Esther

now? the only way to describe your… involvement, would be friends who fucked. friends with benefits. sneaky links. whatever you could call that grey area.

your palm comes up to cover his mouth and muffle his moans. peeking up and over his shoulder to your closed bedroom door, you grit your teeth and huff, digging your ankles into the small of his back. “quiet,” you hiss. “my mom is quite literally downstairs,” you rustle beneath your breath.

sheepishly, he teasingly grins, all pussy-drunk and cute, making your heart cinch. pale cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide. “sorry, baby. i get carried away when you’re squeezing me l-like thattt,” he contests all-whiny, leaning down to connect your lips to his.

they slot over perfectly, like they were made for each other. he tastes like the slice of pumpkin pie your mom had given him that he’d finished in no less than three bites.

your legs tighten around his tapered waist, the base of his cock swelling inside of you when he buries himself to the hilt. he groans into your mouth, which rattles around the cavity of his chest, his bulbous tip sweeping pre-cum against your puckered cervix and dragging against your g-spot. god, you’re so plush and warm he might cum inside you. again.

you’d slapped him when he did it last time.

“m-might have to put a muzzle on you,” you giggle softly, stroking his tongue with your own.

“can do…” he pulls away and huffs against your cheek, a shallow thrust leaving him breathless. “can do whateverrrrr you want to me, pretty.”

pretty. you could argue that he’s the pretty one here.

his hands find the velvety underside of your thighs, before he’s pinning them to your bare chest. starstruck blue eyes appraise you in this new position—puffy folds slick with your mixed arousal glistening in the gentle bedroom light, your core fluttering around his length just an inch deep, desperate to be fucked. a lewd display for your childhood bedroom littered in soft pastels and plushies, but neither of you seem to mind.

suddenly, the air is knocked from your lungs when he slams a practically rough stroke into you, punching a groan from your gut.

“t-toru! i said soft, or else i-i,” you stutter, eyes nearly rolling into your skull. “can’t keep it in…” you trail off under your breath, nearly succumbing to overwhelming pleasure.

flushed cheeks, he chuckles all low and indulgent. “jus’ can’t help it when you’re all adorable and fuckable like this,” he admits, swiping a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead. “makes me wanna rearrange your guts.”

you whimper, watching as a glob of spit falls from his lips and hits your clit. warm, wet—you’re dizzy and twitching beneath him.

but then, he’s pistoning his cock inside of you, stretching you wide and full of him. you jostle and moan unabashedly. he tosses a pillow on top of your head, pressing it down over your face. “sorry, baby. you’ll j-just have to keep quiet for me,” he sighs dreamily, watching his cock disappear between your silky folds, dick spasming when you tighten up. you just swallow up every inch he gives you. so needy. so pretty.

all his to ruin. and he’ll make sure of it.

“megumi-chan!! don’t fall behind!”

gojo’s voice tore through the quiet like a siren.

megumi flinched immediately, shoulders tensing and brow twitching as if the sound had physically struck him. if he had to describe it, ear-bleeding would still be the most accurate term. he exhaled slowly through his nose, already irritated before he even turned his head.

That’s when he realized that the others were further down the path and somewhere along the way he had stopped walking entirely.

megumi frowned, his gaze drifted to the side, pulled there by something that had caught his attention without him consciously noticing. just beyond the low wooden fence of someone’s garden stood a tangerine tree, its branches thick with glossy leaves dotted with bright fruit. one of the tangerines had fallen, rolling just close enough to the fence that it rested in the grass along the edge of the path.

it was perfectly intact; round, bright and glowing against the green.

megumi stared at it for a moment, then he glanced toward the quiet house behind the garden.

no movement.

his eyes returned to the fruit.

slowly, he crouched, pushing his hand through the fence just enough to reach it. the tips of his fingers brushed the warm skin of the tangerine. he hesitated there, hand hovering for a second longer than necessary.

it was ridiculous.

he had faced curses that could flatten buildings without a second thought, yet somehow picking up a fallen fruit felt like committing an actual crime.

megumi frowned at himself, grabbed the tangerine, and stood up. by the time he looked up again, the group had gotten even further ahead. he sighed, jogging after them.

his steps were quiet but quick, the tangerine resting loosely in his palm as he caught up to the others. yuji was the first to notice, glancing over casually before his attention immediately locked onto the fruit in megumi’s hand.

“huh?” yuji slowed a little, pointing. “where did you get a tangerine?”

megumi didn’t answer. instead, he pressed his thumb into the rind and pushed his nails into the skin. it split open with a soft snap, releasing a sharp mist of citrus oil that briefly hung in the air.

nobara turned around so fast it looked like she’d heard a gunshot.

“wait,” she said suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. “did you steal that from somewhere?!”

“megumi-chan has become a thief,” maki snickered from ahead, glancing back at him with clear amusement. “oh-ho.”

yuji leaned in closer, “did you actually?”

before megumi could respond, gojo slid into the conversation with dramatic timing.

“megumi!,” he announced loudly, placing a hand over his chest in mock heartbreak, “this isn’t how i raised you!”

he shook his head slowly, the picture of theatrical disappointment. “after everything… my own student… reduced to petty theft…”

“you’re being dramatic again,” maki said flatly.

“again?” gojo gasped.

megumi felt a vein pulse faintly in his forehead. “…shut up.”

he continued peeling the tangerine calmly, pulling the rind away in loose curls. the fruit separated easily in his hands, revealing the neat cluster of orange segments inside. he expected the usual sting when the juice touched the torn skin around his cuticles. instead, a warm sweetness drifted up.

he paused briefly. “…sweet,” he muttered.

“tsk,” nobara clicked her tongue immediately, crossing her arms with a scowl “didn’t even get some for us.”

beside her, inumaki nodded in quiet agreement. “shake. shake.”

the village unfolded around them in quiet, sun-warmed stillness as they walked.

narrow paths stretched between small colorful houses, their walls adorned by creeping ivy and the shadows of overhanging trees. bicycles rested against fences and porch railings. gardens spilled over their boundaries with careless abundance, patches of bright flowers, tangled greenery, and fruit trees heavy with color. somewhere nearby, the sea made its presence known even without being seen, the air carrying that faint, salty breath.

it felt slow here, quiet. the kind of place where footsteps and bicycle bells echoed more than engines ever would.

against that calm backdrop, the group from tokyo felt almost painfully loud.

the slap of flip-flops and loose sandals echoed along the path, a lazy rhythm broken constantly by the thud of bags bumping against yuji’s legs as he walked. their voices carried through the street, drifting past open windows and garden fences where a few curious locals occasionally glanced up at the commotion.

yuji groaned dramatically for what had to be the tenth time.

“why do you have to overload your bag?!” he huffed, shifting the straps digging into his shoulders. two bags hung off him awkwardly. one clearly nobara’s and the other unmistakably maki’s. “we are just going to the beach!”

nobara spun around while still walking, nearly making yuji trip as she pointed at him accusingly.

“you men only think a pair of flip-flops and your swim shorts are enough for the beach?!” she snapped. “completely wrong! going to the beach for women is a sport!”

her voice rose enough that a couple of people across the street turned their heads to look.

yuji frowned, clearly offended. “it is enough!” he argued. “the only thing i’d bring besides that is sunscreen—” he paused, thinking. “ or a shovel.”

beside him, inumaki immediately nodded with enthusiasm. “shake! shake!” he lifted his fist and bumped it against yuji’s, who grinned like he had just received the highest form of validation.

a few steps ahead, maki sighed deeply. “like children,”

megumi quietly ate another slice of his tangerine behind them, listening to the argument continue like background noise.

maki slowed slightly, glancing over her shoulder toward gojo, she raised a brow, “we are not actually here to spend a fun summer near the sea, are we?”

“we are!” gojo clasped his hands behind his head as he walked. “nanami was given the decision to go on this little vacation,” he continued with a shrug, “but he didn’t accept it.”

he paused for effect, then spread his arms wide. “but then your amazing, incredibly good-looking sensei gojo satoruuuu decided to take his vacation and generously bring all of you with him!”

“resulting in us having a wonderful summer by the sea!” he declared proudly. “aren’t I just amazing?!”

nobara immediately clasped her hands together dramatically. “thank you nanami-san for not taking the vacation!”

“oi!” gojo whined instantly, pointing at her in betrayal. “you should be thanking me!”

yuji snorted with laughter, the sound bright and unrestrained as it spilled into the open air.

the walk carried on like that for a while; with the constant rhythm of their voices. the slap of sandals against pavement mixed with bursts of giggles and playful bickering, the conversation jumping from one idea to the next without ever settling.

yuji whined loudly, tipping his head back in exaggerated suffering. “how much more?!”

gojo chuckled beside them, clearly entertained.

“i’d say,” he began casually, lifting one long finger and pointing straight down the road ahead of them, “if you made a run for it—” his finger followed the path forward between the houses. “—you’d be there in less than a minute.”

maki narrowed her eyes, leaning slightly to the side to look past one of the houses ahead. then her expression sharpened. “oh,” she said, pointing suddenly, “i can see it beyond that house!”

a faint shimmer of blue was just barely visible past the rooftops, the distant line of the sea catching the sunlight.

nobara didn’t hesitate for even a second. “last one there is a rotten egg!” she bolted forward immediately, her sandals slapping loudly against the ground as she sprinted down the path.

maki grinned. “i like the sound of that!” she took off after her, her stride quick and athletic as she easily closed the distance.

“tuna mayo!” inumaki pumped his fist into the air and darted after them with surprising speed.

behind them, yuji stared for exactly half a second before yelling in outrage. “this isn’t fair!” he shouted, already starting to run after them despite the bags swinging violently from his shoulders, thought it didn’t slow him nearly as much as it should’ve. “i’m carrying all your stuff!”

gojo laughed openly, watching the chaos unfold as the group tore down the path like a pack of overly excited children. (a/n: i love them happy, your honor.) their laughter echoing as they raced toward the faint glimpse of ocean waiting at the end of the road,

behind them, the sudden quiet felt almost unfamiliar.

megumi remained where he was, walking at the same steady pace as before, his footsteps unhurried against the path. gojo strolled beside him with the same loose ease, hands tucked into his pockets like he had nowhere else to be.

“you aren’t going to run with them?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly above the edge of his glasses.

megumi didn’t even look up, he simply shook his head once.

gojo hummed thoughtfully, “sucks to be a rotten egg.”

megumi scoffed under his breath. he lifted the last tangerine slice to his mouth and bit into it slowly, the citrus bursting sweet against his tongue. his thoughts drifting somewhere distant while the noise of the others faded further and further down the road.

he brushed the remaining threads of white pith from his fingers. “…what’s the mission?” he asked at last.

gojo’s head tilted slightly. “hm?”

his gaze shifted down toward the dark-haired boy beside him, taking in the messy spikes of hair and the thoughtful crease between his brows.

