**Day 1 - 11:47 PM**
Rafayel dragged himself through the front door, every muscle aching. The fan meeting had run four hours over schedule. His manager had screamed at him for refusing to sign inappropriate items. The gallery owner had called with "urgent" matters that could have waited until morning.
All he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep for twelve hours straight.
Instead, he found Nana awake, bouncing on their bed, her face lighting up when she saw him.
"Husband! You're finally home!" She patted the bed beside her. "Come! I want to show you the new painting technique I learned today! And I made cookies! And there's this new K-drama that—"
"Nana." His voice came out flat, exhausted. "Not tonight."
"But you promised we'd watch together—" She rolled across the bed toward him, her usual playful energy that he normally found adorable now feeling like needles against his frayed nerves.
"I know. I'm sorry. Tomorrow." He shed his jacket, his movements mechanical.
"You always say tomorrow!" She pouted, rolling again, the bed creaking with her movement. "You've been so busy lately. I miss you. I just want a goodnight kiss at least—"
"Nana, stop." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stop rolling. Stop nagging. Just... stop."
She froze, hurt flashing across her face. But then she rolled on top of him where he'd sat on the edge of the bed, her weight settling on his lap.
"Just one kiss? Please? That's all I want—"
Something in him snapped.
"I SAID STOP!" The words came out harsher than he'd ever spoken to her. His dual-toned eyes—usually soft when looking at her—were burning with frustration. "Let me rest! Just let me fucking rest! I can't always give you attention 24/7! I'm exhausted, Nana! Can't you understand that?!"
She recoiled like he'd slapped her, her eyes wide and wounded.
"I—I just wanted—"
"I know what you wanted. But I don't have it to give right now." He stood, setting her aside perhaps a bit too roughly. "I'm sleeping in the guest room. I need space."
"Rafayel—"
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a finality that made her chest ache.
It was their first real fight in a year of marriage.
**Day 2**
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
Nana woke to an empty house. Rafayel had left early—a note on the kitchen counter said he had gallery obligations.
She tried calling. It went to voicemail.
She tried texting. Read but not answered.
By evening, when he came home, she'd prepared his favorite dinner. But he barely ate, excusing himself to his studio to work on a painting.
When she knocked, asking if he wanted company, his voice came through the door: "Not tonight, Nana. I need to focus."
She slept alone in their bed, clutching his pillow, wondering what she'd done wrong.
.
.
.
.
.
🐚🐚🐚
**Day 3**
The silence was suffocating.
They passed each other in the house like ghosts. He'd nod in acknowledgment. She'd try to smile. But neither spoke more than necessary.
Nana was breaking inside. Did he not love her anymore? Was she too clingy? Too needy? Was he regretting marrying her?
By the third night, she couldn't sleep. The bed felt too big, too cold without him. Around 2 AM, she got up for water, her throat dry from crying earlier.
That's when she heard it.
A sound from the guest room—low, rough, distinctly male. A groan. A curse. Her name.
"Nana—fuck—Nana—"
She froze outside the door, her heart hammering. Was he...?
Another groan, deeper this time. Desperate. "Need you—god, I need you—"
Her hand moved to the doorknob before she could think better of it. She pushed it open slowly.
Rafayel was on the bed, his purple hair disheveled, his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking desperately. His eyes were closed, his face contorted with need and frustration.
"Nana—please—" he gasped, not realizing she was there. "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—come back—"
"Rafayel." Her voice was soft.
His eyes flew open, his hand freezing mid-stroke. "Nana?! I—fuck—get out—don't look—"
But she was already moving toward the bed, dropping to her knees between his legs.
"Cutie, no, I'm still angry, we need to talk—"
She wrapped her small hand around him, replacing his, and his protests died in a groan.
"You're angry," she said quietly, "but you still need me. I can hear it. Feel it." She leaned forward, her tongue tracing the tip. "Let me help you."
"We should talk first—establish boundaries—I can't always—ah!—"
She took him in her mouth, and all coherent thought fled. Her small mouth stretched around him, her tongue working expertly—she'd learned well in their year of marriage.
"Fuck—Nana—you don't have to—" But his hand was already tangling in her hair, guiding her deeper.
She sucked harder, her hand working what she couldn't fit, determined to make him feel good. To prove she could give him something, even if it was just this.
