An Ungodly Hours.
Nana's phone rang at 5:47 AM.
She groaned, reaching blindly for it, still half-asleep. "Hello?"
"Miss Wang? This is Thomas. I'm outside your apartment. Mr. Rafayel requests your presence immediately."
Nana sat up, suddenly alert. "Is there an emergency? Wanderers? An attack?"
"No, nothing like that. He wants to go collect shells for his painting."
There was a long pause.
"Shells," Nana repeated flatly.
"Pink shells, specifically. There's a small island near White Sand Bay where they wash up at low tide. Which is—" She could hear rustling, probably Thomas checking his watch. "—in about forty minutes. He's very insistent."
*Of course he is*, Nana thought, falling back against her pillow. *Because normal people collect art supplies at reasonable hours, but apparently eccentric artists operate on their own timeline.*
"I'll be down in ten minutes," she sighed.
"Excellent. I've brought coffee."
*Thank god for Thomas*, Nana thought as she dragged herself out of bed.
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🐚🐚🐚
Fifteen minutes later, she was in Thomas's car, clutching a cup of blessed caffeine and the remainder of her breakfast—a slightly squashed pastry she'd grabbed on the way out. The sun was just starting to paint the horizon in shades of pink and gold as they drove toward the coast.
"Is he always like this?" Nana asked, taking a bite of her pastry.
"Like what?" Thomas asked innocently.
"Impulsive. Demanding. Operating on a schedule that seems designed to inconvenience everyone around him."
Thomas smiled slightly. "Mr. Rafayel is... passionate about his work. When inspiration strikes, he acts immediately. You'll get used to it."
*Will I?* Nana wondered. *Because I'm not sure I'm prepared for a lifetime of 5 AM shell-collecting expeditions.*
Then she remembered this was a two-week job, not a lifetime commitment, and felt strangely disappointed by that fact.
They arrived at White Sand Bay just as the sun fully crested the horizon. Rafayel was waiting by a small wooden rowboat, looking entirely too ethereal for someone who'd dragged his bodyguard out of bed before six AM.
He was dressed casually—loose white shirt, rolled-up pants, feet bare, his purple-pink hair catching the morning light in ways that seemed almost otherworldly. When he saw her, his face lit up with a smile that made her momentarily forget she was annoyed at him.
"You came!" he said, as if there had been any doubt.
"You hired me," Nana pointed out. "Kind of comes with the job description."
"Still." He offered her a hand to help her into the boat, his touch warm against her palm. "Thank you. I know it's early."
"It's absurd," Nana corrected, but settled into the boat anyway. "Couldn't this have waited until, say, a civilized hour? Like nine AM?"
"Low tide is now," Rafayel said, taking the seat across from her and grabbing the oars. "By nine, the island will be partially submerged again. We have maybe an hour to collect the shells before the water rises."
"You could have mentioned that yesterday when we were planning the schedule," Nana muttered, finishing her pastry.
"I forgot," Rafayel said cheerfully, which was probably a lie. "Shall we?"
He began to row. Or rather, he began to *attempt* to row.
It became immediately apparent that Rafayel had absolutely no idea how to row a boat.
The oars flailed in the water with no coordination, splashing more than propelling. The boat lurched left, then right, then spun in a complete circle as Rafayel tried to correct course.
"Um," Nana said, gripping the sides of the boat. "Have you ever actually done this before?"
"How hard can it be?" Rafayel said, struggling with the oars. "You just... pull. Like this."
The boat spun in another circle.
"Rafayel."
"I'm figuring it out!"
The boat continued its drunken spiral through the water, making absolutely no progress toward the small island that was clearly visible maybe fifty meters away.
"Oh my god," Nana said, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement. "You're a disaster."
"I'm an artist!" Rafayel protested, wrestling with the oars like they were personally attacking him. "I create beauty! I'm not meant for manual labor!"
*Iam the Sea God*, he didn't say. *I command tides and control water itself. But I can't tell you that, and also it turns out that divine power over oceans doesn't actually translate to knowing how to row a boat like a normal human.*
This is humiliating.
"Let me," Nana said, reaching for the oars.
"No, I've got it—"
The boat lurched violently to the left. Rafayel overcorrected. They spun in three rapid circles, and Nana was pretty sure they were now farther from the island than when they'd started.
"Okay, maybe not," Rafayel admitted, looking slightly green. "Why is everything spinning?"
"Because you're terrible at this," Nana said, but she was smiling now. There was something endearing about watching this ethereally beautiful artist—who lived on a private island and whose paintings sold for millions—struggle with something as basic as rowing a boat.
"Can we just... ditch the boat?" Rafayel suggested, swaying as another wave rocked them. "Just swim to the island? That would be faster."
"I can't swim," Nana admitted.
Rafayel's head snapped up, his eyes suddenly sharp. "You can't swim?"
"Never learned," she said with a shrug. "Grew up in the city. No ocean, no pools, no time. It's on my list of things to eventually get around to, but—"
"I'll teach you," Rafayel interrupted.
