Finally got to it, am all caught up and update on Cass's original comic Marble Sky! Sculptor is my favorite! He is scary and we love him. Thought I would doodle this sinister being.
The steam curls lazily between you. So normal it almost feels unreal after everything.
You turn back to the pot first. Not because you wants to break the moment but because if you don’t, you might just stand there staring at him forever.
“…It’s ready,” you say softly.
Rafayel doesn’t answer right away. You can feel it. His gaze still on you. Like he’s in no rush to move on from this version of you.
“…I can see that,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t step toward the food. He steps toward you.
You feel it before you react. That quiet shift in space. That presence settling just behind you again.
“…You’re doing that on purpose,” you say, a hint of a smile slipping into your voice.
“Doing what, cutie?” he asks, far too innocently.
You glance over your shoulder. He’s right there.
“Standing this close.”
“…Is it bothering you?”
It should. It really should.
“…No,” you admit.
Rafayel hums softly. Then, finally, his attention shifts to the food. “…You said this is called a seafood boil?” he asks, leaning slightly to look at the pot.
You nod, reaching for bowls. “Yeah. It’s messy, so… don’t judge.”
“…Messy,” he repeats, like he’s considering it. Then a faint smirk tugs at his lips. “I think I can handle that.”
You snort softly, handing him a bowl. “…We’ll see.”
“You might want to wear some gloves and a bib.” You point at the plastic gloves and bib on the table.
He picks up the gloves and puts them on then unfolds the bib and puts his head through.
Rafayel slowly picks up a piece of seafood, examining it like it’s both fascinating and slightly suspicious, “…You’re sure this is edible?”
You laugh while putting on your gloves and bib, “Yes, Rafayel. It’s food.”
“…You’re certain it won’t try to fight me?”
“…Eat it.”
He picks up a set of crab legs. He held the leg between his fingers with surprising care, turning it slightly as if studying a piece of art rather than food.
Steam curled upward, carrying that rich, briny scent of the sea, salt, butter, and heat. His lips curved faintly.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
Crack.
The shell split cleanly under the pressure of his hands. He didn’t rush. He peeled it back slowly, exposing the tender white meat inside, glistening with heat and moisture.
You could see the exact moment his restraint slipped.
You motioned for him to dip it into the dish of liquid gold, hinting that he should try it.
He dipped it into melted butter, thick, golden, pooling like liquid sunlight, before bringing it to his lips.
His eyes fluttered closed, “…Ah.”
You watcheshim carefully, “…Well?”
“Cutie, that’s…” he exhaled softly, tilting his head back, “…unfairly good.”
Another bite, slower this time. He chewed thoughtfully, tongue pressing lightly against the meat as if memorizing the texture.
Juicy and sweet. Just a hint of ocean.
His fingers glistened now, butter slipping down his gloves and onto his arm, but he didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.
Across from him, you shifted slightly, watching.
He caught it. Those eyes slid toward you, amusement flickering at the edges.
“…What?” he asked, though the faint smirk already betrayed him.
“You’re staring.”
He reached for another crab leg without breaking eye contact, cracking it open with that same precise strength.
“If you wanted some,” he added, “you could’ve said so.”
But instead of handing it over, he lifted the piece toward his own mouth again, watching your reaction as he took another bite.
A quiet hum left him as he swallowed, clearly pleased.
“Mm. No, I take it back,” he continued, wiping a bit of butter from his thumb with his lips. “You should absolutely keep watching. I think it improves the flavor.”
He reached next for the shrimp, plump, curled, coated in spices that clung to the shell in a rich reddish hue.
A faint hiss of steam escaped the slightly cracked shells.
He didn’t even bother taking off the shell. Just popped it into his mouth.
A sharper reaction. His brows lifted slightly. “Oh,” he said, impressed. “That’s got a bite.”
He glanced at you again, leaning back slightly in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the side.
“I guess you’d like this one,” he added, almost casually. “Spicy enough to keep your attention.”
“Not that I’m struggling.”
His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary before he broke it, reaching for a small potato. It was coated in butter and seasoning, skin wrinkled from heat.
He pressed it lightly between his fingers before taking a bite.
The inside was soft and fluffy, almost melting. “…I didn’t know a potato could be like this,” he muttered.
Corn came next, bright yellow and glistening. He lifted the cob, turning it once before biting in. The kernels burst beneath his teeth, sweet and hot, juice catching briefly at the corner of his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Another crab leg found its way into his hands.
Crack.
He pulled the meat free, but instead of eating it immediately, he held it out toward you.
“…Here,” Rafayel said quietly, “Try it… Orrrr are you planning to survive on watching me all night?”
You smile, just a little and take the crab meat from his hand. It tastes better coming from his hands.
At some point, without really thinking about it, your foot brushes his under the table.
You freeze, but he doesn’t pull his foot away.
Instead his foot shifts slightly. Pressing back.
Your gaze flicks up. His is already on you.
“…Still think I’m not real?” he asks quietly.
You shake your head, “…No, I think I’m still trying to catch up.”
Rafayel leans back slightly, studying you again, “…Take your time,” he says.
His gaze flicks briefly to your hand. The one that had been on his chest earlier.
“…Though,” he adds, “some things seem to have decided already.”
Your breath catches faintly because you know exactly what he means. The bond mark. The glow. That pull.
Your fingers curl slightly against the table. “…Yeah,” you murmur.
Rafayel reaches forward. His fingers brush lightly against yours on the table. “…We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly.
