Chak's grin widened, and before I could react, he reached out and brushed a streak of blue paint right across my nose.
"Hey!" I gasped, pretending to be offended.
He stepped back, holding the brush like a weapon, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You look cute like that, artist."
Without thinking, I dipped my own brush into some yellow paint and flicked it toward him. A small spot landed right on his arm.
"Now we're even," I said, laughing.
But Chak only grinned wider. "Oh, we're far from even."
A few minutes later, both of us were laughing uncontrollably. There were streaks of color on our faces, arms, and even in our hair. The painting session had turned into a playful, chaotic mess — but neither of us cared.
When we finally calmed down, Chak stepped back to look at our shared creation. The canvas was filled with shades of blue, gold, and white — an abstract mix of waves, sunlight, and flight. It was chaotic yet peaceful, as if both of our emotions had found their place there.
"It's… beautiful," I whispered.
He glanced at me, his expression softening. "Just like you," he murmured quietly.
I smiled, feeling warmth spread through my chest. "I love when you're with me," I said softly. "When you're not thinking about work or anything else."
He looked at me for a long moment, his gaze steady and full of affection. "You know," he said, his voice low, "being with you is something I never imagined. I love you so much, my artist."
He pressed a gentle kiss against my colorful hair, leaving me breathless for a moment.
"I think I destroyed your T-shirt," I admitted, laughing when I noticed all the paint stains on him.
"I don't care," he said with a smile that melted me completely.
"We need to wash this off," I murmured.
"Come on," he said, taking my hand.
We walked to the bathroom together — the lights were dim, the air quiet except for our slow footsteps and soft laughter. Chak turned on the shower, warm steam filling the space. He took my hand again and gently pulled me under the falling water.
The drops slid down our skin, carrying away streaks of paint in swirls of color.
"Go a little lower," I told him softly. He leaned down, and I slowly began washing his hair, my fingers moving gently through it.
He closed his eyes, smiling, and then reached out to stroke my hair in return. We washed and shampooed each other in peaceful silence — just the sound of the water and our quiet laughter.
"Chak," I asked with a teasing grin, "do you have any other clothes? Or should I just borrow something of yours?"
He looked at me with that half-smile that always made my heart race.
"My clothes are yours, artist," he whispered, pushing me softly against the wall. Then he bent down, his lips brushing against mine — warm, slow, and full of color.
When we finally stepped out of the shower, our skin was warm, and steam still clung to the air around us. Water dripped from our hair, running down our necks and onto the floor.
Chak pulled his wet T-shirt over his head and tossed it aside. I couldn't help my eyes drifting down to his abs. For a second, I imagined him standing on a beach — wearing an open short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, the sunlight glinting on his skin.
"Niran," Chak called softly, catching my gaze.
"Huh?" I said, startled.
He smirked. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing," I replied quickly.
"Are you imagining me at the beach?" he teased.
"How do you know?" I asked, blushing.
He chuckled and leaned closer. "Because I know you, artist."
"I'll get us some clothes," he said quietly, his voice a little rough.
He left the bathroom, and I stood there for a moment, still catching my breath. When he returned, he was holding a clean T-shirt and a pair of soft shorts.
"Here," he said, handing them to me. His fingers brushed mine — just enough to make my heart skip.
"Thanks," I murmured, taking them and stepping back into the bathroom to change.
The fabric smelled like him — clean, warm, and faintly like his cologne. I smiled to myself as I pulled the shirt over my head; it was a little too big, but it felt comforting, like his presence was still wrapped around me.
When I walked back into the room, Chak was standing by the window, wearing a simple black shirt and loose pants. His hair was still wet, small drops sliding down the side of his face.
"Come here," I said softly, picking up a towel from the chair.
He turned toward me, one eyebrow raised. "What are you doing?"
"Sit," I said with a smile. "I'll dry your hair."
