel? His eyes were locked on you.

You felt your mouth go dry, and a hammering began within the confines of your ribcage, slow at first but building up to a crescendo. His hands slipped from your elbows down to your waist, holding you gingerly. Everyone begged for even a speck of his attention, but all of his was on you, and the effect was downright dizzying.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

How proper of you. Mirth danced about in his expression as he pulled you just a tad closer, knowing fully well he was pushing your limits. “Aren’t you going to pay the compliment back?”

“You’re a world-famous model, Rafayel. I harshly think you need me telling you how good you look.” You looked over his shoulder, unable to hold any eye contact with him.

“No,” he mused, dipping his head until his mouth was just by your ear. “But you could tell me how hot I am.”

Every syllable dripped with that delicious, insufferable cockiness you desperately wished you still loathed. You could feel the warmth of his breath tickle the skin of your neck, and you turned your head until you were face to face with each other, so painfully close it felt illegal.

One thing was becoming quickly apparent to you, and that was that whatever you felt towards Rafayel wasn’t the plain old, run-of-the-mill attraction. That was just one aspect of it, especially in this moment, running through the charged air between the two of you like an electric current. The tension was almost tangible, like a live wire you were tempted to wrap your fingers around and tug.

But there was so much more. His willingness to share his art with you, even though he kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Distracting you on the plane. Challenging you to be better, even when you hated how he went about it. You, turning him into your muse, letting him inspire both you and your work.

You had disliked him because he was out of your realm of control. He wasn’t someone you could put a leash on and expect to follow every order; no, he did things his way and forced you to see the good in it. Now, however, you realised that you didn’t want to try and control him. You liked the unpredictability.

“I’d never do that.” You whispered, hating how breathless you must have sounded. Still, you made no effort to reclaim your personal space, addicted to the close proximity from the second you had been exposed to it. You finally understood why everyone wanted this. Wanted him.

A knowing smile stretched across his face, and in spite of your best efforts, you found yourself utterly enraptured by it.

“Oh, I know.”

Rafayel was tipsy, just about aware of the bass-boosted music, with a lazy smile on his face as he ordered two drinks at the bar. You were somewhere out there waiting for him to return with them, no doubt ready with a scathing remark about how long he was taking.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so bewitched by someone, solely because he never let anyone get close enough. Keeping people at arm's length was something he was well-versed in, but for some reason, he had only pulled you closer. His attempts at breaking down your walls had resulted in him letting you through his.

You, and your scrutinising gaze and sharp tongue. Beautiful. Unforgiving.

“Mr. Qi?”

He turned to the source of the voice, finding a man standing there with a determined look on his face. Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, sir, I’m Gabriette Dubois’ assistant.” He adjusted his glasses and continued. “Miss Dubois is overjoyed that you made it, and she would be here herself if something hadn’t come up. She wanted me to pass on a message.”

The drinks arrived. Rafayel tugged them closer to where he leaned against the bar, nodding. “Go on.”

“Miss Dubois is interested in working with you once again.” The assistant held out a business card, evidently not picking up on the man's surprise. As far as he remembered, the collaboration between Dubois Designs and him had been a couple of years ago and a roaring success, but there had never been any talk of extending it. He had expected that, since he had been his usual difficult self, Gabriette hadn’t appreciated it very much. Moreover, this was before he had catapulted into being considered one of the world's hottest models, so she had had no reason to keep him on for any longer.

“I see.”

“She awaits good news from your end. Take the time to think about it.”

And with that, the man left Rafayel alone once more. He toyed with the business card for a couple of moments before slipping it into his pocket. Then, he picked up the drinks and made his way back to you.

“How many times have you been to Paris?”

You stitched your eyebrows together in thought. “Four times, maybe?”

Rafayel looked scandalised, eyes widening and mouth falling open like you had personally offended him. “And this is your first time exploring?”

“I come here very briefly and only for work, Rafayel,” You spooned a heap of thick cream into your hot chocolate. “I should be working right now, but someone insisted I accompany him to the middle of nowhere.”

“I insisted you take a break, since you clearly don’t know how to take one yourself.”

That much was true. After a gruelling rehearsal (one that ended in you talking sternly to your employees about not ensuring the practice runway was to scale), he had caught up to you and demanded you drop everything and follow him. Maybe all the stress had been getting to you because you let him convince you, but not without complaint. You made your annoyance with the situation quite obvious, even if it wasn’t genuine at all.

He had suggested taking a walk, which is what this insane outing had started as, but when you admitted to never having actually explored the city, he acted like you had personally offended him. He decided to take matters into his own hands, which was how you ended up in a small boulangerie that was hidden away in one of the Parisian streets.

The hot chocolate was rich, and the croissant you had ordered was perfectly buttery and flaky. By no means did the bakery look like a place a celebrity would frequent, with its old-timey decor and peeling paint job, but it had a certain charm to it, run by a lovely old lady who immediately began fussing over Rafayel the moment the two of you arrived. Later, he told you that it was a secret gem and one of his favourite places to frequent whenever he was in Paris.

It turned out that was quite often, so much so that he even had an apartment here. He absolutely loved the city of love, which was why he was so flabbergasted at you not knowing much about it despite having been there several times.

“Fashion week is a very important time for me. I can rest after it's over.”

“Workaholic.” He jibed at you, stealing a piece of your croissant. “I’m going to take you around.”

You tried to protest, “That’s unnecessary-”

“Trust me, it’s necessary. Besides, I already asked Thomas to bring my car.”

“Your car?”

He gave you a too-innocent smile. “Did I not mention I have a car here? Don’t worry, it's very nice. A convertible, too.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You looked off to the side to conceal the grin that was threatening to break out on your face. There were about a million other things you could think of that you should have been doing, and yet here you were, going along with his shenanigans.

Once you were done eating and emerged from the bakery, his sports car was indeed waiting out for both of you with the roof pulled back. He ushered you into the passenger seat, going so far as to open the door for you before taking his place behind the steering wheel and pulling out of park.

Rafayel had no destination in mind, simply wanting to spend more time with you and keep you away from your precious work. Due to the late hour, they were mostly empty, which made the drive pleasantly smooth. He switched the radio on, the latest and greatest pop music filling the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you.

The lamps cast a dim yellow light over the Parisian streets, and you took it all in, watching intently from the car as they passed you by. By no means was this the greatest tour in the world – far from it. He didn’t tell you what you were looking at, too busy humming along to a Taylor Swift song, but it stirred up a feeling deep within you that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The sounds of late-night Paris mixed with his voice, turning into a melody you would have never thought was worth listening to before. It wrapped around your senses, and little by little, you let yourself go. Your posture relaxed, your jaw softened from its perpetually clenched state, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding in.

And for the first time in a long time, you realised that the loneliness you were so used to carrying around was nowhere to be found.

The only other person who managed to lessen the sense of isolation you harboured was Xavier, and even he couldn’t do it all the time, and yet, the headstrong man driving you around had somehow managed to break down all your walls and let you out of the prison you had built for yourself. While others expected you to break from the pressure that came with your position, he made sure you didn’t, even when you refused his help.

You sat forward in your seat, shutting your eyes as the cool night air blew against your face. Perhaps it defeated the point of the ride if you weren’t looking around anymore, but you couldn’t help it. It had been so long since you had been able to completely let go around someone else that you wanted to savour every second of the moment.

Rafayel glanced over and found it almost impossible to look away from you. Eyes fluttering open with shadows cast from your eyelashes and dancing on your face. Wind in your hair, hair that was finally let out of its perfect updo and allowed to freely fall over your shoulders. The way your head was tilted up just slightly as you stared at the starless sky, focused on the crescent moon overhead.

