The Studio
By the time they returned to White Sand Bay, the sun was climbing toward noon and both of them had sand in places sand should never be. Thomas met them at the dock with a knowing look and two shopping bags.
"I took the liberty," he said, handing one to Nana. "Fresh clothes. You're about the same size as my sister, so I estimated."
"Thank you, Thomas," Nana said gratefully. "You're a lifesaver."
"Someone has to be, since you two seem determined to drown." Thomas gave Rafayel a pointed look. "The weather forecast was available online. For free. With pictures."
"We had an adventure," Rafayel said defensively.
"You capsized."
"An *exciting* capsize."
Nana snorted, taking her bag. "Where can I change?"
"Guest room, first door on the left," Rafayel directed. "I'll be in the studio. Thomas, did you get the—"
"Mortar and pestle, already in the studio, along with the fixative medium you requested." Thomas sighed. "I'll be in the main house if you need anything. Try not to burn down the studio."
"That was one time!" Rafayel called after him, but Thomas was already walking away.
Nana raised an eyebrow. "You burned down your studio?"
"There was an incident with turpentine and a candle and a very strong wind," Rafayel said. "We don't talk about it."
"I feel like we should talk about it."
"We really shouldn't. Go change. I'll start preparing the shells."
Twenty minutes later, Nana emerged in the clothes Thomas had bought—simple but comfortable, a soft cream sweater and dark pants that fit surprisingly well. She found Rafayel in his studio, already changed into dry clothes himself, grinding the pink shells in a stone mortar with focused intensity.
The studio looked different in daylight after the storm. Cleaner, somehow. The massive canvas he'd been working on when she'd knocked over the vase had been moved to the side, and a smaller easel had been set up beside his usual workspace.
"Better?" Rafayel asked without looking up from his grinding.
"Much. Thank you for the clothes."
"Thank Thomas. I just texted him measurements and said 'something comfortable.'" He glanced up, and something flickered in his eyes as he took in her appearance. "It suits you. The color."
Nana felt her cheeks warm slightly. "It's just a sweater."
"Still suits you." He returned to his grinding, the rhythmic sound of stone on stone filling the studio. "Come watch. This is the interesting part."
She moved closer, peering into the mortar. The pink shells had been ground into a fine powder, delicate and shimmering like pearl dust.
"You mix this with the paint?" she asked.
"With the medium first," Rafayel corrected, reaching for a small bottle. "It needs to bind properly or it'll just sink to the bottom and separate. The ratio is important—too much shell and the paint becomes grainy, too little and you lose the luminescence."
He poured a measured amount of clear liquid into the mortar, then began mixing with practiced ease. Nana watched, fascinated, as the powder transformed into a paste, then gradually into something more fluid.
"The shells give it depth," Rafayel explained, his voice taking on that focused quality it got when he talked about his art. "See how it catches the light? Even in powder form? That translates to the canvas. Makes the color seem almost three-dimensional."
"It's beautiful," Nana said softly.
Rafayel paused, looking at her instead of his work. "Yes," he agreed quietly. "It is."
Something in his tone made her glance up, and for a moment their eyes met. There was something in his expression—something warm and sad and infinitely gentle—that made her heart do a strange little flip.
Then the moment passed, and he was back to mixing his paint.
"Want to try?" he asked.
"Try what?"
"Painting." He gestured to the smaller easel. "I set it up for you. Fresh canvas, brushes, palette. The paint is ready."
"Rafayel, I can't paint," Nana protested. "I don't know the first thing about art. I'll just waste your expensive materials."
"So? I have plenty of materials. And you won't waste anything—every attempt teaches you something." He was already transferring some of the pink shell paint to a palette, adding other colors. "Besides, you're my bodyguard. Part of guarding me is understanding what I do, right? How can you protect my work if you don't know how it's created?"
"That's a terrible excuse to make me embarrass myself."
"Then consider it payment for the morning boat ride," Rafayel said, grinning. "You rowed, I provide painting lessons. Fair trade."
Nana wanted to argue, but there was something infectious about his enthusiasm. And honestly? She was curious. She'd never painted anything in her life beyond elementary school art class, but watching him work—the way he mixed colors, the sureness of his brushstrokes, the way he seemed to pour himself into the canvas—made her want to try.
"Fine," she said. "But don't laugh when it's terrible."
"I promise not to laugh," Rafayel said solemnly. Then, with a mischievous glint: "I might cry, but I won't laugh."
"Rafayel!"
"Kidding! I'm kidding. Come here."
Nana stood in front of the blank canvas like it was a Wanderer she needed to fight—intimidating and potentially dangerous.
"Just start," Rafayel encouraged from his own easel. "Don't think about making it perfect. Just put brush to canvas and see what happens."
"Easy for you to say," Nana muttered, but picked up a brush anyway.
She dipped it in the pink paint they'd made from the shells—*their* shells, collected from *their* beach after *their* disaster—and touched it to the canvas.
The color bloomed across the white surface, delicate and shimmering. She added another stroke. Then another.
Slowly, without really planning it, a shape began to emerge. A fish. A small, round, pink fish with wide eyes and a surprised expression.
