“By the way, here’s your jacket.”
You shrug it off and offer it up to him, but instead of taking it, Rafayel only raises a brow.
“You can keep it.” He shrugs. “I have like five more in that same style.”
“No.” Your voice is firm, and your eyes are trained on him so that he knows you’re serious. Shaking the jacket a little aggressively, you insist. “Take it.”
Now thoroughly weirded out, he takes it from you, giving it a little brush over as though to examine for any evidence of tampering. When he realizes there’s nothing, he looks back at you dubiously.
“You’ve had this for maybe a month now. Why the sudden change of heart to give it back?”
“No reason,” you huff quietly, trying to avoid his gaze. There has to be a level of pride preserved with this man, and it won’t be preserved if you simply tell him everything.
Rafayel checks the pockets now, turning them inside out and face brightening when he finds a little chocolate. Without even asking you if you would like it (it was your chocolate in the first place!) he unwraps it and pops it in his mouth.
“Something’s up. I don’t really like the idea that you consider this out of fashion.” A pouty little frown forms on his face. “Nothing I own is ugly, just so you know.”
“You’re so dramatic. It’s not ugly. Just…y’know, take it back, wear it a bit, and maybe I’ll borrow it again later.”
“Huh?” His brows crinkle. “So you do want it? Then why even give it back? I’ll telling you you can have it.”
“Ugh—“ You cut yourself off with a quiet growl, glaring at him and his stupid questioning eyes. Pretty boys are such a dangerous breed; they truly can make you do anything.
“It doesn’t smell like you anymore, okay?”
There’s a pause after you finally confess, but as soon as the words register, Rafayel grins.
“Shut up shut up shut up—“
He tosses the jacket to the floor, then takes your hands and tugs you to him, cutting you off with a soft kiss. With a defeated but happy sigh, you run your hands from his shoulders down to his chest, melting under his touch. He’s so very gentle with you, it would make you angry if it didn’t make you smitten. He tastes like the chocolate he stole from you.
“Meri jaan,” he mumbles into the kiss, apparently unable to break it even to speak properly, “you don’t have to wait for me to wear it. You can have any of my jackets. Any of my clothes—any item in my house.” He keeps smiling against your lips, while his hands circle around you to hold you close. “Everything I own is yours, as am I.”
And well, you have to kiss him a little more after a statement like that. A little more, a little deeper, a little closer, though you could never get close enough.
By the time you leave the house, there’s not a single part of you that doesn’t have his scent. And as much as you’d like to have complaints with that, you find that you’re too happily snuggled up in your new cardigan to be able to come up with any.