"What?"
"To swim. I'll teach you." His voice had taken on an intensity that surprised her. "Everyone should know how to swim. It's—" *It's important. It's survival. It's being safe in my element, in the world I come from, in the place I need you to be comfortable.* "—a useful skill."
"Maybe later," Nana said, oddly touched by his vehemence. "For now, how about you let me row before we end up in the next county?"
They switched positions carefully, the boat rocking dangerously as they maneuvered around each other. Rafayel settled across from her, looking relieved to be free of the oars.
Nana took over, her strokes steady and even. The boat immediately began moving in an actual straight line toward the island.
"Show off," Rafayel muttered, but he was smiling.
They'd made it maybe halfway when Nana noticed the clouds gathering on the horizon. Dark ones. Moving fast.
"Rafayel," she said slowly. "Did you check the weather forecast before planning this trip?"
"Weather forecast?" he repeated, as if this was a foreign concept.
"Oh my god."
"It was clear when I left the house!"
"Twenty minutes ago!"
The wind picked up. The waves, which had been gentle swells, began growing larger. More aggressive. The boat rocked, harder than before.
"We should go back," Nana said, trying to turn the boat around.
"We're closer to the island than the shore," Rafayel pointed out, gripping the sides as a particularly large wave hit them. "Just push forward. We can wait out the storm on the island."
*If we make it to the island*, Nana thought, but gritted her teeth and rowed harder.
They were almost there—maybe ten meters away—when the big wave hit.
It came from nowhere, a wall of water that lifted their tiny boat like a toy. Nana had one moment to see Rafayel's eyes go wide, one moment to hear him shout something, and then—
The world turned upside down.
Cold water engulfed her. Salt burned her nose and throat. She couldn't tell which way was up, couldn't breathe, couldn't—
Strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her up, up, toward light and air and—
She broke the surface gasping, coughing, clutching at Rafayel who was keeping her head above water with one arm while swimming toward the island with the other.
"I've got you," he said, his voice steady despite the waves. "Don't panic. I've got you."
*He's swimming*, her brain registered dimly. *Swimming like he was born in the water. Swimming like the waves are nothing. Swimming like—*
Then her feet hit sand, and they were stumbling onto the beach, collapsing on the shore as the storm rolled in overhead.
Nana lay on her back in the sand, coughing up seawater, trying to remember how to breathe properly. Rain began to fall—light at first, then heavier—but she was already soaked, so what did it matter?
She turned her head to check on him, and froze.
Rafayel was lying face-down in the sand, completely motionless.
"Rafayel?" Nana pushed herself up, ignoring her protesting muscles. "Rafayel!"
No response.
"Oh no. Oh no no no."
She scrambled over to him, her hands going to his shoulders. "Rafayel, can you hear me? Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?"
Rafayel, meanwhile, was using every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from smiling.
*This is mean*, he told himself. *This is arguably cruel. She's genuinely worried and you're being a terrible person.*
*But also*, another part of him argued, *when will you ever get another chance to see how she reacts when she thinks you're in danger? And isn't it kind of sweet that she's so worried? And—*
Her hands were checking him over now, pressing against his ribs, his stomach (he had to fight not to flinch because it *tickled*), his arms. Professional, efficient, but with an undercurrent of panic.
"Come on, come on," she muttered. "Don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Do you have any idea how much paperwork there is when your client dies on your watch?"
*Romantic*, Rafayel thought, still fighting the urge to laugh.
She checked his pulse—which was steady, because he was fine—then seemed to make a decision.
"Okay. CPR. You can do this." She sounded like she was coaching herself. "Thirty compressions, two rescue breaths. You learned this in training. You've done this before. Just—"
She started chest compressions, her hands positioned carefully over his sternum. Rafayel felt each push, felt the determination in her movements, felt the slight tremor that suggested she wasn't as calm as she was trying to appear.
*She's really worried*, he realized. *She barely knows me and she's really, genuinely worried.*
*Maybe I should stop this now.*
But he didn't. Because there was something precious about this moment—about being cared for, worried over, fought for by the girl he loved. Even if she didn't remember him. Even if she was only doing this out of professional duty.
"Okay," Nana said after thirty compressions. "Rescue breaths. You've got this."
She leaned closer, and Rafayel could feel her hesitate. Could almost hear her internal debate.
"What if he wakes up and thinks I'm assaulting him? What if his fans find out and murder me? What if—"
"But I have to save him. I have to."
She leaned in, her face inches from his, and Rafayel decided that was quite enough of this game.
He opened his eyes and grinned up at her. "Looking for something?"
The expression on Nana's face cycled through relief, confusion, and then pure fury in about two seconds.
"YOU!" she shouted, shoving him. "YOU WERE PRETENDING!"
Rafayel laughed, rolling away from her and jumping to his feet. "Your face! Oh my god, your face—"
"YOU ABSOLUTE—" Nana scrambled up, grabbing a handful of wet sand. "—INSUFFERABLE—" She threw it at him. "—THEATRICAL—" Another handful. "—DRAMA QUEEN!"