“i know you wouldn’t bring us on a vacation without an actual reason,” he said evenly. “or rather… the higher-ups wouldn’t let us go.”

they passed a small garbage can sitting near the path, its metal sides layered with faded stickers and messy graffiti left by years of bored teenagers. megumi flicked the empty tangerine peels into it, landing inside with a soft rustle.

the scent of salt hung more clearly in the air now. the ocean was close.

gojo watched the peels disappear into the bin before letting out a quiet chuckle. “you got me.”

“well,” he said finally, casual in that way that always made it hard to tell how serious he actually was, “this works out. i was planning to assign this mission to you anyway.”

megumi glanced sideways at him.

gojo tilted his head slightly, then added almost lazily “just to you.”

megumi’s steps slowed for half a beat.

“we’ve had reports about a curse whose activity suddenly spiked,” gojo continued as they walked. “looks like it manifested sometime within the last few months. before that, nothing. no incidents, no disturbances, no signs.”

megumi’s brows knit slightly. “what kind of spike?”

“some kind of cursed illness.”

megumi’s breath caught.

“ah.”

the sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, quiet but sharp. he swallowed, throat suddenly dry. cursed illness. the phrase pressed somewhere deeper than it should have, dragging up a familiar knot that had never really loosened.

tsumiki.

the memory of her pale face in the hospital bed flickered across his mind without permission. the unnatural sleep she hadn’t woken from, the doctors’ useless explanations, the quiet suspicion he’d never voiced out loud.

gojo glanced at him from the corner of his eye, catching the subtle tighten in megumi’s jaw. the corner of his mouth lifted into a small, knowing smirk as he reached out and ruffled megumi’s already unruly hair with easy familiarity.

“i’m trusting you with this one,” he said lightly. “so take care of it, yeah?”

then he stepped ahead, his longer stride carrying him forward like the conversation had already been neatly wrapped up.

megumi stayed where he was for a moment longer than necessary. the faint scent of citrus still clung to his fingers, the breeze carrying the distant breath of the sea toward them.

something settled quietly in his chest.

he didn’t say anything about it.

“i’m going into town to buy something to drink,” megumi called out as he stepped out of the water, brushing wet strands of hair away from his face. each drop struck the hot sand with a soft pat before vanishing almost instantly beneath the afternoon heat. “anyone want anything?”

behind him, yuji was still waist-deep in the water, breathing hard and grinning like he’d just won a championship match. “you gave up already?” he shouted. “i thought you were getting serious!”

megumi glanced back at him flatly. “you’re splashing like a toddler.”

yuji gasped in mock offense, already preparing another handful of water to launch in retaliation, but toge pulled itadori into the water by his neck.

megumi crossed the sand toward the cluster of towels where the girls had claimed their spot, the grains warm and fine beneath his feet. maki and nobara were stretched out comfortably, soaking in the sun as though they had absolutely no intention of moving for the rest of the day. megumi crouched beside his bag, unzipping it to retrieve his wallet— well, technically gojo’s wallet.

“i want a lemonade,” maki said without opening her eyes, one arm draped lazily across her forehead.

“me too,” nobara added immediately from beside her, sunglasses perched neatly over her nose and a wide straw hat casting shade across her face. “extra icy.”

megumi hummed in acknowledgment as he stood, a few stubborn droplets from his hair slipped free and landed on the edge of nobara’s towel.

“hey!” she hissed, jerking the towel away from the offending moisture. “watch it!”

megumi didn’t bother apologizing. he simply grabbed his sand-coated flip-flops, slipping them on as the warm rubber pressed into the soles of his feet, and started off toward the path leading back into town.

gojo had vaguely pointed in the direction of the market earlier.‘somewhere that way!’ he’d said, waving a hand.

the path leading there was quieter than the beach, winding gently between clusters of trees and thick greenery that leaned inward as if trying to meet over the road. leaves shifted lazily in the breeze, scattering patches of sunlight that danced across the ground beneath megumi’s feet.

the shade was immediate relief after the open heat of the shore.

somewhere above him, birds chirped lazily between branches, their calls echoing softly through the leaves. the air smelled different here too; less salt, more earth and greenery, the faint sweetness of fruit trees lingering somewhere deeper in the village.

megumi walked slowly, hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts as his flip-flops slapped lightly against the ground.

it was peaceful in a way tokyo never was.

his thoughts drifted easily in the quiet, eventually circling back to the real problem at hand. ‘extra icy.’ megumi frowned. how exactly was he supposed to bring two “extra icy” lemonades all the way back to the beach without them turning into lukewarm sugar water halfway there?

maybe they sold bottled ones.

he turned a corner where the path narrowed slightly, the shade deepened there, leaves whispering softly against each other while the breeze carried the distant hum of cicadas. the calm almost made him close his eyes. and for a brief second, he did— just long enough to enjoy the cool shade and the quiet rustle of greenery around him.

“WATCH OOOOUT!”

huh?

before the word even fully registered, something slammed straight into his chest.

the impact knocked the breath from his lungs as a sharp ring-ring! of a bicycle bell exploded in the air. megumi staggered backward instinctively, his feet sliding against the path as he absorbed most of the force, but momentum still sent him falling, his tailbone protesting immediately.

for a moment, the leaves above him swayed lazily against the bright sky, their edges glowing softly where the sunlight slipped through them. the metallic rattle of a fallen bicycle settled against the quiet of the path and some small objects bounced along the ground.

megumi squinting slightly as he pushed himself up on his elbows, momentarily forgetting he was standing in the shade rather than the harsh glare of the open beach.

“i’m so sorry!” the voice was bright, breathless, and very close.

he looked up just in time to see a girl leaning toward him, one hand already reaching out. he took it automatically, allowing her to help pull him upright, though he didn’t put much weight into the gesture. the last thing he needed was dragging her down with him.

“it’s fine—” he began.

“it’s not!” the interruption came so quickly that megumi’s eyes widened a fraction.

“i’m so clumsy!” she continued, words tumbling out in a rush as if once they started they couldn’t possibly stop. “i always forget to ring the bell when i go down this path. it’s just—” she gestured vaguely around them with both hands, like the scenery itself was part of her defense, “it’s so nice here, you know? the trees and the shade and the way the sun comes through the leaves. i always get distracted!”

she laughed nervously, rubbing the back of her neck. “i swear i mean to signal, but then i start looking at the greenery and the wind in the branches and— well— this happens.”

she pointed at him, then the ground, and then the toppled bicycle. “it’s not even the first time i’ve hit somebody here— ha, ha…”

what is this… feeling?

megumi stood there, momentarily rooted in place, watching the girl in front of him continue her breathless explanation about leaves, sunlight, and the dangers of scenic bicycle paths. her words spilled over each other as if silence itself embarrassed her, hands moving wildly.

the warm afternoon light filtered through the canopy above them, breaking into soft fragments that shifted across her face and shoulders whenever the breeze moved the branches. it wasn’t a strong wind, just a gentle current passing through the trees. but somehow it felt like it had swept straight through megumi himself.

his mind stalled.

his throat felt dry.

the girl kept talking, completely unaware of the effect she was having. the colors she wore seemed almost chosen by the scenery around them; soft oranges and leafy greens that echoed the fruit trees and the shade overhead. when she moved, the little woven hat perched on her head wobbled slightly, the painted orange patterns catching the sunlight. and on top of it, fixed proudly like a tiny flag, was a handmade leaf stem.

megumi blinked slowly.

who the hell are you?

“you are not from here, no?” you asked suddenly, tilting your head at him with open curiosity.

megumi opened his mouth to answer.

nothing came out.

he tried again, and immediately coughed, clutching briefly at his throat like the words had gotten stuck somewhere halfway up. after a second of struggling, a hoarse reply finally slipped free.

“…no.”

you blinked.

“god, you sound terrible.”

the blunt observation landed without hesitation, and megumi felt the tips of his ears heat instantly. he looked away, scratching the back of his neck with awkward stiffness, suddenly very aware of how rough his voice had sounded.

you crouched down to gather the fallen fruit, lifting your bicycle upright again. it had a small basket attached to the back, half-filled with tangerines that glowed brightly against the woven straw.

you picked one up and turned back toward him. “here, for that sore throat!”

before megumi could react, you threw a fruit toward him. he caught it a little too quickly. fumbling the citrus before managing to steady it in his palm. staring at as if it had personally put him in this awkward situation, silently cursing himself for nearly dropping it in front of you.

‘seriously?’

a soft chuckle slipped from you as you crouched beside the bicycle, reaching down to gather the tangerines that had rolled along the path when the basket lid flipped open during the collision, when you dropped them back into the basket they made soft, hollow thuds against the others already inside.

megumi glanced down at the one in his own palm. without really thinking, he sank his nails into the rind.

the peel split open with a soft tear, releasing that same sweet citrus aroma he had noticed earlier that morning.

normally he would take his time and separate the segments, slowly pulling away the thin strands of white pith until each slice was perfectly clean. but doing that while you stood there watching felt… weird. so instead he peeled the fruit quickly, pulled apart a slice, and popped it into his mouth without bothering to remove anything.

the bitter hint of pith hit immediately, and he grimaced slightly as he chewed. it still helped his throat though.

“you eat the pith?” you asked, blinking in mild horror as you stood again. “man, i could never.”

you laughed lightly, brushing your hands against your clothes before continuing. “i mean, i could if i had to. but i like the task of picking it apart, you know? like peeling all the little white strings off one by one.”

megumi froze mid-chew.

“…i do too,” he admitted quietly after swallowing, his voice still rough but a little steadier now. “but my throat’s too dry right now… and i like tangerines no matter how i eat them.”

the words came out softer than he meant them to.

you chuckled again turning back to your bicycle rummaging through the basket for a moment, moving aside a few loose items before pulling out a small mesh bag. then you walked right back up to him and held it out. “well, in that case, here!”

you held out the bag toward him, the tangerines inside complimenting the red of strings. megumi instinctively started to shake his head. “you don’t—”

but before the protest could fully form, your hand closed around his, guiding the bag firmly into his palm. the contact was quick and warm, your fingers curling briefly over his knuckles to make sure he didn’t refuse it.

megumi’s entire body stiffened for half a second he looked like he might actually squeal.

“don’t you dare not take it!” you warned, pointing at him with exaggerated seriousness before breaking into a laugh. “i’ll curse you.”

the threat was clearly playful, your shoulders shaking slightly as you laughed. “have this as a welcoming gift to the town.”

megumi stared at the bag in his hand as if it had suddenly gained weight. after a moment, he gave a small nod.

