Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 87

**Stars Refuse To Blink**
by Asa River Knox

***Aurora’s POV***

The rain has resumed its gentle descent. A soft, almost whispering drizzle taps against the window panes like a soothing lullaby, wrapping the afternoon in a cozy embrace. It’s one of those days when the entire world seems to succumb to a sleepy haze. My favorite kind of weather, really.

Nestled in my window seat, I have draped the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands, my legs crossed comfortably beneath me. My sketchbook lies in my lap, its pages slightly warped from use, and I can see the graphite smudges that have transferred onto my fingers. It’s a familiar mess, one I wear like a badge of honor.

Just as I’m about to turn the page, a gentle knock interrupts my thoughts.

“Aurora?” Raphael’s voice filters through the door, soft and inviting. “Can I come in?”

I hesitate, my hand hovering just above the page, caught in a moment of indecision. After a beat, I reply, “Okay.”

The door creaks open, and he steps inside, dressed casually in a gray hoodie and joggers. In each hand, he cradles a mug—one emblazoned with something silly like “#1 Tired Guy.” His smile is warm and genuine as he catches sight of me.

“I brought tea,” he announces, lifting the mugs as if presenting a prize. “One’s mine, and one’s yours. I won’t reveal which is which until after you take a sip.”

I blink at him, a mix of curiosity and confusion swirling in my mind. “…Why?”

He strides over, extending the cleaner-looking mug toward me. “Because you look like you could use a little gamble.”

A small huff escapes my lips, almost a laugh, and I take the mug carefully, feeling the warmth seep into my palms. “Thanks.”

He glances at my bed, a silent question hanging in the air. “Can I sit?”

I nod slowly, and he settles into the spot opposite me, leaving a respectful distance between us. His gaze drifts to my sketchbook, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “You’ve been working on that all day?”

I wrap my arms around the sketchbook, cradling it protectively. “Just after I got back from tryouts… I was doodling.”

He leans back slightly, a casual yet interested posture. “Can I see?”

A wave of panic washes over me. My instinct screams no. People often laugh, ask too many questions, or make me feel exposed. Or worse—sometimes, they destroy what I’ve created. But this is Raphael. He’s different. He doesn’t push, doesn’t raise his voice. When he asks, it’s always with gentle curiosity.

“You don’t have to,” he adds quickly, sensing my hesitation. “I just noticed you like to draw a lot.”

I hesitate for just a moment longer, weighing my options. Finally, I decide to take a leap of faith and carefully hand it over. “Don’t… say anything mean.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, his tone almost reverent as he accepts the book with care. He flips open the first page, and a silence envelops the room as he turns each page with a sense of wonder. A window. A street lamp. A sparrow perched on a branch. And then, a pair of tired, sad eyes that I hadn’t even realized were mine.

“You drew these?” he murmurs, almost to himself, as if he’s discovering a hidden treasure.

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