God, you were a painting he could never do justice to, but desperately wished he was able to.

Forcing himself to look away, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and focused his attention back on the roads he cruised down. “I should take you back to your hotel."

“Yeah,” you mumbled, leaning back against the seat. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“When do you not?”

“Just drive!” You forced exasperation into your voice as you put in the address of the hotel into his GPS. This moment was one you never wanted to end, but your feet were firmly rooted in reality even when your head was in the clouds. You clamped down on that wish and settled back in the seat, watching the streets pass you by.

But it festered anyway, latching onto you like wishes so great tended to. You had everything you could have ever wanted: money, fame, and you had achieved all your dreams, but now here you were, with a new dream blooming from the remnants of old ones, a dream you never thought would see the light of day.

If not for him, would you have let another trip to Paris pass you by with your head stuck in your schedule until it was time to board that flight back to New York? The notion of that had made him go out of his way to remedy it, even when you put up a fuss and tried to talk him out of it.

Unfortunately for you, you were rather easy to convince when it came to him.

When he pulled up to the hotel, he ignored all your protests and accompanied you to your room door. With every step you took towards the elevator, you did your utmost to keep a safe distance between your body and his, reminding yourself that this wasn’t something you could get used to. You hated the giddy feeling in your chest and the way it seemed to consume you when he was around. The back of his hand brushed against yours as you stood side by side, and even though the contact was minuscule, you could feel it everywhere.

The doors of the elevator opened, and you walked out with purpose, desperate to put as much space as you could between the two of you. He sauntered behind you, hands casually shoved in his pockets, completely and blissfully unaware of the storm waging in your head. You stopped outside your room and turned to face him.

“Don’t expect me to invite you in.” You warned, crossing your arms over your chest as you regarded him warily, expecting him to push back once more. “You’ve already taken enough of my time today.”

Your tone was reprimanding, but he could tell it was all just for show. There was a glint in your eyes that told him you more than enjoyed yourself today, even if you’d never admit it. He knew you well enough by now to know that you said one thing but meant something else entirely, and that solidified you as one, if not the most confusing person he had ever met.

And yet there he was, trying to decode you. “I wouldn’t dare ask for even a second more.”

Taking a step forward, he looked down at the floor for a second before lifting his gaze back to your face, staring at you intently. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, and in that fleeting moment, those mesmerising amethyst eyes of his dropped down to your lips. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like if he just leaned forward and–

He would have dismissed that deranged thought entirely if he hadn’t caught your breath hitching. “Actually, I might need a couple.”

Rafayel’s eyes flickered back to yours, realising you hadn’t moved away. You swallowed, too proud to be the one who looked away first, and instantly, you knew what this was: weeks of flirtation disguised as tolerance and arguments coming to a head. A silent question hung in the little space between him and you, weighted and with far too many strings attached for you to even consider. He was waiting for permission, you realised, or any sort of answer.

It was a bad, terrible, no good idea. A desire that was nothing more than a moment of weakness, one you would surely regret somewhere down the line.

But around him, succumbing to moments of weakness was so easy.

“Then you better make it worth it.”

His hands found your waist, tugging you closer and pressing his lips to yours without another word. He stole your breath with his, leaving you to gasp against his mouth as it moved against yours oh-so gently, like you were made of glass he refused to let shatter. You could taste the subtle sweetness the hot chocolate had left, and smell the scent of his expensive cologne, struggling to process all of it as he kissed you.

And fuck, how he kissed you. The world around you went silent as Rafayel’s lips fit perfectly against yours, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. They were soft and a little chapped from the night air, but intoxicating nonetheless.

When the two of you broke apart, he made no motion to move, keeping his hands on your hips. Your eyes fluttered open, your noses brushing against each other, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your lips. You hadn’t quite returned to reality just yet, still existing in the few seconds prior.

Rafayel let go after a minute or so and took a step away from you. You could see it now – the way he looked at you like you were the sun and moon and stars, a type of fondness you were wholly unused to. It had been there for the past couple of weeks, but you had mistaken it for mirth.

“Times up,” he muttered with an impossibly soft smile adorning his face, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

You watched him walk away from you, down the hallway and back to the elevator. As the doors shut, he gave you a cheeky little wave, causing you to stand there flabbergasted and more confused than you had ever been in your life before. You lifted your fingers to your lips that tingled from the ghost of his kiss.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

You quickly became addicted to the drug that was Rafayel.

Secret touches. Lingering glances. It had been two days since he first kissed you, and you had made no efforts to get him to stop. In between interviews and rehearsals, he somehow managed to grab hold of you and steal you away from the world, even if it was just for a couple of minutes.

His apartment in Paris was on the fourth floor, in a building with older elevators. You walked out of it and to the numbered apartment that he told you was his, knocking and waiting for him to answer. He had texted you just after you finished filming a video with Vogue, insisting that you absolutely had to come over as soon as possible.

When he opened the door, looking completely at ease, you suspected your mild concern had been for no reason.

“There you are,” he hummed, holding a glass of wine precariously in between his fingers, sloshing it around before taking a sip. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Come inside.”

You stepped over the threshold and into his apartment, following him to his living room. For someone as over-the-top as himself, it was quite the quaint place, with wooden furniture and the original paint job still intact. If you asked him about it, you figured he’d just say something pretentious about preserving the Parisian integrity of the apartment.

Pulling off your gloves, you tossed them on his coffee table and shrugged off your coat. He leaned against the island that separated the kitchen from his living room, watching your every move like it was a dance sequence he was trying to memorise. Once you were done, you turned to face him with an expectant look.

“From the urgency of your messages, I assumed there was an emergency.”

He smiled coyly, pressing the edge of his glass to his lips. “Is wanting to see you not emergency enough?”

You wanted to scream, to push him out of a window and kiss him senseless at the same damn time. That conflict inside of you bubbled over, leaving a confused bout of need in its wake because no one had ever driven you this crazy before. Narrowing your eyes at him, you walked over until you were standing right in front of him.

“You know very well that I’m busy.”

“And yet, here you are.” He reached out to you, taking your hand in his and pulling you closer. His hair fell into his eyes, the deep purple ends of it kissing the high of his cheekbones like wisteria hanging down from tree branches. Unable to resist, you cupped his face, brushing your thumb over the mole on his cheek with tenderness that surprised even yourself.

“I think you’re distracting me on purpose.”

“There she is,’ he murmured fondly, turning his face into your palm and pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss. “The queen of cynicism.”

He gripped your wrist and slowly began peppering kisses from the centre of your palm down to your wrist, his eyes sweeping to yours. Something about the action felt strikingly intimate, sparking a fire inside of you that you hadn’t known could ever exist. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, drawing him into you for once and meeting his lips with your own.

You were hooked. Every brush of his mouth against yours was electrifying, precise and addictive in ways that left you wanting more every time. Wine entirely forgotten, his hands lifted to your face and held it, turning you around and pressing you against the edge of the island as he took the lead.

When Rafayel kissed you again, you blossomed under his touch like a flower exposed to the sun for the first time in days. His fingers entangled in your hair and cradled the back of your head delicately, his nails scratching against your scalp and sending delighted shivers down your spine. He tilted your head back so that you could meet him better, the nature of the kiss dissolving into something much more intense as his tongue swiped over your lower lip, eliciting a soft sound from the back of your throat.

“Jesus,” he mumbled against you, pained and breathless, pulling away for a singular moment that somehow felt too long despite probably being not more than a second. When he leaned back in, his lips found the side of your mouth, trailing down to your jaw and finding the spot below your ear that made you sigh and tip your head back. He made good use of the access you had so willingly given him, leisurely leaving hot open open-mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, knowing exactly what to do to have you fall apart while simultaneously doing barely anything at all.