It was... kind of cute, actually.
"There you go," Rafayel said, glancing over. "See? Not terrible at all."
"It looks like a cartoon," Nana said, but she was smiling.
"It looks happy," Rafayel corrected. "Look at that face. That's a fish who's having a good day."
Nana added a few more details—scales, fins, a tiny smile. The more she painted, the more she relaxed into it. It wasn't about being perfect. It was just about... creating. Putting something that existed in her mind onto the canvas.
She was so absorbed that she didn't notice Rafayel moving until he was right behind her.
"May I?" he asked softly.
Nana nodded, not quite trusting her voice. She was suddenly very aware of how close he was—close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from him, close enough to hear his breathing.
Rafayel reached around her, his hand gently covering hers on the brush. "Here," he murmured, his voice close to her ear. "Let me show you."
He guided her hand across the canvas, adding another fish beside her pink one. This one was larger, more elegant, with blue scales that seemed to shimmer even before the paint was fully dry. Its tail was long and flowing, painted with the kind of confident strokes that spoke of decades of practice.
"There," Rafayel said, still guiding her hand to add final details. "See? Your fish has a friend now."
Nana stared at the canvas. The two fish—one small and pink and cheerful, one larger and blue and graceful—seemed to be swimming together. Almost like they belonged together.
*Almost like they were meant to be together.*
"They're perfect," she breathed.
Rafayel's hand was still covering hers on the brush. He was still standing close enough that she could feel his heartbeat against her back. And for just a moment, everything felt *right* in a way she couldn't explain.
*I've done this before*, something whispered in the back of her mind. *Stood with him like this. Created something beautiful together. This feeling of rightness, of home, of belonging—I know this.*
But that was impossible. She'd only met him two weeks ago.
Hadn't she?
"Rafayel," she said slowly, not moving. "Have we... have we met before? Before the festival?"
She felt him go very still behind her. "What makes you ask that?"
"I don't know. Just... sometimes when I'm with you, I get this feeling. Like I'm remembering something I never knew. Like we've done this before." She laughed self-consciously. "I know that sounds insane."
*Say yes*, part of Rafayel screamed. *Tell her. Tell her everything. About the beach, the promise, the hundred years of waiting. Tell her about the princess she used to be and the sacrifice she made. Tell her that you've loved her for three hundred years and every moment with her feels like coming home.*
But he couldn't. Because what if telling her drove her away? What if the weight of their history was too much for this new version of her to bear? What if she looked at him and saw not a second chance but a burden she never asked for?
"Maybe in another life," he said lightly, finally stepping back. His hand left hers, and the loss of contact felt physical. "They say everyone has someone they're meant to meet. Maybe we were always going to find each other."
"That's very poetic for someone who can't row a boat," Nana said, but her voice was soft.
"I contain multitudes," Rafayel said, returning to his own canvas. But his hand trembled slightly as he picked up his brush, and the mark on his chest burned with an intensity that was almost painful.
*So close*, it seemed to say. *She's so close to remembering. Just tell her. Just—*
But Rafayel didn't. Instead, he painted, letting his brush say what his voice couldn't.
They painted in companionable silence for the next hour. Nana added a few more details to her fish—some seaweed, some bubbles, a few smaller fish in the background. It wasn't a masterpiece by any definition, but it was *hers*, and she found herself oddly proud of it.
"I'm keeping this," Rafayel announced when she finally stepped back.
"What? No. It's terrible."
"It's wonderful," Rafayel corrected, already carefully removing the canvas from her easel. "And I'm keeping it. It's going in my room."
"Your room? Rafayel, you have actual masterpieces. You can't want my amateur fish painting in your—"
"I can and I do," he interrupted firmly. "This is a memory. Of today. Of the disaster at sea and the shells we collected and you learning to paint. When this job ends—" Something flickered across his face. "—when we might not see each other as often, I want to remember this."
Nana's chest tightened. "We could still see each other. After. If you want. I mean—" She felt herself blushing. "We could get bubble tea sometimes. Or collect shells again. When I'm not busy with missions and you're not busy with exhibitions."
*Please say yes*, she thought. *Please don't let this be the only two weeks. Please—*
"I'd like that," Rafayel said softly. "Very much."
"Good." Nana smiled. "Though you have to promise to stop being so dramatic. My heart can't take another fake death."
"No promises," Rafayel said, but he was smiling too. "The drama is part of my charm."
"It's really not."
"You're still here."
"I'm contractually obligated to be here."
"For another week and a half," Rafayel pointed out. "After that, if you keep showing up, it means you actually like me."
"Who says I'll keep showing up?"
"The fact that you just invited me for bubble tea."
"I—" Nana stopped, realizing he was right. "Shut up."
"Make me."
They stared at each other for a moment, the air between them charged with something neither quite wanted to name. Then Thomas's voice echoed from outside.
"Food's here! Stop flirting and come eat!"
They both jumped, stepping apart guiltily. Nana's face burned. "We weren't—"
"Definitely weren't," Rafayel agreed quickly.
"Just painting."
"Very professional painting."
"Right."
