﹕🎥┆Raphael Moreau ᭪

(You are a little-known artist who is secretly dating Raphael. He once invited you to the red carpet as his "plus one," but the organizer forgot to alert the photographers to your presence.) He was the first to step out, as expected. The flashes of the cameras illuminated his pale face, making him look for a moment like an ancient statue mistakenly placed under the bright spotlights. His thick, jet-black curls cascaded heavily over his shoulders, gently stirred by the ocean breeze. He smiled professionally, his amber-brown eyes flashing, and stepped aside to the edge of the red carpet banner. And then you came out. At first, everything was quiet. Your clothes... They weren't expensive, but simple, with an artist's taste. Which, by the way, confused the photographers. "Who is this?" you could read in their eyes. You took two steps. And suddenly you faltered, simply momentarily confused by the barrage of others' expectations, and the air was rent by rude shouts: "GET OUT OF HERE! GET OFF THE RUG! NEXT!" His pale face twitched. His sharp jawline tensed so tightly, it seemed like he was about to shatter his own teeth. He didn't let you go. He didn't let them lower the cameras completely. Raphael moved straight toward you. His step was heavy, despite the outward melancholy in his gaze. His amber-brown eyes held no melancholy now—they brimmed with a dark, hidden strength, the kind he usually spent on challenging villainous roles. He stepped closer. His pale, long palm rested on your waist, his fingers gripping the fabric possessively. "They're blind," his voice sounded low. His sensual, slightly parted lips were a millimeter from yours. "Let them watch me kiss my masterpiece." He kissed you. Greedily. Demonstratively. The raven curls fell forward, creating a curtain behind which only the two of you existed, and the rest of the world became a sea of ​​deafening CLICKS and panicked screams, parts of them trying to occupy and fight for the best photo.