Your hands gripped the collar of his shirt at first, then slid down the silky fabric until they met the cool metal of his belt buckle. Emboldened by the situation, you hooked your fingers in his belt loops and tugged him even closer, until his hips were flush against yours. Your eagerness induced a dry chuckle from him, soft and barely there, puffs of his breath tickling against your pulse point. His thigh slotted between your legs before he paused, letting the gravity of what was happening hit either one of you.

It never did.

“Don’t you dare stop.” You almost snapped, but it lacked that authority your voice usually possessed when delegating tasks at work, instead laced with avid desperation for something only he could give you – a thrill only he could provide. Your permission was all he required, gripping your hips and lifting you onto the kitchen island and stepping in between your legs.

“So bossy,” you could feel him grinning against your neck. “You can’t resist ordering people around, can you?”

Before you could even think about refuting, his mouth was back on yours with a renewed sense of want, demanding and dizzying all at once. The beginnings of a retort died on your tongue when his meets yours and his hands slip under the hem of your skirt, sliding up your thighs maddeningly slow. All you could do was whine impatiently, leaning into him and giving in to that magnetic pull of his. He lifted his head, peering down at you with darkened eyes, so close that you could still taste him.

“Tell me what you want,” he asked, squeezing your thighs in a manner that told you knew knew exactly what you wanted. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You glared, though it was weak. “Don’t play dumb.”

“Fine. When was the last time someone made you come, Y/n?”

You exhaled sharply at his question, one he phrased so innocently, although it was nothing of the sort. “Rafayel.”

“I thought you liked it when people were straightforward with you.” He smirked down at you, running his thumb over your lower lip and applying a little pressure, enough to have your mouth part. His other hand slipped further up your inner thigh, fingers languidly tracing the edge of your panties. He could feel you stiffen, anticipation running rampant through your veins as a wave of arousal crashed over you, rendering you pliant and wanting.

Dipping his head to your ear, he whispered, “You’re always so wound up, baby. Let me help you relax.”

With that, the spark he had lit inside of you roared to life, the flames burning your blood, making you feel hot all over your body. You were wet, embarrassingly so, soaked through your underwear as a haze of lust enveloped your mind. His knuckles brushed against your clothed core, and the minimal contact made you whimper needily, flattening your palms against the flat of his chest.

“Please, Rafayel.” Never, in a million years, did he ever think he’d have you begging for anything, but there you were, with your legs spread. “Touch me.”

Rafayel didn’t think he’d ever been this turned on in his life.

Manoeuvring your panties to the side, his fingers dipped in between your folds, a hungry gleam blazing to life in his eyes as he watched you jerk into his touch, drinking in the way your cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed. Your slick coated his fingers, and he groaned, the sound low and deep as he brought them up to your clit and circled it, tantalisingly slow.

“You’re so wet for me.” Shame filtered through you at his words, but it came secondary to the want that coursed through you. It wasn’t like you could deny the claim anyway; you could feel it firsthand. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

“You better,” you breathed out, clutching at the ends of his shirt in a futile attempt to keep your sanity somewhat intact, but he was doing an excellent job of chipping away at it, with how expertly he rubbed your clit, increasing the pressure of the circles he rubbed against the bundle of nerves.

“Oh, I will.” He flashed you a cocky grin, hooking his finger in the center of your panties and tugging them down your legs. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

His other hand travelled underneath your top and pushed the material up your body, and you raised your arms, helping him pull it off and leaving you in a simple black bra. Still, he looked at you like you had a matching lingerie set on, humming in appreciation as he pulled your panties down your legs. They caught against one of your heels, which fell to his floor with a soft thud, but neither of you cared enough to even comprehend that. Immediately, he was back on you, middle finger pressing against your entrance as he nipped at your throat, soothing the sting his teeth left behind with licks of his tongue and wet kisses.

Finally, finally, he pushed one lithe finger into you and provided you with some relief, revelling in the moan you gasped out. His lips made their way down your neck and to your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breasts unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world to do with you as he pleased. He set a lazy pace with his finger, introducing a second one to your cunt with ease on account of how wet you were, gushing all over his hand.

Impatient, you reached behind and unhooked your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and took in the appreciative look on his face when you tossed it to the side.

“Fuck,” he looked like you had positively wrecked, like you were a witch that had put him under a spell. “You’re killing me here.”

Rafayel attacked your chest again, this time with a little less precision. His pretty pink lips dragged across your breasts, tongue flicking out and swirling around one of your your pebbled nipples, taking it into his mouth and sucking. You arched into him with a whimper, your hands finding purchase in his soft hair, holding his head close to your body. His fingers moved in and out of your cunt fast, the palm of his hand rutting against your clit rhythmically, having your toes curl out of pleasure.

“Raf- oh, fuck.”

He looked up at you through his eyelashes, biting down on your nipple just hard enough for sparks of pain to shoot through you, mingling with the pleasure until you were left with a heady mix of both swirling inside you. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his fingers on their own accord.

For someone usually so well put together, it was hypnotic to watch you fall apart for him – and because of him. His mouth slipped from your nipple for a moment in favour of staring at you in wonder. “God, you’re so…”

You never found out what he meant to say, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his fingers curled inside of you, the tips of them stroking against the spot that made it hard for you to hold back your moans and whimpers. The sounds tumbled out of you like a waterfall, combined with the wet ones from your pussy, and filled the silence of his apartment, spurring him on even further as he fingered you so diligently. He went right back to lapping at your breast, his free hand kneading your other one, rolling that nipple under his thumb and pinching it.

“Oh my god,” you whined as you helplessly ground against his palm, the heel of it digging into your clit and applying delicious pressure on it that had you losing your damn mind. You could tell you were close from the coiling sensation in your gut, and from the way your legs were trembling, he had picked up on it as well.

“That’s it,” he cooed. “Come for me.”

Seconds later, your orgasm hit you hard, a choked moan of his name leaving you as you clung onto him, overwhelmed at how good it felt. He held you against him, his ministrations never letting up for even a moment as he helped you ride out your high to the fullest. Once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers away, staring at the mess you left on them in awe.

And then he looked at you, and he realised that the mess of you was far prettier. Lips swollen and kiss-bitten, hair all messed up just like how he’d imagined far too many times for him to willingly admit to, and eyes blown wide with desire. The sight of you like this – so perfectly wrecked – almost made him moan aloud, but he stopped himself by kissing you once more, messily now, all teeth and tongue and heat.

“Y/n,” Rafayel rasped out your name against your lips, “Fuck, I need you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until you were flush against his chest, locking your legs around his hips. “Then take me.”

Bossy as ever, it only made him want you more. Gripping the underside of your thighs, he picked you up and carried you to his bedroom, lips locked with yours. He didn’t know how he made it to his room, but once there, he set you on the mattress and climbed over you, taking a moment to admire you in all your glory.

He was a total goner.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you huffed in between kisses, tugging impatiently at his collar and fumbling with his buttons. Rafayel laughed, finding your indignation so fucking adorable that he almost forgot what the two of you were doing, so consumed with the fact that he had you like this. When you managed to undo most of his buttons, he leaned back and pulled the shirt off, discarding it to some corner of the room and unzipped his pants.

His cock sprung to life as he kicked off his pants, and you were awestruck at the sight of him. The tempting lines of his abs you had forced yourself to look away from several times, now on display for only your eyes, and the flushed tip of his hard cock claiming all your attention because not only was it pretty, it was big. You bit your lower lip in anticipation, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look.

“Like what you see?” He drawled out the question with a lazy grin as he slipped on a condom, his smugness riling you up even more. Licking your lips, you pushed him away until he landed on his backside, expression morphing into one of confusion.