They avoided each other's eyes as they headed outside, where Thomas had set up a picnic on the rocks overlooking the ocean—fried chicken, snacks, drinks, all of Rafayel's favorites because Thomas knew him too well.
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🐚🐚🐚
The sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber. Nana sat on a smooth rock, her legs dangling over the edge, a piece of chicken in one hand while she tried to open a bag of chips with the other.
Rafayel sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Not quite touching, but close enough that they were both aware of the distance. Or lack thereof.
"This is nice," Nana said, finally getting the chips open. "I can't remember the last time I just... sat. Watched the sunset. Ate fried chicken."
"The hunter life doesn't leave much room for leisure?" Rafayel asked.
"Not really. It's mission after mission, training, paperwork, more missions." She took a bite of chicken, her eyes on the sunset. "I love it. Don't get me wrong. Protecting people, fighting Wanderers, making a difference—it's everything I wanted to do. But sometimes I forget to just... exist. You know?"
*I know*, Rafayel thought. *I spent three hundred years existing without living. Just waiting, watching sunsets alone, marking time. Until you came back.*
"That's why you need friends who drag you out of bed at 5 AM to collect shells," he said aloud. "To remind you that life happens between the missions too."
"Is that what we are?" Nana asked, glancing at him. "Friends?"
*What are we?*, Rafayel wondered. *Friends doesn't begin to cover it. Not when I've loved you across multiple lifetimes. Not when your mark matches mine. Not when every moment with you feels like a miracle I don't deserve.*
"I hope so," he said carefully. "I'd like to be. If you want."
"I want," Nana said quickly. Then, softer: "I'd like that."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. The ocean crashed against the rocks below them, seagulls circled overhead, and the sun continued its slow descent.
Rafayel was reaching for another piece of chicken when he noticed the sauce on the corner of Nana's mouth. Without thinking, he reached out and wiped it away with his thumb.
Nana froze, her eyes going wide. Then she smacked his hand away. "Hey! Are you trying to steal my chicken?"
Rafayel blinked, realized what he'd done, and tried to cover his moment of instinctive intimacy with humor. "What? No! You had sauce on your face!"
"That's what people say right before they steal your food!" Nana clutched her chicken protectively. "I've seen your tactics!"
"I have my own chicken!"
"Then why are you touching mine?"
"I was trying to be helpful!"
"Likely story."
Rafayel, deciding that if she was going to accuse him anyway, he might as well commit to the bit, reached out and took a large bite from her chicken.
"Rafayel!" Nana shrieked, but she was laughing. "You absolute—"
She retaliated by grabbing his chicken and taking an even larger bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Aggressive. Defiant.
*She's amazing*, Rafayel thought, watching her chew his chicken with exaggerated satisfaction.
"Revenge," Nana declared through a mouthful of food.
"That's fair," Rafayel admitted. "I deserved that."
They continued eating, occasionally stealing from each other's plates just because they could now, bickering over who got the last piece of chicken (Rafayel let her win but made a big show of being devastated about it), and arguing over whether the chips or the chicken was better (Nana insisted on chips, Rafayel defended chicken, they settled on "both").
Thomas, watching from the studio window, shook his head fondly. "They bicker like an old married couple", he said "And neither of them even realizes it."
The sun finally touched the horizon, turning the sky into a masterpiece of oranges and pinks and purples. Nana pulled out her phone to take a picture, but Rafayel gently stopped her.
"Just watch," he said quietly. "Don't try to capture it. Just be here for it."
"But it's beautiful," Nana protested.
"It is," Rafayel agreed. "But taking a picture means looking at it through a screen. Just... watch. I promise it's better this way."
So Nana put her phone away and watched. Watched as the sun sank lower, as the colors shifted and deepened, as the ocean turned gold and then pink and then purple. Watched as day became evening became night.
And beside her, Rafayel watched too. But he wasn't watching the sunset.
He was watching her.
Watching the way the fading light caught in her hair. The way her eyes reflected the colors of the sky. The way she smiled, soft and content, like this was exactly where she was meant to be.
This is our time, he thought. Sunset. Always sunset. When sea and land meet. When two worlds touch. When I find you again and again across every lifetime.
*Thank you*, he thought toward whatever forces governed rebirth and fate. *Thank you for giving me this. For giving her back. For giving us another chance.*
*I won't waste it.*
*I promise.*
The last sliver of sun disappeared below the horizon, and the first stars began to appear. Nana sighed, content and full and happy in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Best bodyguard job ever," she announced.
"Even though we capsized and I fake-died and made you paint?" Rafayel asked.
"Especially because of all that," Nana said. Then, quieter: "Thank you. For today. For... all of this."
"Thank you for being here," Rafayel replied, just as quietly. "For saying yes. For giving me your time."
They sat there as the stars multiplied overhead, neither quite ready to move, to end this perfect day. The mark on Nana's neck pulsed gently. The mark on Rafayel's chest answered.
And somewhere in the universe, fate smiled and waited to see what they would do next.
Because some love stories don't end.
They just pause.
And begin again.
And again.
And again.
Until they get it right.
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🐚🐚🐚
To be continued __