“woah— hold on.” your tone shifted with sudden curiosity as you leaned closer, squinting slightly at his face. “did you put on any sunscreen? your face is really red.”

you pointed toward the skin beneath his eyes. “you’ll get sunburnt at this point.”

megumi instinctively raised his hand and brushed his fingers across the spot you indicated. the skin stung immediately and he hissed softly at the contact. he was already preparing to mutter something about itadori using half the bottle earlier and leaving him with barely any when—

plop.

something landed squarely on top of his head.

megumi blinked.

the faint clinking of metal and the soft crunch of gravel followed as you began wheeling your bicycle away.

he lifted a hand to his head and felt the woven texture of something unfamiliar. when he pulled it off, he found himself staring at the orange-painted hat you’d been wearing earlier. the little handmade leaf at the top wobbled gently in the breeze.

megumi turned quickly. “hey!” he called, waving it towards you. “your hat!”

“keep it for now!” you called over your shoulder, laughter bright in your voice as the bicycle bell jingled softly with the motion. “you need it more than me!”

the distance between you grew quickly as you pedaled away, your voice floated back one last time. “plus! let that be a reason for me to see you again if you want to return it!”

your giggles faded gradually into the quiet of the path, swallowed by the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of cicadas hidden somewhere in the greenery. megumi stood there for a moment longer, the hat still in his hand. the warm breeze moved through the trees again, carrying with it the scent of salt from the ocean and the lingering sweetness of freshly peeled tangerines.

later, when megumi returned to the beach, he was holding a mesh bag full of tangerines.

and absolutely no lemonade.

a few days passed after that and somehow, the hat had never left megumi’s possession.

it sat beside him when he slept, hung loosely from the strap of his bag during the day, and more often than not he found himself turning it over in his hands without even realizing it. his fingers tracing the the rough weave of the orange painted straw and the little handmade leaf that wobbled slightly whenever he tilted it.

“somebody put it on my head as a free gift,” he had said when nobara inevitably noticed it. “i left before he could scam me.” the lie had come out flat and quick.

nobara squinted at him like she didn’t buy it for a second. “who gives out free hats?”

“tourist traps,” megumi replied without missing a beat. she had clicked her tongue and dropped it soon after.

still, the hat stayed.

the days themselves passed slowly and warmly, the beach becoming their routine. mornings filled with the sound of waves folding against the shore, afternoons thick with sunlight and the constant scent of sunscreen drifting from the cluster of towels where they usually sat. somewhere in that mix, the bright sweetness of tangerines seemed to linger everywhere now.

strangely enough, megumi slept better.

for the first time in a long while, his nights passed quietly, without the usual restless dreams clawing their way into his sleep. the only thing that occasionally dragged him back to consciousness was toge’s snoring from the other side of the room. which, honestly, might have qualified as its own kind of nightmare.

today was another beach day.

but megumi wasn’t walking the path at the same relaxed pace he had before.

his steps were quicker now, his eyes drifting constantly along the edges of the road, scanning the shaded paths between houses and the narrow lanes lined with trees. the breeze shifted softly through the leaves above him, and every now and then his ears perked slightly, almost expecting to hear the faint ring of a bicycle bell.

nothing. only birds, the rustle of branches, and the distant murmur of the sea behind him.

megumi exhaled quietly and continued forward until the path widened into the town’s small square.

the market was already alive with movement.

stalls lined the open space beneath colorful cloth canopies, their tables crowded with baskets of vegetables, bundles of herbs, fresh fish resting over crushed ice, and rows of fruit that glowed like little pieces of sunlight. the air carried a mixture of scents that hit all at once; sharp green herbs, salty fish, ripe tomatoes, citrus oils, and the faint sweetness of baked bread drifting from somewhere nearby.

megumi paused for a moment, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of smells. he hadn’t even realized a place could smell like so many things at once.

around him, the locals moved through the square with an easy rhythm. some vendors raised their voices enthusiastically, calling out to passing customers and waving them closer to inspect their produce:

“fresh tomatoes! picked this morning!”

“best fish you’ll find this side of the coast!”

others were quieter, sitting behind their stalls with patient calm. one older woman knitted slowly beneath the shade of her umbrella, occasionally glancing up between stitches. another man leaned back in his chair reading a wrinkled magazine, pencil tapping against the page where a crossword puzzle waited half-finished.

megumi instinctively gravitated toward the quieter side of the market. he pulled the folded paper from his pocket, flattening it in one hand as he walked. nobara’s handwriting was aggressively large across the page.

‘since you forgot the ONE thing i asked you for, ‘she had snapped earlier that morning, shoving the list into his chest, ‘i’m sending you back with this. now when you mess it up again we can just blame it on you being stupid.’

he walked between the stalls, scanning the items one by one as he mentally sorted through what he needed.

then something bright caught his eye.

a small stand sat near the edge of the square, its table covered almost entirely with tangerines. piles of them filled shallow baskets, their skins glowing a rich orange beneath the sunlight that slipped between the market canopies.

megumi stopped mid-step.

then, almost without thinking, he darted straight toward it.

the small wooden stall looked almost like it had been decorated by someone who couldn’t stop thinking about tangerines. little doodles were carved and scribbled across the surface of the wood; tiny round fruits with leaves, simple smiling ones, some drawn with quick, messy lines that made them look like something a child had drawn. a few were painted in faded orange, others barely visible where the wood had been worn smooth by years of use.

for a second, he just stood there, staring at the stand and the piles of glowing fruit stacked in shallow baskets across the table. he hoped—

“oh my god, it’s you!”

the voice exploded from behind the stall before he could even finish the thought. megumi’s head jerked up, eyes widening.

there you were, popping out from behind the baskets as if you’d been waiting there the whole time, your grin stretching impossibly wide. the sunlight caught your face, lighting it up in a way that made the entire stall seem warmer, brighter, almost like the tangerines themselves had blushed.

your outfit was the same aas last time. soft oranges and greens that blended perfectly with the fruit around you. and perched atop megumi’s head was the familiar woven hat, slightly tilted from his awkward handling of it earlier.

for a heartbeat, megumi completely forgot how to speak.

“…hello.” the word came out small, clipped, and unsure. he dipped into a polite bow, clutching the bag of groceries to his chest as if it were a shield.

“i’ve come to bring you your hat back,” he added, fingers brushing the brim awkwardly, confirming it was still there.

you leaned on the stall, a soft chuckle escaping, and immediately megumi felt that familiar, strange dryness creeping into his throat, his heart thudding a little faster.

“wow,” you said lightly, tilting your head and squinting at him through the sunlight. “you were that eager to see me?”

megumi shook his head quickly. “n-no, i just—”

he stopped.

because the moment he looked up again, you had pushed your lower lip out in a exaggerated pout, eyebrows lifted as if disappointed in the world itself.

his brain short-circuited entirely. “well— i mean—” he stuttered, words tangling and tumbling over each other. “y-yeah— i mean—sure…”

the pause that followed lasted only a second, but it felt like the world had frozen around him.

then you laughed. it spilled out of you; bright, musical, completely unrestrained. and it made megumi’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand. your shoulders shook, your eyes twinkled, and for a moment, all he could do was watch.

“god, you are adorable!” you managed between breaths of laughter. “you should see your face.”

you dabbed at the corner of your eye with a finger as if the moment amused you as much as it terrified him.

megumi dropped his gaze instantly, the heat rushing to his cheeks. he pulled the brim of the hat down over his face, trying desperately to hide the flush, his fingers curling around the straw like it could shield him.

“please… stop it,” he muttered, voice quiet.

you inhaled slowly, trying to calm yourself. “okay, okay,” you said, still smiling as you waved your hands in surrender. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

you leaned forward across the stall, reaching out toward him. megumi instinctively bent slightly so you could reach the top of his head without stretching too far. your fingers brushed lightly against his hair as you lifted the hat away, the woven straw sliding free with a soft rustle before you settled it back onto your own head. the tiny leaf at the top wobbled proudly.

“thank you very much!” you said brightly, flashing him another grin.

megumi straightened slowly. “…you’re welcome.”

the words came out softer than he intended, and for a moment the space between you filled only with the quiet rustle of the market. the distant murmur of vendors, the shifting of baskets, the faint scent of herbs and citrus drifting lazily through the warm air.

you tilted your head slightly, watching him with that same curious brightness in your eyes.

“though,” you said after a moment, resting your elbows lightly on the edge of the stall, “i am a bit sad now.”

megumi blinked.

you puffed your cheeks out in a small pout, fingers tapping against the wood covered in tiny doodled tangerines. “now we don’t really have a reason to meet again.”

megumi’s brain promptly stopped working.

“e-eh?!”

the sound escaped him before he could stop it. he quickly scratched the back of his neck, clearly scrambling for something.

“i don’t really have anything on me to give you…” he admitted awkwardly, glancing down at the bag of groceries still clutched in his hand.

you hummed thoughtfully for half a second. then your expression brightened. “well, you have your word!”

“my word?”

you chuckled lifting your hand and extending your pinky finger across the stall toward him. “just promise you’ll come see me one more time before summer ends.”

megumi stared at your pinky for a moment like it was a surprisingly serious contract. the market noise faded slightly around him, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves somewhere beyond the square and the warm scent of fruit stacked around the stall.

after a second, he slowly raised his own hand. his pinky hooked around yours. the contact was light but deliberate, the simple gesture sealing the promise in a way that felt oddly significant.

a small smile appeared on megumi’s face before he even realized it.

you noticed immediately. and it felt like you had just won the greatest prize imaginable.

“here,” you said suddenly, pulling your hand back and turning to the baskets beside you. “before you go.”

you grabbed a mesh bag and began dropping several bright tangerines inside, the fruits landing with soft, hollow thuds before you held the bag out toward him. “for the number two tangerine lover!”

“number two?” megumi raised an eyebrow, though a quiet chuckle escaped him as he reached forward to take it. “who’s number one?”

you straightened dramatically, placing a hand over your chest with exaggerated pride. “me, of course! who else?”

“of course…” megumi shook his head lightly, the corner of his mouth lifting again.

megumi had barely adjusted the bag of tangerines in his hands when something suddenly nudged hard into his side. he shifted instinctively, stepping a half step away, and an old man pushed himself into the space beside him like he owned the ground beneath his feet. his finger shot forward immediately, pointing straight at you across the stall.

“i told you not to put your stall here. this is my spot!”

his voice cut through the gentle noise of the square, sharp and loud enough that a few nearby heads turned.

you didn’t flinch, you simply stared at him, your brows slowly knitting together while the little orange leaf on your hat wobbled slightly as you tilted your head.

megumi felt a faint tension creep up his spine. instinctively, he shifted his weight forward, the urge to step in flickering briefly in the back of his mind. but a tourist arguing with a local in the middle of a town square was a terrible idea.

before he could decide anything, you spoke.