Aha, so it was possible to wipe that look off his face after all.

“Sit up against the headboard,” you instructed, getting to your knees and slipping the skirt that you still had on off your body, both of you completely naked now.

Although surprised, he complied fairly quickly, the smirk returning with full force. “Yes, ma’am.”

To Rafayel, this made sense. You always had to have a modicum of control over any situation, and this was how you established that here. You threw a leg over him, straddling his lap. His breath hitched when his cock came into contact with your bare cunt, unable to hold back a groan when you began to grind. The sound fired off every synapse in your brain, your body working on its own as you rolled your hips harder against him.

“God, fuck,” his honeyed voice was strained with the effort it took to not just hold you still and fuck up into you. “I’m going to lose my mind if I’m not inside you soon, pretty girl.”

The nickname did something to you, going straight to your head like a strong shot of tequila. You lifted your hips, reaching between your bodies and aligning his cock with your entrance, wetness coating the tip. Circling your hips, you savoured the way he sucked in a breath between his teeth.

But you were a woman who had virtually no patience. Teasing him, while fun, only succeeded in making you more desperate than you already were.

So you steadied yourself by placing your hands on his shoulders, slowly sinking onto his length. You hissed in pleasure at the burn of the stretch, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulders and most definitely leaving marks. The near drunken sound that left him when you took all of him was the most gratifying one you had ever heard. He gripped your hips, tipping his head back against the headboard and breathing heavily.

“You– fuck– you feel so perfect,” Rafayel stuttered in wonder, but you were still adjusting to his size to comprehend the praise properly. He was buried to the hilt, and you felt delirious, clawing at him as you tried and failed to keep yourself together. You needed him so bad it scared you, somehow growing even wetter with him inside of you because of how fucking good it felt.

Lifting your hips once again, you came down on him, mouth falling open at how he filled you up so easily. He groaned, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and ravishing it once more, both of you far too gone to even think about the consequences of leaving marks.

“Raf,” you whined, rocking your hips into him as you chased your high, in turn pulling his along. “Shit, it feels so good.”

“I know, cutie, I know,” His mouth was on your nipple again, wrapping his lips around it and sucking harshly, sending shocks of pleasure right down to your core. Instinctively, you clenched around him, and his grip on you tightened imperceptibly, a silent warning. Naturally, as you did with most things, you took it as a challenge, this time clenching on purpose.

“You little-” In retaliation, his thumb found your engorged clit and flicked it, causing you to screw your eyes shut and squeal with the extra stimulation.

“I can’t– god, it's too much,” you whimpered, feeling that familiar tug in your core build rapidly. Still sensitive from your first climax, it was no wonder that you were close already. Wanting to come again, you bounced faster, earning you a pleased groan from him.

“You’re incredible,” he crooned against your skin, hands running up your sides reverently as he stared at you through a half-lidded gaze. The sight of you on top of him, bare, looking so gorgeous, was enough to have him come undone, and he wanted it imprinted in his brain forever. He wanted to paint you like this, to turn you into art for his eyes alone.

You came hard, crying out his name in between the many of sounds that fell from your lips in ecstasy, gasps and moans alike. All you could think of was Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel as your high crashed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore.

Immediately, he took over, flipping your positions so that you were pressed into the mattress, his hips snapping to yours with a renewed sense of urgency. You mewled at the instant overstimulation, pawing at his torso in a weak attempt to get him to slow down, knowing damn well you didn’t want him to. He grabbed at your wrists and pinned them above your head, thrilled at the gasp-moan it elicited.

“You sound so fucking pretty,” Rafayel mumbled, sheathing himself inside of you with one final thrust, unravelling with a low moan. The two of you stayed like that for a couple of seconds, still connected, recovering from your mutual high.

Carefully, he pulled out, discarding the used condom and climbing right back into bed with you. His arms wrapped around your body, gathering you against his chest with all the tenderness in the world, limbs so entwined with yours that you didn’t know where you started and he ended anymore.

“Hey.”

You glanced up, finding him staring down at you with a soft, satiated smile, tracing soothing circles on your back. Like this, Rafayel was at his most irresistible to you, with his hair all mussed because of you, cheeks flushed, and every ounce of his attention on you. Try as you did, you couldn’t fight hints of your own smile from showing, so you nuzzled into his neck to hide your face. “Hi.”

“There isn’t a single reason for you to be shy,” he whispered playfully, propping his fingers under your chin and lifting your head so you were looking at him once more. “That was– you were amazing.”

“I don’t get shy.” Nonetheless, your cheeks flushed at his praise.

He chuckled quietly. “Of course you don’t.” And he kissed you again, like all the times he had just done so weren’t and would never be enough for him. Cupping your jaw sweetly, it was the most innocent press of his lips to yours, not needing any more from you. You certainly didn’t.

“Rafayel?” You breathed his name, pulling back and looking into those captivated eyes, hues of dark fuchsia and sapphire twinkling back at you. Entranced, you realised that your heart was no longer yours to control, free from the clutches of your mind, belonging to the man who held you. It was terrifying and freeing all at once, falling without knowing when and if you’d land at all.

“Hmm?”

“I think you might be my favourite muse.”

The words were honest, tinged with a vulnerability that hit home for Rafayel. He knew you didn’t open up like this to anyone, but you were staring at him now with that same look you gave him after asking him to stay on at Lumiere as a brand ambassador. Something in the confines of his ribs constricted as he brushed your hair out of your face.

“What an honour that is.”

It was early morning when Rafayel padded to his living room. The sun hadn’t risen yet. You were still in his bed, curled up under the sheets, looking so peaceful amidst your slumber. When he slipped away, he made sure not to disturb you.

For as long as he remembered, he had thrived on attention. It was something he had been handed even before his breakout into the mainstream as a top model. People constantly told him how he was meant for the limelight, standing proud at the centre of attention.

He settled on his couch, elbows on his knees and palms pressed into his eyes as he tried to think. His mind was racing, running at a mile a minute, and he was struggling to catch up.

You said he was your muse.

He had been a muse his entire life. For his aunt, for other designers and brands, he was used to it. The prospect of being a muse had never scared him before, but now he was yours, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate that role anymore. You, who said his art had inspired you to create your clothing, clothing he would soon wear and show off to the world. It should have thrilled him because he rarely resonated with a brand like he did yours, and even less with people.

Up until you, of course. You were a force of nature, obstinate and stubborn and spectacular too, like a storm that crashed into his town and swept him away. He meant it when he said it was an honour to be your muse.

But he knew that after a while, people got bored of their muses. Periodically, they moved on and found a new one to devote all their time and effort to. He was used to being wanted, and he often used that to his advantage, but being the one who wanted your attention was not a role he knew how to fill. The script had been flipped on him, and he felt like an actor with zero experience, wading in waters that were much too deep for him.

Walking away had always been easy. He wasn’t the type to be tied down to anything, all about living in the moment and having a good time. Now, he found himself wanting to stay, and that endlessly frightened him. What happened when he finished serving his purpose as your muse and you pushed him to the side?

He didn’t want to stick around and find out. He couldn’t bear to.

A business card lay on his coffee table. Lifting his head from his hands, he reached out and picked it up, turning the thin cardboard over in his fingers and reading the number on the back. The Dubois Designs logo glared up at him, as if taunting him with what would come to pass if he went through with this.

He picked up his phone.

You didn’t see Rafayel after that.

There were many things you could attribute this to. Your swamped schedule, the dinners, afterparties, showcases and fittings that you’d never hear the end of, his own endeavours – it made sense.

What didn’t make sense was the radio silence. He had gotten very comfortable with messaging you, even though you never entertained his overzealous texting style and only graced him with the driest of responses. Now, your phone was filled with communication from everyone except the man you were admittedly waiting to hear from.