Rafayel dodged, still laughing, and took off running down the beach. Behind him, he could hear Nana chasing, shouting threats that became increasingly creative.
"I'm going to tell Thomas!" she yelled. "I'm going to tell him you're a menace!"
"He already knows!" Rafayel called back.
"I'm going to quit this job!"
"No you won't!"
"I'm going to leave you stranded on this island!"
"We're both stranded! The boat capsized!"
Nana tackled him from behind—an impressive feat considering he was taller and she'd just nearly drowned—and they went down in a tangle of limbs on the wet sand.
"That was mean!" she said, pinning him down and smacking his shoulder. "That was so mean! I thought you were dead!"
"I'm sorry," Rafayel said, but he was still laughing. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist, you were so worried and it was—"
"Not funny!"
"A little funny?"
"Not even a little!" But she was smiling now, despite herself. Smiling and soaked and covered in sand and absolutely furious with him, but also—
*Also happy*, Rafayel realized. *She's happy.*
The storm had passed as quickly as it had come, the clouds breaking apart to reveal blue sky. The sun emerged, warming the wet beach, making the water sparkle like diamonds. Seagulls began circling overhead, calling to each other.
They lay there in the sand, both breathing hard from the chase, the fight, the laughter. Nana was sprawled half on top of him, her wet hair sticking to her face, her eyes bright with indignation and amusement.
*She's beautiful*, Rafayel thought. *Gods, she's so beautiful.*
"You're insane," Nana said, but there was no heat in it anymore.
"You're not the first person to tell me that," Rafayel admitted.
"I won't be the last."
"Probably not."
They stayed like that for another moment, neither quite willing to move. Then Rafayel, feeling playful and reckless and more alive than he'd felt in three hundred years, suddenly grabbed her and rolled, switching their positions so she was beneath him in the sand.
"Rafayel!" she squeaked, startled.
He grinned down at her, then pushed up and grabbed her hands, pulling her to her feet. Before she could protest, he spun her—a quick, dizzying circle that made her laugh—then caught her before she could stumble.
"What are you doing?" she asked, breathless.
"Dancing," Rafayel said, spinning her again. "We're having a moment. Might as well make it memorable."
"We're supposed to be collecting shells!"
"Shells can wait. Dance with me."
"There's no music!"
"There's always music." He spun her again, and this time she laughed—bright and clear and joyful. "Hear it? The waves, the birds, the wind. Perfect symphony."
They danced across the beach like children, spinning and laughing and completely disregarding the fact that they were supposed to be on a professional job. The seagulls scattered and regrouped around them, and the sun climbed higher, drying their clothes and warming their skin.
*This*, Rafayel thought as he spun her again, as her laughter filled the air, as the mark on his chest pulsed with warmth and contentment. *This is worth waiting three hundred years for.*
*Not the grand gestures. Not the declarations. Just this—a girl laughing on a beach, letting herself be silly and free and happy.*
*Just her, here, now, with me.*
Eventually they collapsed on the sand again, both breathless and grinning like fools. Nana's phone buzzed—probably Thomas, wondering where they were and if they'd drowned—but she ignored it.
"We're terrible at our jobs," she said, staring up at the blue sky.
"Speak for yourself," Rafayel said. "I'm an excellent artist. The shell-collecting part is just a bonus."
"We didn't collect any shells."
"No, but we had an adventure. Isn't that better?"
Nana turned her head to look at him, something soft in her expression. "Maybe," she admitted. "But next time, warn me before you fake your own death. My heart can't take it."
*Your heart*, Rafayel thought. *If only you knew what your heart has already survived.*
"Deal," he said aloud. "No more fake deaths."
"Good."
They lay there for a while longer, watching clouds drift across the sky, listening to the waves and the birds and each other's breathing. The mark on Nana's neck pulsed gently, in rhythm with the one on Rafayel's chest, and neither of them questioned why they felt so peaceful, so content, so *right* lying on a beach covered in sand and salt.
Eventually, they did collect some shells. Found the pink ones Rafayel wanted, plus some other treasures—sea glass, interesting rocks, a perfectly intact sand dollar. By the time Thomas arrived in a motorboat to rescue them (because of course he'd been tracking them and knew exactly where they were), their pockets were full of treasures and their faces were sunburned and they couldn't stop smiling.
"You two look like drowned rats," Thomas observed.
"We had an adventure!" Rafayel announced cheerfully.
"You capsized."
"An exciting adventure!"
Thomas sighed but helped them into the boat. As they motored back toward White Sand Bay, Nana caught Rafayel's eye and mouthed 'drama queen' at him.
He just grinned and mouthed back 'your drama queen'
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
*Progress*, Rafayel thought. *One disaster at a time, we're making progress.*
*And I haven't even told her I can control the tides yet.*
*Wait until she finds out I let us capsize on purpose just so I could save her.*
*She's going to kill me.*
*Worth it.*
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🐚🐚🐚
To be continued __