"I'm close—cutie—I'm going to—"
She didn't pull away. She wanted this—wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him come undone because of her.
He came with a groan of her name, spilling into her mouth. She swallowed what she could, some escaping the corners of her lips.
When she pulled back, looking up at him with those big eyes, something in him broke completely.
"Come here." He pulled her up, cupping her face, kissing her desperately. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. Shouldn't have shut you out. You were just being yourself—affectionate and loving—and I was cruel."
"I'm sorry too," she whispered between kisses. "I should have been more understanding. Should have given you space when you needed it—"
"No." He kissed her harder. "Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. I was tired and stressed and I took it out on you. That's on me."
Their kiss deepened, becoming heated. His hands roamed her body—three days without touching her had been torture.
"I've been pleasuring myself every night," he admitted roughly, his fingers finding her core through her pajamas. "Thinking about you. Missing you. Regretting every harsh word."
"Rafayel—" She gasped as he pushed her pajamas down, his fingers finding her wet and ready.
"You're soaked." His voice had gone dark, possessive. "Were you touching yourself too? Missing me?"
"Yes—every night—couldn't sleep without you—"
"Good." He lifted her onto the bed, positioning her over his lap. He was already hard again—seeing her, touching her after three days of denial had his body responding immediately. "Because I'm done being apart. Done sleeping in separate rooms. Done pretending I can function without you."
He lowered her onto him in one smooth motion, and they both groaned at the sensation.
"I'm not going to be gentle tonight," he warned, his hands gripping her hips. "Three days without you has made me feral. Made me forget how to be poetic and romantic. All I can think about is claiming you. Fucking you. Making up for lost time."
"Yes—" She began moving, but he took control immediately, bouncing her on him like his personal doll. "Please—I want that—want you rough—"
"Every night I came home," he growled, his pace brutal, "and saw you in those short dresses, reading on the couch, looking so perfect—it took everything not to claim you right there. But I was being stubborn. Being stupid."
"Rafayel—so deep—"
"Not deep enough." He stood, still buried inside her, and carried her to his art table. He swept everything aside—paintbrushes, canvases, sketches scattering to the floor—and laid her on the surface.
"Spread your legs wider," he commanded. "I want to see all of you. Want to go so deep you feel me for days."
She did, and he drove in harder than before, the new angle making her scream.
"That's it." He pounded into her relentlessly. "Let me hear you. Let the whole mansion know who you belong to. Let everyone hear how sorry I am for neglecting you."
"Rafayel—I'm going to—"
"Come for me. Come on my cock and forgive me."
She shattered with a cry, clenching around him rhythmically. But he didn't stop—he kept moving, building her toward another peak.
"Again," he demanded. "I want you to come so many times you lose count. Want you to be so thoroughly claimed you never doubt my love again."
They went round after round—on the art table, against the wall, back on the bed. Each position brought new desperation, new declarations of love mixed with filthy promises.
"I love this side of you," she gasped as he took her from behind. "The rough side. The filthy side. Not always poetic—just raw and desperate—"
"You bring it out in me." His teeth found her shoulder, biting down. "Make me lose all my artistic refinement. Make me just want to fuck you until neither of us can move."
By the time they finally collapsed together, dawn was breaking. They were both thoroughly exhausted, covered in sweat and paint from the art table, completely satisfied.
"I love you," Rafayel murmured, pulling her against his chest. "Even when I'm stupid and push you away. Even when I'm exhausted and overwhelmed. You're my everything, cutie. My light. My inspiration. My reason."
"I love you too." She traced lazy patterns on his chest. "Even when you yell at me. Even when you need space. I just... I need to know you still love me. That I'm not too much."
"You're not too much. You're exactly enough." He kissed her forehead. "And next time I'm overwhelmed, I'll use my words instead of shutting you out. We'll communicate like adults instead of me storming off like a child."
"And I'll try to read your signals better. Give you space when you need it."
"Deal." He held her tighter. "Now let's never fight like that again. These three days were hell."
"Agreed."
As they drifted to sleep—finally back in each other's arms—Rafayel made a mental note to manage his schedule better. To set boundaries with his work. To never let exhaustion make him cruel to the person he loved most.
Because losing her—even for three days—had been unbearable.
And he'd never risk that again.
🐚🐚🐚