Nothing.

Smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of your year, you didn’t have the time to dwell on it. The Lumiere show drew closer, and you were heavily involved in every aspect of the preparations to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be.

You called him once, but he hadn’t picked up. It made you frown, but it wasn’t like you had the right to his time. Hadn’t you told him how precious yours was time and time again? Satisfied with that reasoning, you continued, pushing all thoughts of the charming man away for as long as you could.

“He isn’t here.”

The observation slipped out of you flatly, a little too loud and emphatic even for your own ears. It was the night before the show, and the final rehearsal was underway, held right in the cathedral that would serve as the set. Typically, these run-throughs were held a couple of hours before the actual show, but that would have disturbed the normal proceedings of the church, and you had no intentions of undermining the sanctity of it.

You turned to your assistant and models' manager. “Where is Rafayel?”

Simone jumped in quickly, knowing well how you hated being left hanging. “Andrew didn’t see him come in, and I contacted Thomas, but he hasn’t been able to get hold of him either.”

“What on earth…?” You muttered mostly to yourself as something in the pit of your stomach twisted, tight and unpleasant. His absence lately stung, but up until this moment, you had graciously let it go, figuring that there was a reason for it. Now, however, it was impossible to let it slide because he wasn’t just ignoring you, he was skipping out on rehearsal, and that was a professional commitment.

“I heard he was difficult to work with,” Andrew commented, rubbing his chin. “But I didn’t think he’d be irresponsible.”

You wouldn’t stand for it. Nodding stiffly, you spoke. “I’m leaving the rest of the rehearsal in both of your hands. I have something to check on.”

Neither of them questioned you, absorbing your instructions and carrying them out efficiently. You grabbed your coat and left the cathedral, your shoes clicking against the cobbled footpaths as you hailed a cab. Your best bet on where he was would be his apartment, and that was exactly where you’d go to get your answers.

When you reached, the scene you were met with wasn’t what you expected at all. The door to his apartment swung wide open, loud music reaching your ears from where you stood as the elevator doors opened. Swallowing down your bafflement, you slowly approached the entrance, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the middle of your chest the closer you got.

Once you were inside, it only got worse. The music made it hard for you to think, your eyes sweeping across the room and taking in the sight: people laughing, mingling and dancing, some of them you even recognised.

And in the eye of the storm was Rafayel, lounging about at the centre of the chaos around him.

What the fuck?

He looked so at ease, lounging on his couch with his head tipped back on the back of it, eyes closed like he was unaware of what was going on. His serene expression only stirred up your frustration, and it mixed with your confusion and the crumbs of dread that swirled around your gut. Brushing aside your discomfort, you stormed over, knocking your leg into his to alert him of your presence.

Rafayel’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. At the sight of you, something flickered in them, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Y/n,” he slurred your name, barely audible over the volume of the music. “What are you doing here?”

God, he was drunk. Clenching your jaw at that fact, you narrowed your eyes and set him with a glare, taking in his inebriated state.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Déjà vu was what Rafayel felt at that moment, but instead of it being Thomas coming to scold him, it was you who stood before him, looking so furious and beautiful at the same time. There was nothing gentle about the way you phrased the question, your tone harsh and accusatory, like you had already decided he was in the wrong without giving him the chance to explain.

Clever woman.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together through the haze of his tipsiness. His lack of answer seemed to piss you off even more, and while that might have once amused him, all it did now was make his heart sink. Grabbing his wrist, you pulled him through his apartment and back out into the hallway, not caring if you were making a scene or about who was staring.

“I’m going to ask this once, and only once. What the hell is all this?” You let go of his wrist, spinning on your heel to face him once it was just the two of you. The music was softer out here, making the clipped tone of your voice all the more apparent.

“It’s a party, sweetheart. I’m sure you know what that is.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, furious at how cavalier he was being. It felt like you were back at the beginning, when you first met him, with his audacity and you struggling to keep your temper in check, except so much worse. Now, you were personally involved with him, which caused all of your emotions to lash out all at once. “Don’t you know what day it is?”

“You’re asking such odd questions, but if you must know, it's Thursday.” He looked completely uninterested in the conversation you were trying so hard to have. You grit your teeth, taking a step forward.

“First, you ignore me,” you seethed, your perfect facade crumbling bit by bit in his presence. “Then you don’t show up for the show rehearsal, that is going on right now, mind you, and throw a party instead? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your disbelief was palpable, and it grew exponentially when he scoffed, like your questioning right then was a major inconvenience.

“Oh, please, you and I both know I’ll be fantastic on the runway whether I’m at the rehearsal or not.” He leaned against the wall to hide how unsteady he felt on his feet right then, the paradox almost making him laugh. Almost.

“Thats not the point!” You took a step toward him. “You know it's not.”

“Isn’t it?”

You exhaled shakily. “No. It’s about–” Us, but was there an ‘us’ for you to even refer to? From the way he was looking at you right now, so cold and aloof, you doubted it. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You let the statement hang between him and you, not bother to tack on the question that sat on the tip of your tongue, letting the rhetorical nature of it take over and do the work for you.

Rafayel was aware of how it looked because he was the one who had made it so. He had kissed you, held you, slept with you and then disappeared. He hated the look on your face right now, the way you were staring at him so pleadingly, waiting for him to explain why, too proud to outright ask for it. He averted his gaze, staring at his shoes.

“Are you really that surprised?”

Something in you cracked wide open. “What?”

“Come on, Y/n, you’re smart. I’m sure you’re aware of my reputation.” He knew he was being an asshole, but what was one of instance of that to him? That was what the world perceived him as anyway– a playboy with a penchant for partying and a pretty face – so why not live up to it? If it were going to protect him from getting hurt, then by all means, it would be worth it.

With how your face swiftly collapsed at his insinuation, it certainly didn’t feel worth it. He wanted to take it back immediately, to take you by the shoulders and tell you the truth and hold you like he had just days ago.

He couldn’t. Everything about wanting you terrified him because of the intensity of that desire. He had never felt like this before, and the thought of you someday not wanting him back was unbearable. He knew how he was: selfish, self-serving to a fault, difficult and exhausting at times, so very skilled at pushing people away. Eventually, you’d get tired of him and leave.

The idea of you walking away scared him so much that he opted to run away first to save himself from that pain.

“Did–Did everything that happened between us mean nothing to you?” You despised the way you stuttered, the stilted rhythm of your speech that betrayed the emotion behind it, because it made you feel weak. Out of control.

Perhaps if he were a better man, a stronger one, he’d tell you the truth. He’d tell you that it had meant the most to him, and how nothing had ever mattered as much as you did.

But he wasn’t.

“Was it supposed to?”

You couldn’t conceal the sharp gasp that left you at his cruel words, staggering away from him like you had been shot. The man in front of you was one you didn’t recognise, a mere phantom of the one you thought you knew. He had Rafayel’s eyes and hair and stature, but it wasn’t the same Rafayel that had torn through your walls and coaxed the real you out into the light, the part of you that you kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Instead, it was a man who held those secrets and threw them back in your face like they had meant nothing.

You had let your guard down and let him in, forgetting how easy that made it for you to get hurt. Those walls that once towered so high around had come crashing down, and you didn’t know how to rebuild. Hot tears burned your eyes, heartbreak mingling in with your rage toward him, but you refused to cry. You wouldn’t give him any more of yourself than you already had.

All you had left was your dignity, and you’d be damned if you let that go.

He was right; he had a reputation for a reason, and you should never have expected anything more. You pulled yourself together, momentarily wondering how you ever let yourself be so stupid.