“this isn’t anybody’s place,” you said, crossing your arms calmly over your chest. “unless you bought this exact patch of dirt, then sure, it can be yours.”

the old man’s face twisted immediately. “i fucking swear,” he spat, glaring at you with open irritation. “you’re just like your grandmother.”

your arms tightened slightly against yourself. megumi noticed it, the smallest shift in your posture, barely there but real.

the man jabbed a finger toward the stall again. “if i see you here tomorrow,” he barked, “i’ll smash this damn thing to pieces!”

for a moment, the threat hung heavy in the air. megumi’s confusion only grew when you suddenly smiled. it was bright, almost exaggeratedly cheerful as you lifted both hands in a harmless little gesture.

“alright, alright,” you said lightly, waving him off with fake patience. “no need to get so aggressive, old man!” the man muttered something under his breath, clearly a string of curses, and turned as if ready to storm away. “wait!”

your voice stopped him, he paused with visible annoyance, turning back halfway. you leaned down behind the stall, grabbed one of the bright tangerines from the basket, and held it out toward him with a wide grin. “here,” you said sweetly. “a peace offering!”

for a split second megumi thought he might slap it straight out of your hand.

his arm twitched.

but instead the man snatched the fruit roughly from your fingers, gripping it tight as if the poor thing had personally offended him. he scoffed loudly before turning again and stomping off through the square, his footsteps sharp against the stone.

megumi stood there, completely still.

did you just… curse somebody?

the evening draped itself like a soft, warm blanket. the last traces of sunlight lingering on the wooden balcony while the faint sound of waves brushed against the shore somewhere beyond the trees. gojo lounged back in his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose as he regarded the boy beside him.

megumi barely moved, elbows resting on his knees, a single tangerine turning slowly between his fingers, the only movement betraying the storm of thought inside him. his grip tightened slightly as gojo spoke:

“i got information today,” gojo said, his voice calm but carrying a quiet weight, “another person died from the illness. older male.”

megumi’s fingers clenched harder around the fruit, and gojo let his gaze linger, noting the subtle tremor that ran through his hands. he didn’t flinch, didn’t speak, but the tension in his shoulders said enough.

after a moment, gojo let out a long, soft sigh, tilting his head as he watched the sky darken, the first stars beginning to prick the dusky blue. “i know this whole mission touches a nerve for you,” he said, words measured, careful, “i didn’t give it to you to torture you.”

megumi’s hands shook slightly, and gojo’s eyes softened behind the lenses of his glasses.

“i gave it to you because i trust you,” gojo continued, letting the weight of the words hang between them. “because facing something like this… it’s not about punishment. it’s about growth. it’s about becoming the kind of person who can carry the weight, no matter how heavy it gets.”

he leaned back further, hands resting behind his head, voice steady but gentle, letting the space stretch between them.

“you can handle it,” gojo added after a pause, “and it’s exactly the kind of thing that makes you stronger as a person.”

the summer night had cooled just enough for the air to feel soft against the skin, a quiet breeze drifting in from the ocean and brushing through megumi’s hair as he walked along the empty stretch of shore. the tide rolled in slow, steady breaths, each wave pulling moonlight across the water until the sea shimmered like scattered glass beneath the pale sky.

megumi walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, head lowered, his gaze fixed on the sand at his feet rather than the wide horizon in front of him. every few steps he nudged a stray pebble forward with the tip of his sandal, letting it bounce ahead before kicking it again without really thinking about it.

his mind was somewhere else entirely.

he had to find you and execute you.

the thought sat heavily in his chest, heavy enough that even the salty night air felt difficult to breathe.

how was he supposed to do that?

the question circled endlessly in his head as the waves crept up and retreated along the shore. it wasn’t the act of killing itself that troubled him. megumi had been a sorcerer long enough to understand what needed to be done when curses were involved.

but this wasn’t simple. because the more he thought about it, the less it made sense.

did you even know you were cursing people?

he replayed the memory again, the image sharp and impossible to ignore. the moment when you had handed that tangerine to the old man in the square, smiling so brightly it almost felt ridiculous and for the briefest second, megumi had seen it.

a shadow behind your back.

something thin and writhing, like a knot of blackened roots crawling out from your spine. it had appeared only for a moment, stretching outward with the tangerine as cursed energy seeped into the fruit. then it curled back in on itself, wrapping around your body again like a second skin before vanishing completely beneath your warmth and laughter.

you hadn’t reacted.

megumi had stood there frozen, realization settling slowly and horribly in his mind. the curse wasn’t just near you. it was attached to you.

worse than that, he was almost certain the two of you were bound together. the way the cursed energy moved, the way it fed from you and returned. if he destroyed the curse directly, there was a very real chance that the backlash would take you with it.

killing the curse might mean killing you.

megumi exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. he hadn’t eaten a single tangerine you’d given him since that day. the small bag still sat in his room at the apartment, untouched.

was he afraid they were cursed too?

…no.

he didn’t think that was it.

still, every time he reached for one, something stopped him. an invisible hesitation that made him pull his hand back before the peel could even break beneath his fingers.

he kicked the pebble ahead again, watching it bounce across the damp sand. his thoughts spiraled deeper and deeper until—

a quiet sound cut through the night.

sniffling.

megumi stopped walking.

his head lifted toward the sound, eyes scanning the dim shoreline until they landed on the small wooden bench near the path.

you were sitting there. the moonlight fell across you in pale streaks, catching the shine of wet tears on your cheeks as you blinked at him, clearly startled to see someone there at all. for a moment neither of you moved. the waves rolled quietly behind you, the wind tugging gently at your clothes.

you just stared at each other.

then, almost immediately, you groaned and covered your face with both hands.

“don’t look at me!” you whined miserably, rubbing at your eyes in a frantic attempt to wipe the tears away. megumi stiffened where he stood, caught completely off guard. “i’m all teary-eyed and snotty and fucking gross,” you complained through your hands, voice thick as you tried to scrub your face dry.

megumi blinked once, then raised an eyebrow slightly. “…yeah. because you’re crying.”

you peeked through your fingers immediately. “are you lecturing me?”

“uh— no,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly very aware that he had absolutely no idea how to handle a crying person. especially you. his mind ran through a dozen useless options: say something comforting, offer help, do something normal.

instead he just stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before blurting, “hold on.”

and then he turned and ran.

down the path, sandals kicking up bits of gravel as he sprinted toward the nearest open market stall he remembered passing earlier. a few minutes later he came rushing back, slightly out of breath, carrying a plastic bottle of cold water, a small pack of tissues, and almost instinctively a couple of fresh tangerines tucked under his arm.

by the time he reached the bench again, you had calmed down a little. your shoulders weren’t shaking anymore, though your eyes were still red and your nose slightly pink from crying.

megumi slowed his steps as he approached.

you glanced up at him just as he reached the bench and he gently pressed the cold water bottle against your cheek. you flinched immediately from the sudden chill. “hey!”

but the protest faded almost as quickly as it came. the coolness seeped into your warm skin and you leaned into it without thinking, your cheek pressing softly against the plastic as if you’d suddenly decided it was the most comforting thing in the world.

you didn’t take the bottle. you just stayed there, nuzzling slightly into the cold surface with a quiet sigh.

megumi hesitated. then sat down beside you on the bench, holding the bottle in place against your cheek so you wouldn’t have to move. his arm would probably start cramping soon. but as you leaned there against him, megumi found himself thinking that even if his arm started cramping, he probably wouldn’t put the bottle down.

“do you want to talk?”

you shook your head immediately; cheek still pressed against the cold plastic.

“alright,” he said simply.

he shifted his grip on the bottle slightly so it rested more comfortably against your face.

“do you want me to wait until you want to talk?”

you sniffled and nodded.

a quiet scoff slipped out of him, though the corner of his mouth lifted faintly.

“alright.”

he pulled the bottle away after a moment to twist the cap open, you reached over and took it from his hand, lifting it to your lips. the cold water slid down your throat and you hummed softly, the chill easing the dryness that crying had left behind.

megumi watched for a second before looking down and rummaging through the plastic bag he’d brought. it rustled quietly in the night air as he searched through it and eventually pulled out a tangerine.

your eyes brightened instantly.

“they’re not… yours,” he said, glancing at the fruit in his hand, “but it’s better than nothing.”

he sank his nails into the peel. the skin split with a soft tear, releasing a faint, sharp citrus scent into the air. he winced slightly when the juice brushed against the small cut near his cuticle, though he quickly masked it, continuing the task with quiet concentration.

you watched him the whole time.

his hands worked slowly and carefully, peeling the skin away in curling strips before placing them neatly back into the bag. once the fruit was bare, he began separating the slices one by one, methodically removing the thin white pith from each segment with surprising patience.

the ocean breeze tugged lightly at his dark hair as he focused, brows faintly drawn. when he finally held out the first slice toward you, you didn’t move.

you just stared at him. the look on your face was soft, almost stunned, as if he’d just done something far more impressive than peeling fruit under the moonlight.

megumi shifted slightly, a faint grimace crossing his face. “…are you… going to take it?”

you still didn’t move.

his ears warmed.

after a second he sighed quietly and extended his hand a little farther, bringing the tangerine slice closer to your lips.

you leaned forward and took it gently from his fingers with your lips, your teeth breaking the thin membrane as the slightly sour juice spread across your tongue.

you didn’t seem to mind the taste at all.

your attention remained fixed on him instead. the dark-haired boy beside you, carefully peeling another slice of fruit as if it were the most important task in the world, the tips of his ears faintly pink and his eyes stubbornly focused on the work in his hands.

he handed you another piece. this time you took it with a small smile, a quiet chuckle slipping out as you chewed.

megumi glanced at you.“do tangerines cheer you up that much?”

you nodded immediately,

he looked back down at the fruit in his hands. “…i’m glad.”

for a while after that, neither of you said much.

then your voice came, quieter than before.

“my grandma…”

megumi’s hands slowed.

he didn’t interrupt, but the way his posture shifted made it clear he was listening now, fully.

“she loved tangerines,” you said softly. “so much that when i was little there wasn’t a single dish she made that didn’t have at least a little bit of the juice in it. rice, soups, marinades… everything.” you let out a small chuckle, your gaze drifting toward the ocean. “the kitchen always smelled like tangerines too.”

megumi handed you another slice.

you took it absently.

“i loved it when i was little,” you continued, rolling the slice between your fingers before eating it. “but when i got older… i guess i got sick of it. the smell followed me everywhere.” you pulled your knees up onto the bench, wrapping your arms around them as the breeze tugged lightly at your clothes. “in school people said i smelled like tangerines all the time. some of my classmates started making fun of me for it.”

you huffed quietly. “which is stupid, right? but bullies always find the dumbest things to pick on.”

megumi didn’t say anything, he just kept peeling the fruit slowly beside you.

“one day i snapped,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “i told her i hated tangerines. that i hated the smell and that it was her fault everyone made fun of me.”

you paused.

“do you know what she did?” you glanced sideways at him, expecting boredom or polite disinterest.

instead you found his gaze already on you.

his eyes traced your face carefully, like he was memorizing every small shift in your expression. the attention made a faint warmth rise to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away again before continuing.