Chak obeyed without protest, sitting on the edge of the bed. I moved behind him and gently began to towel his hair dry, my fingers brushing lightly through the damp strands. The simple act felt intimate — peaceful — as if the world outside had disappeared.
He closed his eyes, relaxing under my touch. "You'll spoil me if you keep doing things like this," he murmured.
"Maybe that's the plan," I whispered, smiling.
He opened his eyes and turned slightly, looking up at me — his gaze soft but filled with something deeper.
When I finished drying Chak's hair, I ran the towel gently over the back of his neck, letting my fingers linger there for a moment. He smiled faintly, eyes half closed.
Then he turned around and took the towel from my hands.
"My turn," he said softly.
Before I could protest, he stepped closer, brushing my wet bangs away from my forehead. His movements were slow and careful — like he didn't want to miss a single touch. The towel slid gently over my hair, down to the nape of my neck, and I felt his warm breath near my ear.
"You're really gentle for someone who acts so cold outside," I teased quietly.
He chuckled. "Only with you, artist."
When he was done, he tossed the towel aside, and for a moment we just stood there — close enough to feel the warmth between us, but neither of us said a word.
A few minutes later, we found ourselves curled up together on the couch. The lights were dim, the room quiet except for the soft hum of the air outside. I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling his arm wrap loosely around me.
Later that evening, Chak ordered dinner — nothing fancy, just something warm and comforting. We sat together at the small table by the window, the city lights flickering faintly through the glass.
The food wasn't anything special, but the quiet atmosphere made it perfect. Every now and then, our eyes met, and he'd give me that small, knowing smile that always made my heart skip.
"You barely ate," Chak said, noticing my half-finished plate.
"I'm just tired," I murmured, leaning back in my chair. "It's been a long day."
He nodded, his gaze softening. "Then we should sleep."
After cleaning up, we made our way to the bedroom. The room was dim, filled with the faint scent of rain from the open window. I didn't even bother turning on the light.
Chak pulled the blanket aside, and I climbed into bed first. The sheets were cool against my skin, and when he lay down beside me, I instinctively moved closer, resting my head on his chest. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me gently against him.
I could hear his heartbeat — slow, steady, calming.
"Good night, Chaky," I whispered sleepily. And kissed his cheek.
"Good night, artist," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of my head.
The next morning, I felt someone's hand brushing through my hair — gentle and slow. A quiet voice followed, still rough from sleep.
"Niran… wake up," Chak whispered close to my ear.
I mumbled something incoherent and buried my face against his chest. He chuckled softly.
"It's already five," he said. "We have to leave in forty-five minutes."
"Just five more minutes," I murmured, my voice sleepy and muffled against him.
Chak sighed — that familiar, amused sound he made whenever I refused to get up — and then his tone dropped to a teasing whisper.
"Five minutes, huh?"
Before I could answer, I felt his lips on my forehead. Then on my cheek. Then at the corner of my mouth.
"Chak…" I groaned, trying to hide my smile.
But he didn't stop. His kisses trailed lower — along my jaw, down to my neck, warm and soft and endless. I started laughing, unable to hold it in.
"Okay, okay! I'm awake!" I laughed, squirming beneath him as he continued his playful assault of kisses.
He smiled against my skin. "That's the only way to wake you up, artist."
"Oh, really?" I teased, flipping the blanket aside and pushing him down gently. "Then it's my turn."
Chak raised an eyebrow, still smirking, but his breath hitched as I leaned over him. My lips traced the same path his had taken — over his cheek, his jaw, the curve of his neck.
He laughed quietly, his hand sliding up to my waist. "You're terrible at waking up."
"Maybe," I whispered against his skin, "but I'm great at morning motivation."
He let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head back slightly as I pressed one last kiss to his collarbone. The early morning light fell through the curtains, wrapping us both in a golden calm that made time feel like it had stopped.
For a moment, there was no rush — just the quiet sound of our laughter and the warmth between us.