“You will walk in the show tomorrow.” You forced yourself to sound steady, fingers curled into fists at how enraged you felt. “And then you will never walk for Lumiere again. Do you understand?”

The cold fury in your cadence wasn’t lost on him, and neither was the way you were shutting him out and shutting down. You had gotten used to expressing yourself freely when around him, and even now, it was like all your feelings were plastered across your face for him to see. It was awful to watch you blink away your tears so rapidly, knowing that they were because of him, how your lips twisted downward at the sorrow you felt but refused to give in to.

Rafayel hated that he was the one who had caused you this pain, but he couldn’t backtrack now. He had come this far, he might as well finish the job. Maybe it would be easier if you hated him.

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll be signed with Dubois Designs.”

You felt the betrayal before you processed it.

It started as a dull ache in the centre of your chest, gradually worsening until it felt like someone was standing on top of it, making it hard for you to breathe. When it– what he had done– finally hit you, you could no longer think straight, unstable on your feet despite being the sober one. You had spent your entire life keeping your cards close to your chest, only for the one person you had let peek at them to burn the whole deck.

There was a lump in your throat and a knife in your back.

When you spoke again, your voice was dangerously quiet. “After tomorrow, I never want to see you again.”

With your head held high and heart sinking low, you turned on your heel and left, stepping into the old elevator without sparing him another glance. Part of you wanted nothing more than you shake him and make him feel the way you did right then, but that would require casting your pride aside, and frankly, you didn’t have it in you. You wouldn’t let him take that away from you.

Rafayel watched you leave, frozen in place. The irony wasn’t lost on him; he had run away from the future possibility of you walking away from him, only to have you do exactly that right now. The party continued in the background, but all he could think of were the tears in your eyes and how fucking hurt you looked because of what he had just done to you. To himself.

You emerged back into the Parisian streets, the cold air nipping at the exposed skin of your neck. Pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you looked up at the sky and then at your surroundings, those tears you had so valiantly fought against finally trickling down your face.

The city of love had never looked so dull.

The models were lined up and in place. Every seat was filled, celebrities and critics alike taking the front row. Photographers had their equipment in place, ready to capture the results of your hard work. You stood backstage, and despite having done this so many times, you felt a little nervous.

Everyone looked fabulous in your clothing, the stylists carefully draping them in the delicate fabrics and complicated pieces. Both the women and men models had little Swarovski crystals embedded in their hair that would shimmer when the light hit them, with the women’s hair being done in beach waves. Last-minute touch-ups to the makeup, some models having to be quite literally stitched into their outfits– it was that unique brand of madness that only existed behind the veiled curtains of a fashion show.

This was it. The end of a season for Lumiere. Months of fretting over details and extensive planning, hours upon hours of work and stress and obstacles would culminate in the twelve minutes that your models took the stage for.

“On in ten,” Simone announced, taking her spot beside you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you mumbled, both your hands over your stomach in an attempt to calm its churning. The lights came on all of a sudden, signalling that the show was about to begin. The music began playing, and the first model rolled her shoulders, straightened her posture, and lifted her head just slightly, a look of concentration dawning on her face.

And down the runway she went.

She glided down the runway with grace, and a hush fell over the audience at the magnificent sight, fabrics shimmering as the dramatic lighting hit them. Once she reached the end, she twirled gracefully and turned to return as the next model emerged into the spotlight. They passed each other on their respective paths, hums of appreciation arising from the onlookers. Haunting organ music accompanied the models as they walked one by one, dramatic and exquisite.

Operatic.

It was funny how only one person had ever been able to capture the essence of what you had envisioned so perfectly and put it into words. It was fitting, you supposed, the muse would understand what he inspired. He now stood at the back of the line, waiting his turn to take the runway and blow everyone away with the final piece of the collection.

Rafayel’s eyes met yours across the backstage area one final time, so brief that you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him. For his look, you had instructed the stylists to leave his hair in its natural curly state, and with the crystals in it, he truly looked like a character from a fairytale. When you looked at him now, though, his beauty wasn’t what you were transfixed on.

It was the look in his eyes. Forlorn, longing and….defeated? The combination resulted in something inexplicable, but it chipped away at a suspicion you had been harbouring ever since the night before, one that you had buried deep to save yourself from the pain that would come with trying to understand it. For how well he could read you, it seemed that you could do the same for him, and now, that split second of eye contact told you everything you needed to know.

Everything that had happened between the two of you had meant something to him, and for some reason, he lied to you and said it didn’t.

You didn’t want to know why.

Rafayel stepped out and onto the runway, his expression morphing into one you had seen in magazines and on your website. The dark red organza silk of his shirt shimmered in the light like light upon ocean waves, hints of blue and purple making a show as he walked. Captivating as ever, he brought your clothing to life with every step he took.

The perfect closer for a sensational show.

When it was time for you to walk out, you plastered on a smile and waved, placing one foot in front of the other like your life depended on it. Cameras flashed, and thunderous applause was heard throughout the cathedral, especially when you took your place in the middle of your models as they lined up for a final bow. You joined then, a weight rolling off your shoulders as the show came to a spectacular close, undoubtedly a resounding success.

You had done it. This show was unlike any other you had put on, and no doubt everyone would be talking about it. You had stepped out of your comfort zone when it came to designing and achieved your goal of putting on a spectacle that made the audience feel.

So why did you feel so hollow?

After surviving a swarm of paparazzi shouting questions at you, desperate for even a sliver of your attention and a glance at their lenses and shaking the hands of impressed critics, you found yourself at the Lumiere afterparty. People you called loosely called friends for appearances' sake, celebrities, influencers, and fellow designers were all in attendance, showering you in congratulations and complimenting your work. They said the show would go down in fashion history as iconic and asked how you managed to do it once again. You smiled and drank and tried your best to bask in your well-deserved glory at a party you didn’t want to be at, in a city that was tainted.

And at this party, Qi Rafayel was nowhere to be found.

New York was as unforgiving as ever.

Your life resumed its regular course when you returned; fittings, photoshoots, interviews, and so much paperwork. You threw yourself into your work, filling every spare moment of your day with something to do, fix, or delegate, an arguably pathetic attempt at keeping yourself from thinking of him.

The cacophony of the city accompanied your every solitary step, and you took comfort in it. The incessant honking while stuck in traffic and the chatter of pedestrians filled your senses, whether you were sitting in the back of a cab or running errands. It served as background music to your loneliness, and while you might have once been satisfied with it, you found it hard to go back to that blissfully ignorant state.

Because now you had a taste of what it felt like to not be quite so lonely. Rafayel had waltzed into your life like the tempest of allure and insolence he was and drenched your world in colour. He had taken you out of your box and painted you a new perspective, one you had so foolishly assumed he’d view by your side.

Early mornings and late nights – your days began to blur together until you weren’t sure when they started and ended. Your voice lacked the bite it usually had when reprimanding your employees for any stupid mistakes. If your coffee was cold, you drank it anyway, perplexing Simone. You walked through the hallways of the Lumeire building during those long work days and returned to your penthouse in the dead of night, moving under the heavy silence that completely claimed the large space.

You loathed him for making the life you had so carefully built for yourself feel so miserable. More than anything, you hated how you wished he were still in it.

Rafayel threw a party.

He didn’t even want to be there anymore. Everything about it felt wrong. His drink wasn’t strong enough, the music was too loud, and there were too many fucking people around. He didn’t even like any of them; it was the usual crowd that showed up whenever he hosted one of these things, and while he could usually get along with them, right now all their presence did was remind him that the one person he truly wanted beside him wanted nothing to do with him.

A pitiful try at filling a void he had created himself. He didn’t want anything to do with himself either.