“she just laughed,” you said, a small breath of amusement leaving you. “she told me that one day i’d love tangerines just as much as she did.”

you stared out at the ocean again.

“and before i knew it… i did.”

megumi’s hands stilled slightly on the fruit in his lap.

“the house didn’t smell like tangerines anymore,” you continued quietly. “the pots weren’t warm when i walked into the kitchen. the food wasn’t sitting on the table waiting for me. there wasn’t her voice telling me not to turn out like my dad.”

your fingers tightened slightly around your legs. “there wasn’t her laughter anymore either.”

“the village hated her,” you murmured. “because of what her son— my dad, did. people looked at her like she was something rotten… like she carried the same stain he did.” your voice faltered slightly. “and because i was his daughter… they looked at me the same way.”

megumi’s chest felt tight.

“like we were something cursed.”

your shoulders trembled as you pressed your face briefly against your knees.

“and i just…” your voice cracked. “…i just wished they would all die.”

megumi went completely still beside you.

the words sank into the quiet between you, heavier than the humid night air and the slow rhythm of the tide. the ocean rolled in and out against the shore, each wave brushing the sand with a soft sigh, but megumi barely heard it anymore.

his fingers stopped moving, the peel hung loosely between them, a thin strip of orange skin dangling as his grip tightened without him realizing.

his breath caught in his throat.

how— how was he supposed to execute you?

how was he supposed to do it now?

his gaze drifted toward you without fully turning his head. you were still curled in on yourself, arms wrapped around your legs on the bench, shoulders trembling faintly in the moonlight. the silver glow from the water reflected softly across your face, catching in the tear tracks along your cheeks.

megumi’s mind tried to reach for something solid, logic. the cold certainty he usually relied on when dealing with curses. but everything tangled the moment it circled back to you.

his fingers curled tighter around the fruit until the thin skin creased under the pressure.

he should do it.

that was the mission.

he had seen it with his own eyes. the curse that clung to you wasn’t subtle; it had slipped from your back like smoke the first time he noticed it, stretching and twisting before wrapping itself around your body again, possessive and intimate in a way that made his stomach twist.

you didn’t even know it existed. you moved through your days like any other person, laughing, talking, offering him tangerines with sticky fingers and a crooked smile, completely unaware of the thing that breathed alongside you.

you were simply… living.

so why— why were you the one who had to die for it?

megumi swallowed hard, jaw tightening as the questions churned through his mind with nowhere to land. the scent of citrus felt suddenly overwhelming in his hands, sharp and sweet and impossible to ignore.

then your voice broke through his thoughts.

“are you okay?”

you were staring at him, brows drawn together in quiet concern, your earlier sadness momentarily forgotten as you leaned a little closer.

it took him a second to realize what had caught your attention.

his lip.

megumi felt it then; the dull sting where his teeth had been digging in too hard, the metallic taste of blood spreading slowly across his tongue. when he pulled back slightly, a thin line of red had already formed where the skin had split.

“oh— shit.”

he quickly dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping the blood away like it was nothing more than an absent habit. his shoulders shifted in that subtle way he always did when he was trying to brush something off.

you watched the motion carefully, for half a second you didn’t say anything, then your shoulders tightened. “i’m sorry.”

“what?”

you rubbed the back of your neck, the movement awkward and restless as your gaze dropped to your shoes. grains of sand clung to the edges of them where the tide had brushed up earlier, and you nudged one foot into the ground like you suddenly found it very interesting.

“i just kind of dumped all that stuff on you. about my grandma… the village… everything. i didn’t even stop to think about how you might feel hearing it, or if you even wanted to listen in the first place.” your words started to tumble out faster the longer you spoke, the way they did when embarrassment got the better of you. “i mean, we barely know each other and i just—”

“stop that.”

the words cut cleanly through your rambling.

you froze mid-sentence, your head lifting in surprise.

his expression wasn’t sharp or irritated the way it sometimes got when people talked too much; if anything, it had softened in that quiet, unreadable way of his. the wind stirred through his dark hair, pushing a few stubborn strands across his forehead as he watched you.

“if i didn’t care,” he said simply, “i wouldn’t be here right now.”

the honesty in the statement settled between you more heavily than he probably intended.

you looked at him for a long time.

“…but you don’t know me,” you murmured eventually, your voice quieter now.

megumi hesitated.

something flickered behind his eyes, uncertainty, maybe, before he slowly lifted his hand and held it out toward you. the gesture was simple, almost awkward. you stared at his hand, confusion flickering across your face as your gaze moved back up to him.

“megumi,” he clarified quietly. “my name.”

for a moment you just looked at him.

then something in your expression softened, and a small, surprised laugh slipped from you before you could stop it. you reached forward and took his hand without hesitation, your fingers curling around his as you told him your name in return.

megumi repeated it under his breath once, like he was committing it carefully to memory.

“megumi, huh?” you said after a second, a soft grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

he immediately looked a little awkward about it. his free hand lifted to scratch at the back of his head, shoulders shifting as a faint flush crept up along the tips of his ears. “i know,” he muttered, glancing off toward the water. “it’s… a girl’s name.”

“no,” you said gently.

the way you said it made him look back at you.

you were smiling. there was something so open and sincere in the expression that megumi suddenly didn’t know where to put his eyes. “i think it suits you.”

the ocean stretched endlessly behind him, moonlight scattering across the slow-moving waves in long silver streaks. the wind lifted your hair slightly as you tilted your head, studying him with a quiet sort of curiosity, like you were trying to understand something that had only just revealed itself.

then you said, almost thoughtfully,

“you feel like my blessing.”

ah.

megumi felt something shift deep in his chest, something warm and unfamiliar that spread outward before he could stop it. it was the kind of feeling that made his ribs feel tight, like his heart had suddenly grown too large for the space it lived in.

he looked at you sitting beside him, the faint redness still lingering around your eyes from earlier tears, the smell of tangerines clinging faintly to your hands, the night breeze tugging softly at your clothes as you smiled at him like he was something unexpectedly good that had simply appeared in your life.

like he belonged there.

maybe…

maybe he could allow himself something small.

after all, everyone was selfish sometimes.

and so, that summer.

megumi let himself be selfish.

megumi will never get used to the way you say his name.

it always sounds a little different when it leaves your lips, as if you’re trying out all the possible ways it could exist in the world.

sometimes it comes out stretched and playful, the syllables rolling lazily off your tongue as laughter follows right after, usually when your bicycle bumps into him for the third time that week along the narrow path leading into town. the bell on your handlebars always rings too late, and the soft thud of the tire against his leg is almost routine by now.

you always wobble, nearly tipping the bicycle over in your hurry to steady yourself, your hair falling into your face as you grin sheepishly.

megumi stands there with that same unimpressed look he tries very hard to maintain. he points toward the wheels with mock threat, something about popping your tires but the words never hold any real bite. if anything, his scolding always circles back to you. how you’re the one who’ll get hurt riding that recklessly, how the path isn’t wide enough for your terrible biking skills.

other times it’s quieter.

softer.

the kind of way that belongs only to the two of you when the day settles into evening and the shore grows still beneath the fading sun. the ocean breathes slowly beside you, waves curling against the sand while the sky deepens into colors that melt from gold into violet.

you always insist your hands are freezing and megumi never argues for long. his hands end up covering yours eventually, his fingers awkwardly wrapping around them as the cool sea breeze brushes against your skin. the smell of salt and damp sand lingers in the air while the two of you wander along the shore until you inevitably claim the same weathered bench near the water.

you curl against him there without hesitation, your head resting on his shoulder as if the space was made for you. megumi sits still at first, a little stiff, but it never lasts long. eventually he’s peeling a tangerine, his fingers working carefully through the bright skin while the sharp citrus scent mixes with the ocean air.

slice after slice disappears between your lips as he hands them over. sometimes he pulls one back at the last second just to eat it himself. the offended noise you make afterward always dissolves into laughter, your breath warm and shaky against his shoulder while the waves continue their slow rhythm beyond the sand.

megumi finds that he likes that sound more than he expected.

then there are the afternoons when you drag him somewhere new along the coast, slipping away from the busier parts of the beach and weaving through narrow rock paths until the two of you find the hidden stretch of water you like best. the rocks there rise tall enough to block the wind, forming a quiet little pocket of ocean where the water glows clear and blue beneath the sun.

megumi steps carefully along the wet stones, watching where he places his feet.

you, however, move like you’ve known the place your entire life.

your laughter echoes between the rocks when you reach back to grab his arm, tugging him toward the water before he can protest. the stones are slick with dark green algae and he nearly slips more than once, earning a dramatic look from you each time as if you’re personally offended by his lack of balance.

your silent scolding always comes with narrowed eyes and a firm grip on his sleeve, pulling him farther away from the sharp edges until the two of you finally dive beneath the cool surface together.

the water wraps around you instantly, muffling the outside world into quiet blue stillness.

beneath the surface the light bends through the water in soft shifting patterns, illuminating small clusters of coral where schools of fish dart back and forth like flashes of living color. sometimes they move so quickly that they brush against megumi’s arms or legs, their tiny bodies flicking past his skin before disappearing again into the reef.

you always surface first, pushing your hair back as you laugh quietly, the sound echoing between the rocks while droplets of seawater catch the sunlight around you.

megumi never quite knows what expression he’s wearing in those moments.

he only knows that the sound of his name always seems to follow right after.

megumi pushes wet hair out of his eyes just as a bit of seawater slips the wrong way into his nose. he turns his head immediately, sneezing once, then again, blinking hard as the sting fades.

the reaction earns a bright burst of laughter from you.

megumi looks over at you, brows knitting together in mild offense even though the corner of his mouth has already betrayed him.

“what’s so funny?” he asks, irritation carefully placed into his tone.

you tilt your head, still laughing.

“you.”

that’s it.

just you.

your laughter lingers another second before it abruptly cuts off when a splash of water hits your mouth. you cough slightly, blinking as you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, clearly offended.

you squint.

“you little—”

your hands smack down onto the surface of the ocean, sending a wave of water straight toward him. megumi recoils half a second too late, and then the retaliation begins in full.

water slaps loudly against the rocks as the two of you start splashing back and forth, each attack more aggressive than the last. droplets glitter in the sunlight as they fly through the air, catching in your hair and clinging to megumi’s eyelashes while your laughter mixes with the crashing of water.

eventually you’re the first to break.

you cough again between breaths, lifting both hands in the air in defeat.

