He turned over and leaned against the two higher steps, his legs outstretched and his palms downturned, gripping the edge of the stairs. He watched the water below; it was rising, but with the size of room below it was taking longer to creep up the staircase. Was it the ocean causing this? Was the storm that bad? Or had someone messed with a weather charm so severely that it mimicked flood waters without a clear source? There was no way to tell now—wouldn't be until they got out of this mess alive—but Raphael knew one thing for sure: he was going to kill the person responsibly, maybe with his two bare hands if he had all of his strength by the end of this.

Breathing heavily he looked to Yaxley, who—Merlin, had apparently decided the best course of action was to begin undressing. He wanted to open his mouth and demand some decency of her, less with the hauling up of her skirts and more with the unbuttoning of her shirt, but what would be the point? Outrage wouldn't do anything except expose the fact that he was staring...

He realized his mouth had gone dry. He told himself it was from dehydration, from swallowing salt water and running without a break for the past few minutes, but it seemed to only get worse the longer he looked at her. Finally he shook his head and looked away, forcing himself to think not about the curve of her calves but the solemnness of the situation: they still had a ways to go, and there was no telling what the right way to go was.

"We have options," he managed, still struggling to catch his breath as he pulled himself back to his feet, "We can keep going, or—well, we could find a safe spot and wait it out. I don't recognize this part of the Resort."

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