God, he missed you. He missed that rare smile you seldom let show, the ridiculous updo you always had your hair done in, and the passion in your eyes when you spoke about your work. He missed your voice, your crimson painted lips and scrutinising glare that made everyone it was directed at shrink. The way you’d scowl when he teased you, and the softness with which you told him he was your favourite muse.

As he glanced at the doorway of his apartment, he almost willed you to walk through it like you had in Paris, on that fateful night when he ruined everything. He imagined you appearing there, huffing in displeasure at the pandemonium of this stupid party and wanting to see him. Idiotically, he braced himself for exactly that, waiting and watching like it was something that would actually happen.

But he knew it wouldn’t. Instead of waiting around for it to happen, he realised that for the first time in his life, he’d have to work for what he wanted.

He would have to go to you.

Walking into the Lumiere building after two months away was a strange experience.

It seemed like nothing had changed, not that he expected it to. He had almost become an ambassador for the brand, and now there he was, walking down its hallways as nothing more than an exiled stranger.

His feet carried him to your office, knowing that was where you’d be, always holed up in there with a thousand things to get done. Passing the conference room where he first met you four months ago, he wondered how things had gotten to this point. Back then, he had been reluctant to get involved with Lumiere.

Funny.

When he reached your office, you seemed to be in conversation with someone. One glance at the silvery blond hair on the man, and he recognised him as Xavier Shen, the model he had replaced. Now, the man seemed perfectly healthy, standing on his feet as the two of you conversed. The sight reminded Rafayel that he truly might not be needed by you anymore, in every sense of the word.

Still, he steeled himself and pushed the glass door open, not bothering to knock. He never did in the past, so why start now?

“Huh. You really do live here.”

Both Xavier and you turned to him, and the first thing he noticed was how tired you looked. Your shoulders looked like the weight of the world rested upon them, slumped just a little bit, and prominent dark circles under your eyes. It seemed he was right in assuming you were running yourself ragged; he knew your habits well enough. Still, even with all that, to him, you looked positively radiant.

At the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets, your heart stuttered before it twisted in pain. He was the same as ever, his presence commanding the entirety of your office like no one else but you could, still a sight for sore eyes. That ever-present playful tone to his voice, however, was weaker than you remembered, just barely hiding the thick layer of vulnerability just below the surface.

“I thought I said I never wanted to see you again.”

Xavier glanced between you and Rafayel before clearing his throat. “I’m gonna take my leave. See you tomorrow.” He gave you a sharp nod and slipped out. Rafayel barely comprehended the other man leaving, so focused on being in the same room as you again.

“I know.” Those words were fresh in his mind even after all these weeks, eating away at him. They were the reason it took him so long to come here, so afraid you’d turn him away the second he showed his face, but he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t try. “I know, I just…” He trailed off, not quite sure what to say now that he was face to face with you.

“What do you want, Rafayel?” You took a seat behind your desk and defensively folded your arms over your chest, keeping your guard up. “To waste more of my time? To remind me how little I meant to you? Take your pick, and do it quickly because I don’t have all day.”

He looked pained. “I want to talk. Please.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “And why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

“You shouldn’t,” he admitted, walking to your desk. “But I’m asking you to, anyway.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you looked off to the side. He somehow had the gall to walk into your building and ask to talk to you when he had no right to do so. It was just so like him, selfish with total disregard for your feelings, and as much as you wanted to tell him to get out, a small, hopeless part of you wanted to hear what he had to say.

You supposed that was what you got for falling for someone like him. “Fine. Talk.”

Relief flooded his system. He sat down on one of the cushioned chairs in front of your desk and tried to gather his thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of where to start. “I’m sorry.”

That had seemed like a pretty good place to begin, but with the way your eyes narrowed, he wondered if he had already made a mistake. Lord knows it wouldn’t be his first or last one. “That could have been an email.”

“Would you have read it?”

You clenched your jaw at his rash question, opting to stay silent. Rafayel wanted to slap himself, knowing he was being an asshole even now, the one time he was actively trying to avoid doing so. He didn’t deserve even a second of your time; he should have walked out of your life and stayed away to avoid causing you any more pain.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forged on. “I fucked up, I know that. I’ve never– I lied and said that none of it mattered, but– fuck, this is coming out all wrong.” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated at his inability to say what he wanted in a manner that made even a sliver of sense. “I was scared.”

All that self-assuredness you were so used to was nowhere to be seen now as he stumbled over his words. It was jarring to see Rafayel admit to being scared when you had only ever associated him with unshakable confidence.

“Scared of what? Me?”

There was something fractured in the way you asked that, fragile even. He immediately refuted the claim, feeling awful that you would even consider it a possibility. “No, god no, not you. Never you.” His eyes snapped to yours, full of earnestness that made you instantly believe him. “You called me your muse.”

You let out a slow breath. “I remember.”

Rafayel gripped the armrests on either side of him, looking off to the side, his throat bobbing with uncertainty as he contemplated whether this was a good idea anymore. “But muses are temporary. They can’t inspire forever, and god knows I’m not someone who thinks about forever.” A huff of forced laughter. “But with you, I did. I wanted to be the one that inspired you forever and that scared the shit out of me.”

Here they were, answers to questions you had been too proud to ask. He ran his fingers through his straightened hair, pushing it back and out of his face. Regardless of how restless he felt, he continued, knowing that the truth was the least of what you deserved. “For the first, fuck, maybe the only time in my life, I wanted to stay. I was so afraid that you’d wake up one day and realise I’m not worth being your muse and you’d walk away. Pick someone else.”

“Do you really think so little of me?” You asked quietly, unable to look anywhere but him.

“I didn’t know what to think,” He said honestly. “I’ve never cared so much, and the thought of you leaving because you didn’t find me inspiring enough for your creations–” He cut himself off and dropped his head, as if suddenly realising how fucking awful his assumption sounded out loud. “I thought the only way to avoid that would be to leave first, and I know that that makes no sense, but I….I’m so sorry.”

You had been called a lot of things in your life: difficult, stubborn, unreasonable, and yet somehow, this stung the worst. He had made the decision for you, leaving you to deal with the repercussions of an outcome you didn’t have a hand in choosing.

“You thought I saw you as a means to an end.” Your voice was devoid of emotion, hollow, anguished eyes never once finding his. “When I only ever thought of you as a beginning.”

For something that was a concept, it was funny how his regret manifested itself as a physical ache, ripping through his chest and causing his throat to close up on itself. Your words cut through him, reminding him of how he was the one to rush to an end that you hadn’t even considered.

Maybe this wasn’t salvageable. Maybe all he was destined for was to live with the knowledge that he had finally loved someone other than himself, and ruined it.

“I know what it feels like to be loved.” It took everything in him to keep looking at you when it seemed like you couldn’t bear to even glance at him. His tongue felt like it was made of lead, heavy and uncooperative as he tried to say what he had known for so long. “Adoration, infatuation, whatever. I know when someone is in love with me, but I’ve never felt the same way. I don’t know how to, but I think whatever I feel for you has to be pretty damn close, and–”

“Don’t you dare.”

“–I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

A shattered breath left you, your composure faltering completely at the confession. Nothing about this was fair. Your heart was bruised and battered, but it fluttered to life completely against your will when he said it, and you detested it. You wanted to hate him so badly, even when it was so clear that you loved him. Why else would all this hurt so bad?

They said pride came before fall, but in your case, you fell first, and now it was your pride that stopped you from letting him back in. You knew he didn’t deserve a shred of forgiveness, and you also knew that if you looked at him right now, you’d let go of the anger you were so desperately holding onto. It was the only thing keeping you from being totally vulnerable, so you kept your gaze on your mahogany desk, trying your hardest to stay strong.

“I think you should leave.”