“i surrender!” you wheeze, waving one arm dramatically above the water. “i surrender!”

megumi finally stops, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline of the moment fades.

then he laughs.

not the quiet scoff he usually hides behind his sleeve, but a full, genuine laugh that escapes him before he can stop it. it rolls up from his chest, warm and unguarded, and the sound lingers between the rocks as the last ripples of the water settle around them. (a/n: hes so pretty it’s unreal)

you stare at him for a moment. your hair has fallen completely over your face by now, strands sticking to your cheeks and eyelashes as you squint through the mess.

without really thinking about it, he reaches forward.

his fingers slide through the damp strands, brushing them gently away from your eyes and tucking them to the side. somewhere in the motion his hand ends up cupping your cheek, cool seawater dripping from his wrist while his thumb rests briefly near your temple.

he doesn’t seem to notice.

“you look like a wet poodle,” he says, the teasing edge in his voice softer now.

you blink up at him, unimpressed.

“says the one whose family relative is a sea urchin.”

megumi’s brows lift slightly.

“oh-ho,” he says, leaning a little closer with mock curiosity. “little missy’s starting to bite back now?”

his fingers pinch your cheek lightly.

you smack his hand away instantly, cheeks puffing in protest. “cause you suck!”

megumi grins, his eyes glinting as he extends both hands toward your shoulders. you lean slightly, curiosity painted across your wet, glowing face. your eyes widen as he smirks, leaning closer, and you start to protest, “wait—”

before you can finish, he pushes down, dunking you under the water just like you had done to him a few minutes ago. bubbles rush past your nose as you resurface, sniffling and coughing lightly, water clinging to your lashes.

“you know what,” you gasp, water dripping from your hair, “i’ll give you that one.”

you extend a hand, and megumi meets it with a high five, but his palm lingers against yours a second longer, fingers brushing and holding in a way that makes your chest flutter slightly.

then, you remember something, eyes lighting up. “oh! i have to teach you something!” you exclaim, bouncing slightly in the water.

“oh, what now?” he scoffs in irritation. but you know better, his tone means nothing.

“okay, so,” you start, splashing your hands for emphasis, “you take a deep breath,” demonstrating with a long inhale, “then you dive as far down as you can, twist your body so you’re facing up, and open your eyes! trust me, it’s so freaking cool!”

megumi presses a hand over his face, shielding his eyes from the splashes and the sun, a half-grin tugging at his lips.

he huffs out a shaky laugh, “okay, okay! let me try. but if my eyes sting from the salt, it’s your fault,” the corner of his mouth quirking despite the warning in his voice.

he inhales, chest swelling with the deep pull of the sea air, then plunges beneath the surface. the water envelops him, cool and dense, pressing softly against his skin. he twists, turns his body as you instructed, and slowly opens one eye, then the other.

everything blurs at first; the shifting currents, the way the sunlight fractures into dancing shards through the water. his eyes sting lightly, a sharp reminder of the salt, but he can’t pull away from the sight before him. the light filters through the waves in streaks of gold and sapphire, moving like liquid fire across the dark blue expanse. in that moment, it’s as if he’s floating in the sky, weightless and untethered, drawing closer to the sun with each heartbeat.

then a shadow passes over him, soft and deliberate, and his chest tightens. you swim above, backlit by the sun, hair clinging to your face and shoulders, the light haloing around you like an angel.

compelled by some strange gravity, he extends his hands, tracing the curve of your shoulder, letting the tips of his fingers brush your skin, and then moving higher to graze your cheek. through the blur of water and the sting in his eyes, he sees your smile, small but utterly luminous, and his lids droop slightly, savoring the image like sunlight stored in memory.

you lean closer, and without thinking, he mirrors you, letting the distance collapse, the tip of your nose nearly brushing his. time seems to stretch, the water holding them suspended.

and just as the space between you narrows, a small rush of bubbles escapes his lips, a sharp reminder of the air he’s running out of. he kicks hard with his legs, shooting upward, and breaks through the surface in one hurried rush.

the heat of the afternoon pressed gently against megumi’s skin as he lay sprawled on the balcony, the wooden boards warm beneath him. the sun spilled over the edge of the roof, slipping past gojo’s shadow as he leaned lazily against the railing. a faint breeze rustled through the leaves nearby, carrying the mingled scent of salt from the sea and the faint sweetness of tangerines still lingering in his senses from earlier days.

“where have you been off to, megumi-chan?” gojo’s voice sliced through the quiet, drawing him from the haze of memory.

megumi squinted, letting the warmth press against his face, a faint crease between his brows. “i got sidetracked in town,” he said flatly, eyes closing again, offering nothing more.

the rhythmic chirping of crickets filled the air, a sharp, high-pitched symphony that grated against his ears. he could almost hear the memory of your voice explaining how the insects’ song had marked your childhood afternoons, the sound weaving into the heat of the sun itself.

gojo scoffed, grinning, and with a casual flick he tugged megumi’s shirt up and shoved a packaged popsicle against his bare stomach. the cold hit instantly, he yelped, pulling it free, grumbling under his breath, but the pale green treat gleamed in the sunlight, and the sweet, frosty scent made him pause. he tore the wrapper carefully and let the ice melt slowly on his tongue, the cool mint cutting through the warmth of the day.

the balcony fell silent, save for the distant crash of waves and the persistent chirping.

“i know you’ve been seeing her.” gojo’s face was unreadable behind the dark lenses of his glasses, his voice quiet, almost heavy. “why?”

megumi stayed silent for a long beat, the popsicle melting faster in his hand, its cold dripping onto his palm.

finally, his voice, soft and shaky, broke through. “you always tell me to be selfish… so i decided to take it into action.”

gojo’s reply came slow, deliberate, as if weighing the weight of every word. “are you willing to be selfish… enough for another, so much so that you will destroy yourself afterward?” there was a tremor in his tone, one that suggested he had felt the same.

megumi’s head bowed, voice barely more than a whisper, unstable in the edges “just this summer… let me…”

“please… satoru.”

the popsicle in his hand softened, its shape collapsing in the sun, melting faster than he could notice. the sweetness dripped down his fingers, sticky and fleeting, and somehow mirrored the ache in his chest.

gojo said nothing. silent in a way he never had before.

for a moment, megumi felt utterly alone and completely seen all at once.

“she’s sick?”

“yes, young man,” the old woman beside your stall looked up from the bundle of dried herbs she had been tying together with thin twine. adjusting the little round glasses perched low on her nose.

megumi stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the empty stall spot.

without the wooden counter that was covered in the faded doodles of tangerines you had once proudly told him about, the little uneven tangarines drawn by your younger self when your grandmother had decided the stand needed “more personality.”

normally you were there.

perched behind that counter with that bright tangerine-colored hat on your head and sleeves rolled up, greeting every passerby with a grin that showed all your teeth.

megumi swallowed, something uneasy settling in his chest.

“she’ll be fine,” the old woman added casually, waving a hand as if it were nothing serious. “caught a bit of a fever. happens when people forget they’re human and try to work every day.”

megumi nodded once.

then, somehow. he found himself standing in front of your house.

he wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened.

one minute he had been walking through the market, the next he had a bag clutched awkwardly in his hand, stuffed with things he barely remembered buying; cold tablets, instant soup packets, bottled tea, and a few other things the pharmacist had recommended while eyeing him suspiciously.

now he stood at your front door.

the house was small and warm-looking, tucked quietly along the narrow street. wind chimes hung from the porch roof, swaying gently whenever the breeze drifted through, their soft clinking mixing with the distant sound of cicadas buzzing in the afternoon heat.

megumi stared at the door like it had personally offended him.

what was he doing?

megumi stood on your small wooden porch with his hand lifted halfway toward the door, fingers hovering uncertainly in the air like he had forgotten what they were supposed to do. after a moment the courage drained right back out of him, and his hand slowly dropped to his side again.

instead of knocking, he started pacing. the porch wasn’t very big, which made the movement almost ridiculous. three steps forward, turn, three steps back, turn again, over and over until the soft creak of the boards beneath his shoes began to repeat in a quiet rhythm.

his thoughts spiraled faster with every lap.

you two were… close.

right?

close enough to sit on the beach for hours talking about nothing and everything at the same time. close enough to share tangerines and stupid stories and long stretches of silence that somehow never felt uncomfortable. close enough that your laugh had started living somewhere in the back of his head without his permission.

but were you close enough for this?

close enough that he could just show up at your house uninvited after asking random market ladies where you lived? megumi slowed his pacing, glancing down at the bag in his hand like it had personally betrayed him.

this looked bad.

actually— this looked really bad.

what if you thought he was stalking you?

what if you thought he was some weird guy who had followed you home and was now standing outside your house with a suspiciously thoughtful get-well package?

what if you thought he was trying to murd—

the door suddenly opened.

megumi froze mid-step.

you stood there in the halfway open doorway with one hand still resting on the handle as you blinked up at him slowly. your face was half-hidden behind the frame. your hair looked messier than usual, like you had only half bothered brushing it before giving up, and you were wrapped in an oversized shirt that slipped lazily off one shoulder.

for a moment neither of you spoke.

then you tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“you think loudly,” you said.

“…huh?” megumi was still standing there like someone had paused him mid-animation.

you pushed the door open a little wider with a soft creak, leaning your shoulder against the frame.

“i could hear you from the living room,” you explained, your voice rough with the remnants of your cold. “the pacing gave it away. you walk in circles when you overthink.”

megumi blinked. “…you could hear that?”

“very dramatic pacing.” you nodded with complete seriousness.

his ears turned red immediately. “i wasn’t pacing dramatically,”

he shifted the paper bag in his hand before awkwardly extending it toward you, the crinkle of the paper loud in the quiet doorway.

“the ladies at the market told me where you lived,” he explained, words coming out a little clumsier than he meant them to. “they saw you hanging out with me before and… told me i should bring you something to help you get better. so i— yeah. i did.”

you looked down at the bag. then slowly back up at him. “…are you going to leave when i take it?”

for a brief second he simply stared at you. at the small pout forming on your face, the way your shoulders were wrapped tightly in that oversized t-shirt. the faint redness around your nose and eyes that made you look both miserable and unfairly cute.

‘you are god’s strongest soldier, megumi.’ he told himself.

“i— should probably leave,” he said, scratching lightly at the back of his neck. “i have something planned with my friends, so—”

the door shut directly in his face.

megumi blinked. his hand was still raised in the air where he had been holding out the bag.

your muffled voice came from the other side. “i won’t take it then.”

megumi lowered his hand slowly. a quiet chuckle slipped out of him before he could stop it, warm and a little helpless. he stepped forward again and placed his hand lightly against the door, knocking once.

“i won’t leave,” he said. “open up.”

the door creaked fully open again a second later.

and there you were; nose pink from your cold and eyes just slightly glassy from fever or allergies or whatever had knocked you out for the day. you sniffled once as you looked up at him, clearly trying to maintain the same offended expression from earlier.

in megumi’s mind you looked like you were glowing. it was ridiculous. you were sick, sniffling, clearly exhausted, and yet somehow you still managed to look completely adorable standing there.

a quiet laugh slipped from him again. your pout deepened immediately, already suspicious that he was about to tease you. megumi reached forward before you could protest and lightly flicked the tip of your nose. “rudolph.”

behind him the door shut with a soft thud as you groaned dramatically. “that’s such a lame joke.”