Quiet enough to conceal how choked up you truly felt, you knew you didn’t mean it. You needed the time and space to think about everything that had happened. You couldn’t just forgive him even if you wanted to, so skilled at holding a grudge as you were, the bitter realisation that you were perhaps as scared as he was right then making itself known.

Rafayel had never been good at doing what he was told, but there was no place for his sense of entitlement here. He had done enough damage, and if you wanted him to leave, then that was exactly what he’d do. Getting to his feet, he stared at you one last time, waiting, wishing and hoping you’d look up.

But you didn’t.

So he left your office, complying with your wishes without argument. It should have pleased you, considering how you hated rebuttals when it came to people following your orders.

But as you watched him walk through those doors, you had never wanted someone to defy you more than in that moment.

When a storm comes to an end, it does so in parts.

First, the wind stops howling. As it does, the heavy showers relent and turn back into the light drizzle it started as, gentle and harmless. The darkened clouds clear up, giving way to clear blue skies and the warm, golden rays of the sun.

Resentment worked differently when it came to someone you loved. It turned out that both those feelings– resentment and love– could exist simultaneously, even when it seemed nearly impossible, but when the latter was real, it made it exhausting to hold on to all that anger. Love itself was confusing, contradictory, and so difficult to navigate, especially when it was good.

And when had anything good been easy?

The art gallery was pretty much empty, seeing that it was almost eight p.m., which was when it closed. You swept through the different hallways, procrastinating, approaching the showcase you were truly there for.

And why the hell were you there?

Because, despite everything, Rafayel was still everything you wanted, and you were so tired of pretending he wasn’t. You had spent night after night going over everything that had happened over the past six months and trying to convince yourself of the opposite, but when it came down to it, one thing was abundantly clear: he made you happy like no one else could. He could accomplish the opposite as well, but one extreme would not exist if the other didn’t.

He was flawed, but so were you. Your pride made it impossible for you to see that at first, making you punish yourself and stay miserable, even though the one thing you wanted was within reach. You turned it away, thinking that refusal would help you forget him and the way he made you feel, but it didn’t. Maybe it didn’t make any sense, but maybe it wasn’t supposed to. You had spent so much of your life making sure everything went exactly how you wanted, caging yourself within your own expectations.

Stepping into the back, you were in front of the very wall he had shown you all those months ago when he had dragged you out of your office. Even when you weren’t sure of him, he was the only person in your life who had ever forced you to live.

Your breath hitched.

The paintings had been rearranged with a new one in the centre. The colours stood out against the others, this one bathed in warm oranges and yellows, a faceless woman leaning out of the roof of a car with the wind in her hair. There was something distinctively wistful about it, like she was being viewed from the lens of another.

It was you.

You took a hesitant step forward, instinctively looking at the artist plaque despite knowing that it would read ‘anonymous’. Not that it mattered, of course, because you knew exactly who had made it.

“Y/n?”

You turned, and there Rafayel was. It had been a while since you had seen him, and during that time, he had stayed out of the limelight completely—no articles in tabloids, no rumours, nothing. Your pulse picked up at the sight of him, and you felt like a child being caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“What are you doing here?” The ridiculous question left you before you could stop it. His lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement bleeding into those all-consuming eyes.

“Forgot already? I’m a little insulted.” He spoke gently, cocking his head towards his artwork. He studied you for a moment. “Why are you here?”

When it came to him, you always found yourself wanting to do opposite things at the same time. You wanted to run away, but more than anything, you wanted to run right back into his arms. If that made you an idiot, well, wasn’t everyone allowed to be one every once in a while?

“I don’t know.”

A soft smile, so much like the one he gave you that night when he first kissed you. “No, you do. You of all people don’t do things without a reason.”

There he went again, reading you like a book without your permission. You looked back at the painting of you, skillfully evading his question with one of your own. “When did you make that?”

“Recently.” Hesitantly, he made his way to your side, like he wasn’t sure if he had a spot there anymore, but in typical Rafayel fashion, he took it anyway. “I’ve had time on my hands.”

“How?”

“I haven’t been modelling that much lately. Thomas is just about fed up with me.” His attempt at levity wasn’t lost on you. You were quite aware of his absence from the spotlight as of late, but something nagged at the back of your mind, telling you that you had a piece of the puzzle missing.

Then it hit you as your eyes swept to him, once again succumbing to the gravitational pull he possessed. “But what about Dubois Designs?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets, not meeting your eyes. “They sent over a contract.” He admitted, clearing his throat. “But I may have thrown it out.”

“Why?” It felt like all you were doing was asking questions you already knew the answers to. Rafayel clicked his tongue in a mixture of mild annoyance and something else, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, giving you a knowing look.

“You know why.”

Fuck. Both of you, stubborn, impossibly prideful people, holding each other back because of each other. It was almost laughable. Swallowing thickly, you shifted closer to him, your gaze darting back to his depiction of you. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

“Yeah, well, you can thank my muse for that.”

You were breathless. “I’m your muse?” Another question lay under this one: Do you still love me?

“If that’s okay with you,” His eyes never strayed from you, watching you like you were the very essence of the sun itself, or the most perfect pearl in the ocean. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t want to be. I may have given it a bad rep.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, facing him properly now that you had finally worked up the nerve. “You’ve made me a fool, Qi Rafayel.”

Fondness sweeter than the ripest of peaches spread over his face. “No one could ever make you a fool, Y/n. Especially not me.” He took a tentative step forward into your personal space, and you never wanted him to leave again. “So I’ll ask you again, why are you here?”

There were a few things in this shallow, pretentious world you were certain of. Your faith in your abilities as a designer was the first, knowing that no matter what, your skills and talent would always speak for themselves more than your words ever could. The second was your preference for coffee that was piping hot, without sugar, so that the bitterness would shock your system into functioning.

And the third, in a sick, unfortunately fortunate twist of fate, was Qi Rafayel, the model who had traipsed into your life without so much as a warning and had turned it upside down.

“Because you’re still my muse.” You whispered. “And as it so happens, I love you too.”

When your lips met, you knew right then and there that you’d never let him go again. Your palm cupped his face as you pulled him closer, reaquainting yourself with the feel of him against you, how the two of you fit together so perfectly as if you were made for each other. One of his hands slipped around your waist, the other coming to rest over your own over his face, keeping it trapped there as he leaned into your touch, whispering I love you’s back.

“I’m going to fuck up,” Rafayel mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours like he couldn’t bear to be any further from you. “I’m going to piss you off and I’m never going to be easy.”

You squeezed his forearm. “I know. Those are your most endearing qualities.”

“Will you love me even then?” He held you close, but you could feel the slight tremble in his touch. You saw him for what he was under all that indifference and chutzpah: a man who desperately loved you through his fear. Lucky for him, you were a woman who loved him through his mistakes and all the madness he brought into your life.

“Rafayel.” With a tender whisper of his name, you pressed your lips to his reassuringly. “I love you because of it.”

Love was messy and imperfect, but so were the two of you. Neither he nor you were easy people, but when had you ever taken the easy way out of something? You wouldn’t mind never getting out of this, content to stay with him for as long as he’d have you. The colours rushed back into your life, starting with the pinks and blues of his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. He’d break every one of your rules with a smile, and you’d let him.

“God, you’re going to regret that.”

But he was laughing, and so were you, giddy with the thought of a future with him. The sound of his laughter was so enchanting that you wanted to memorise it, and perhaps now you could, with him by your side for what you hoped would be a beginning without an end.

You were wholly and irrevocably in love with Qi Rafayel, infuriating quirks and all. Everyone in the industry that the two of you ruled might have thought of him as a total nightmare.

But to you? To you, Rafayel was a dream.

fin.

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