“for you,” he replied easily, already wandering further inside like he belonged there.

the moment he stepped past the doorway, the house seemed to unfold around him in color.

it was bright, almost overwhelmingly so, but not in a messy way. it felt warm. alive. like every corner had been touched by someone who believed the world should be cheerful even when it had no reason to be.

wind chimes hung near the windows, their soft notes clinking together whenever the breeze slipped through the open panes. threaded between them were thin slices of dried tangerines, translucent in the sunlight as they swayed gently back and forth like little amber coins. strings of beads hung in place of door curtains, brushing lightly against megumi’s shoulders and tapping against his back as he walked through them. sunlight streamed through colored glass set into the windows, scattering warm patches of gold, orange, and pale green across the walls.

and everything, everything smelled like tangerines.

bright, sharp citrus that lingered in the corners of the room, layered over the warm, familiar scent of a house that had been lived in for generations.

and beneath it— you.

megumi froze mid-step, the world narrowing to that realization.

wait.

you?

it hit him all at once. holy shit. he was inside your house. your house. where everything, every surface, every corner, every stray thread of warmth in the air, smelled like you. he inhaled without thinking, chest tightening instantly, and immediately regretted it. his shoulders stiffened.

‘holy shit, i smell her everywhere. why does it smell so much like her? am i going to throw up? no— no, that’s not it—'

then his heart started racing, fast and loud enough that he could feel it in his throat.

‘oh god. why is my heart beating this fast? holy shit. am i going to have a heart attack—'

you nudged his side with your elbow, soft but firm. megumi jumped slightly, blinking down at you, eyes wide, chest still hammering. somehow his face was even redder than yours now.

“are you okay?” you asked, squinting up at him suspiciously.

“yeah— just…” he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around the room again like it had personally overwhelmed him. “…a lot to take in.”

“grandma always wanted everything to be bright,” you said, voice softer now. “even if it didn’t really match or make sense.” your fingers brushed lightly along the edge of the counter as you walked.

“she said you can’t stay sad if there’s color in your life.”

megumi looked back at you.

even sick, you were still dressed like you had walked out of the house with your eyes closed and somehow made it work anyway. your sshirt didn’t match your pants, and both had little stitched patches and patterns scattered across them in different shades.

meanwhile he stood there in his usual dull color palette. dark pants, and a grey t-shirt that only stood out because of the cartoon character printed on the front. (itadori’s shirt that that idiot had left it in his dorm and megumi mixed it up.)

“your grandma is right.” he simply said.

he set the paper bag down on the counter and began pulling out the things he’d brought.

“she is, isn’t she?” you said proudly.

you drifted over beside him, your nose was still red from wiping it too much, and your lips looked dry, but the excitement in your expression made it obvious you were enjoying this far more than someone sick probably should.

you started opening cupboards one by one, pointing lazily inside them as you went.

“bowls are here.”

another cupboard opened.

“spoons are here.”

then a drawer.

“and that’s where the good spoons are, but grandma says i’m not allowed to give those to guests because they’re ‘ceremonial’ or something.”

megumi nodded slowly, committing the information to memory like it was a mission briefing. once he seemed to have everything figured out, megumi glanced over his shoulder and pointed toward the couch in the living room.

“lay down, i got it from here,” he said, his voice low but firm, like there was no room for argument.

“no, i want to keep you company,” you protested.

“you can keep me company once you lay down,”

“but i can’t see your face from that angle,” you whined.

megumi fumbled with the pot in his hands, almost dropping it, and shot you a glare sharp enough to make you giggle.

“what got you so clumsy, gumiiii?” you teased.

he muttered under his breath, “shut up and sit down on the couch,” before taking a careful step toward you.

“no, i— ah!” you yelped as he scooped you up effortlessly in a smooth, bridal-style lift, carrying you over without so much as a pause.

he set you down gently on the couch, fluffing the pillows around you with precise, practiced movements. you pouted, trying, and failing to glare at him in retaliation, while he quietly fought the damn urge to bite your cheek out of sheer irritation at your adorableness.

his hand brushed over your forehead, smoothing away strands of damp hair stuck to your skin, and he felt the warmth radiating from your sickness. a soft tsk escaped him, and he grabbed the thermometer from the table, giving it a quick shake before extending it to you.

“rest. i’ll go make the soup,” he murmured, fingers lingering for a moment on your cheek.

you let out a small, drawn-out huff, “fineeee…”

he offered a faint, almost shy smile and turned to his task, moving through the kitchen like he belonged there. you called to him every now and then from the couch, a soft voice carrying over the space, until exhaustion finally pulled the words from you.

megumi paused mid-motion, noticing the sudden silence. worry knotted in his chest, and he padded back to the living room to check on you. and when he saw you curled up, eyelids heavy, the faint rise and fall of your breath steady, he let himself relax.

the smell of the soup made your nose twitch, pulling you awake just enough to peek at megumi. he was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, spoon in hand, swirling it gently in the steaming bowl, blowing over the surface in careful puffs before pressing his lips briefly to the spoon to check the temperature. his brows were furrowed in concentration.

he extended the spoon toward you once he seemed satisfied. you sat up on the cushions, letting him guide it to your lips, trusting that he had cooled it just right. the warmth slid down your throat, soothing and gentle, and a soft hum of contentment escaped you.

“is it good?” his voice was tentative, almost shy.

“perfect,” you said, thought it wasn’t really aimed at the soup. then a thought struck you. “wait— did you put tangerines in here?”

megumi tilted the spoon, swirling the soup again. “you mentioned once that your grandma used to put a bit of citrus in,” he said, then blew across the surface and pressed his lips to it once more before extending it toward you.

you watched him in quiet awe, marveling at how he repeated the process with such care, each small motion precise, deliberate, as if tending to a fragile ritual. he hummed softly in delight as he offered each spoonful, his lips brushing the surface before you tasted it, until finally, the bowl was empty.

he pushed back, reaching for the dishes, but you waved him off with a small laugh. “don’t. come here.”

he hesitated, then obeyed, letting himself slide closer to the couch. you motioned for him to sit beside you. he did, still leaning in slightly, eyes flicking to your flushed face as if measuring your temperature again even though he had already checked twice while you slept.

“yeah?” he prompted, quiet but steady.

you looked at him for a long moment, taking in the scene.

the boy you had crashed into with your bike, the one who had argued and teased and disappeared so easily from your life, was now here, in your home, cooking soup for you while you were sick. the sun’s last rays filtered through the colorful paned glass of your windows, painting warm streaks of orange, green, and gold across his skin. the light caught the small dust motes in the air, making it feel as if the room itself was holding its breath.

slowly, you extended your hand, letting your fingers brush against his cheek, the warmth of the sun blending with the warmth of his skin. the colors of the light mixed on his face, yellow and blue merging into soft green, like a quiet painting come alive.

“i’m being real selfish keeping you with me,” you murmured, voice barely above the hum of the evening.

megumi froze for a heartbeat, then shifted closer, his head finding the edge of the couch right beside yours. he didn’t care about how stiff his neck would get. he didn’t care about anything but the quiet closeness of you. “no, you aren’t,” he said softly. “if anything… i’m the selfish one.”

“can you… stay?”

“for as long as you want me to,” he replied, voice gentle and unwavering.

at some point, your eyes closed, surrendering to sleep. megumi watched you with careful attentiveness, memorizing the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft furrow of your brow in dreams, the way your lashes cast tiny shadows on your cheeks. his heart thudded in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar. he swallowed hard against the strange tightness in his throat.

leaning in slowly, he brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face, tucking them behind your ear with delicate fingers. then, cautiously, he lowered his head. his lips hovered over yours, a whisper of warmth against your skin. barely touching, just a hint of pressure, soft and deliberate, testing, savoring. the brush of his mouth against yours sent a shiver through him.

he held it there selfishly for a few seconds, long enough to feel the softness of your lips, the quiet rhythm of your breathing against his own, careful not to wake you. the world outside, all of it, melted into the small, intimate space between your faces.

when he pulled back, it was just enough to rest his forehead lightly against yours as his eyes drank in every detail of your sleeping face.

he committed it all; the curve of your lips, the tilt of your nose, the softness of your expression. to memory, precise and unshakable, like a photograph etched into the center of his chest.

megumi fushiguro let himself be selfish that summer.

selfish in the way he stole away his friends summer with him. choosing instead to linger beside you on the beach, inhaling the warm, sweet scent of your sunscreen as you lay close. your oversized tangerine hat dipped over your face, and when he leaned down to tug it just enough to shade his own eyes, you giggled, and the two of you ended up hidden under the straw, a little sun-shielded world of your own making.

selfish in the way he insisted it was too hot on a chilly night by the shore, just to press his jacket around you and breathe in the lingering smell of you afterward when he returned to the rented apartment, cradling the jacket to his chest as if he could somehow trap that warmth forever.

selfish in the way he found himself at your house more often than not, drawn in by the scent of tangerines mingling with whatever you had prepared for lunch. portions slowly became meant for two, and the two of you would sit beneath the tangerine tree in your garden, sunlight warming your shoulders, content simply in each other’s presence.

he never spoke of you to the others, except gojo, who already knew. he wanted this, this summer, entirely to himself. the others’ reactions, frustration, worry, confusion, when they saw him less and less, wondering where he went might have eaten at him if he had noticed.

megumi appeared happier than ever, though a faint sadness clung to him like a second skin.

“just a little more,” he whispered to himself, “just for this summer.”

and as summer edged toward its end, faster than he had ever noticed, megumi realized that he had given his entire summer to you, and he would never take it back.

he kept his mind off the thing clinging to your soul, lingering in shadows he didn’t want to face, and instead let himself sink into these last golden moments. watching your hair tangle in the wind, the sun glint off your skin as you walked together along the shore, sticks in hand from doodling hearts, dogs and tangerines into the sand.

he extended his hand behind him without thinking, and reached out to catch it instantly, intertwining your fingers. you lifted your intertwined hands to warm them with your breath, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentle familiarity that had become second nature.

“can’t believe you got outsmarted by a seagull!” you teased, laughter bubbling as the memory from that morning replayed.

“hey,” he protested, puffing out his chest just slightly, “that seagull was clearly experimented on by humans to reach that level of intelligence.”

you laughed, lifting your free hand to pinch his cheek. “just keep telling your pride that, gumi.”

he made a face of mock disgust, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into a quiet smile.

oh, how he loved when you called him that, the nickname rolling off your tongue like a soft melody he wanted to memorize forever.

his phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, letting the rhythm of your steps along the shore fill his attention instead. he knew this path by heart now, just as he knew you. the sun had nearly sunk behind the horizon, and the warm glow of town lamps flicked on, signaling the end of the day for the local children, their laughter fading as they were called home.

you reached into the pockets of his jacket, draped comically over your shoulders and pulled out a few dried tangerine peels. “ah, wait— i’ll toss these,” you said, stepping behind him toward a trashcan you’d spotted earlier.

megumi stayed in place, watching you walk, the jacket slipping slightly as it hung on your small frame. he couldn’t wait for tonight when he’d come back to the apartment, letting sleep take him with your scent pressed against him from the jacket.

“fushiguro?”

he froze.

“…itadori?”

the familiar voice carried a strange weight. megumi’s gaze flicked to him, taking in the furrowed brow, the tight jaw, the sudden tension coiling in itadori’s posture. frustration? worry? fear? the mix made his chest tighten. why was he worried about him?

“what are you doing with the curse?” itadori demanded, eyes sharp.

megumi’s lungs seemed to seize; the air around him thickened. he stood rigid, heart hammering, thoughts scattering in panic.

“w-what?” he stammered, voice low and unsteady.

“gojo-sensei told me—”

“megumiii!”

he turned sharply, watching you rush toward him, not registering the chaos around him nor itadori standing a few feet away. your hand stretched out before you even reached him, fingers ready to tangle with his once more.

from all the memories he’d held that summer, that one burned the brightest.

he remembers the smell of salt in the air, the feeling of the wind that tugged at his hair and yours, the way it quickened as it swept across the beach. he remembered your smile, wide as always, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard, those little lines at the corners of your eyes he loved so much.

he remembers the metallic scent, sharp and unmistakable that clung to his skin. sticky and warm. he felt as if your blood burned his fingers.

he remembered it all, though he wished he couldn’t.

megumi hates tangerines.

not the casual kind of hate, the kind people speak of when a fruit is too sour or sticky, but the kind that wraps around your chest and squeezes until it hurts. he hates the peel curling between his fingers, the scent burning too sweet into his nose, the way the juice stings the small cuts along his nails. he hates the careful, meticulous work of separating each segment, picking away the white threads like some cruel ritual he cannot stop. he hates the glow of the fruit in his palm, how it seems almost alive, how it fills the room with a light that makes everything else feel too sharp, too real.

the tangerines, the way they fill the air with that faint citrus scent, everything about it is a cruel echo of a memory he can’t let go of.

he hates how his body betrays him, how he lifts a slice to his side as if expecting your lips to wrap around and hum in delight, head leaning on his shoulder as you chew.

and still, when he finishes the last piece, the room faintly scented with sugar and sunlight, the tears he’s been holding back spill anyway. his hands tremble, and he inevitably retches it all out of his system as if it’s some poison.

he hits gojo’s chest, each strike harder than the last, feeling the taut muscle beneath, refusing to use his technique. gojo takes it all. the punches, the grief, the tears because he knows this pain all too well, knows it far too intimately.

and each night, megumi presses that damn hat to his chest, the one little thing he allows himself to keep. he falls asleep, hoping something, anything, could take him away.

let him live one more summer day with you.

‘just one.’

‘please, just give me one more.’

‘please, let me peel one more tangerine for her.’

"𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡." — 𝙜𝙤𝙟𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙪

you would’ve expected him to dye it black. something dramatic. something that matched the rest of him.

with all the stories yuji had told you about sukuna being some kind of hidden softie, you almost started to wonder if you were talking about the same person.

“i’m serious,” yuji had insisted one afternoon, sprawled across his bed while you sat cross-legged on the floor. “he just doesn’t show it to people.”

you raised a brow. “people? or you?”

yuji only grinned. “like that time in middle school, when those third years wouldn’t leave me alone.”

you remembered that story.

apparently, a group of older boys had cornered yuji behind the gym. and sukuna showed up, not because yuji called him but because as yuji says he has that 'older brother instinct'.

“he didn’t even touch them,” yuji had said proudly. “he just asked if they were done. they literally apologized. to me.”

you blinked at him. “that’s not sweet. that’s terrifying.”

“yeah, but he walked me home after,” yuji argued. “and he bought me ice cream. he pretended it was because he wanted some, but he doesn’t even like vanilla.”

you had rolled your eyes.

“and then,” yuji continued, undeterred, “there was that time i got sick before finals? like, really sick. i had a fever and everything.”

sukuna had skipped school to stay home. made soup from scratch. forced yuji to take medicine on schedule. sat at the edge of his bed the entire night because yuji kept shivering.

“he kept checking my temperature every hour,” yuji said, softer now. “and when i woke up in the morning, he was still there. he looked like shit, but he was still there.”

you snorted. “you’re telling me that grumpy, scowling man spoon-fed you soup?”

“he said if i didn’t eat he’d ‘pry my jaw open himself,’” yuji admitted. “but yeah. basically.”

and then there was the third story; the one yuji always told with a sheepish laugh.

“okay, and that one time,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “when i said i wanted to quit track.”

yuji had come home frustrated, convinced he wasn’t improving fast enough. sukuna had listened, actually listened, before flicking him in the forehead.

“you’re not a quitter,” he’d said bluntly. “you’re impatient.”

and then, the next morning, sukuna had shown up at the field at six a.m.

to train with him, in winter.

“he hates mornings,” yuji emphasized. “like, genuinely despises them. but he ran laps with me. every day. for three weeks.”

you had stared at him after that one, arms crossed.

all of it sounded… cute.

in theory.

but every time you saw sukuna in person leaning in a doorway with that bored, predatory gaze, black nails tapping against his phone, tattoos stretching when he crossed his arms; you simply could not reconcile the image.

you mean to tell me that man is a sweetheart?

nope, absolutely not.

yuji could keep his bedtime-story version of sukuna.

weekends at yuji’s had started to feel routine in the best way — shoes kicked off by the door, snacks scattered across the coffee table, textbooks open but rarely respected. the four of you rotated between pretending to study and actually getting distracted every five minutes.

today was supposed to be productive.

“i really don’t understand this term…” you muttered, pressing your fingers to your temples like you could physically massage the information into your brain. the words on the page blurred together, academic jargon twisting into nonsense the longer you stared at it.

megumi leaned closer, calm and patient as ever. he nudged your hand aside gently and pointed to the paragraph. “you’re overcomplicating it. don’t read it the way the book phrases it,” he said, voice low and steady. “explain it to yourself in simpler terms. what’s it actually trying to say?”

you frowned, listening as he reworded it, breaking the concept down piece by piece. he was good at this; making dense material sound almost manageable.

a loud groan shattered the fragile concentration.

“nerds,” nobara announced dramatically, flopping across the couch like a disgruntled cat. “stop being boring and play mario kart with us before i lose my mind.”

yuji popped up beside her, already holding two controllers, grin wide and mischievous. “c’mon, you’ve been staring at that page for like twenty minutes. that’s unhealthy.”

“i’m stuck on this chapter,” you argued, glancing helplessly at megumi as if he might shield you from temptation. “i can’t get my head around it— maybe later—”

“ughhh,” nobara dragged the sound out as if you’d personally offended her. “you have, what, four days until your exam? one game won’t kill you. relax a little.”

yuji wiggled a controller in your direction, teasing, sing-song. “you knooow you want to~”

you exhaled through your nose, already feeling your resolve crumble. “fine. one game,” you conceded, pushing yourself up and heading toward the couch.

nobara shot megumi a look. he didn’t even glance up from his book.

“i’ll pass,” he said simply, flipping a page.

“this,” nobara declared, pointing at him accusingly, “is why people don’t invite you to parties, megs.”

“pretty sure it’s because they’re afraid he’ll knock someone’s ass out,” you added dryly, settling into the couch.

“that too,” yuji agreed cheerfully.

megumi didn’t rise to it. “you three are enough chaos,” he murmured. “statistically, adding more variables would only worsen the outcome.”

“listen to him,” nobara scoffed. “he thinks we’re a science experiment.”

“you kind of are,” megumi replied without missing a beat.

you barely had time to laugh before a new voice slipped into the room.

“is that so?”

you turned.

sukuna was slouched against the doorway at first, then moving closer, folding himself over the back of the couch with lazy confidence. he wore a black tank top that clung to his frame, tattoos winding down his toned arms in sharp, deliberate lines. black-painted nails tapped idly against the couch fabric as crimson eyes flicked over the group.

and then, briefly, over you.

your spine went rigid.

“can i join?” he asked, though it didn’t really sound like a question. more like a challenge.

yuji lit up instantly,he held out a controller. “of course, big bro! get in here.”

sukuna took it without breaking eye contact with the screen. “don’t cry when you lose,” he said lazily, voice edged with amusement.

nobara straightened, competitive spark igniting. “please. more people for me to absolutely destroy.”

he huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “confidence. i’ll enjoy crushing that.”

yuji grinned, already shifting over and patting the empty space beside him. “c’mon, sit here—”

but sukuna didn’t move toward yuji.

instead, he adjusted the controller in his hands and walked around the couch with unhurried steps... and then he was lowering himself onto the cushion beside you. very beside you, likeeeee close enough that his thigh pressed against yours the moment he settled.

holy fucking shit.

yuji blinked, then snickered deciding to turn to the screen and set up the game.

nobara’s eyes flicked between you and sukuna, interest sharpening, but she said nothing. just smirked knowingly and turned back to the screen.

and you?

you were suddenly hyperaware of everything.

the heat radiating off him. the faint scent of something clean but distinctly him. the way his black-painted nails contrasted against the bright plastic of the controller. he leaned back casually, spreading his legs without a second thought, broad shoulders relaxed, posture loose and claiming.

his knee brushed yours and stayed there.

you, meanwhile, were sitting ramrod straight, spine stiff like someone had slid a metal rod down your back. your hands gripped the controller a little too tightly, knuckles paling.

calm down! it’s just proximity.

“you always sit like that?” his voice murmured beside you, low enough that it didn’t carry to the others.

you swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “like what?”

“like you’re about to be executed.”

heat crawled up your neck. “i’m not.”

“hm.” his knee nudged yours lightly, “could’ve fooled me.”

you forced yourself to relax, or at least pretended to. sinking back into the couch by a fraction. it only made everything worze. his arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers lazily draped just behind your shoulder. he occupied space like it belonged to him. you, meanwhile, felt like you were borrowing air.

the race began in a burst of color and sound, and nobara and yuji immediately fell into their usual chaos.

“don’t you dare— yuji!”

“i didn’t even touch you!”

“you absolutely did, you liar—”

but with sukuna added to the mix, the dynamic shifted fast. he wasn’t loud about it. didn’t whoop or gloat. he just… dominated.

sharp turns taken flawlessly. boosts timed perfectly. he drifted like he’d been born with a controller in his hand. within seconds he’d blown past both of them, leaving nobara spluttering in outrage.

“oh my god, are you serious right now?”

yuji shouted, “bro! stop targeting me!”

sukuna muttered something under his breath, low and dry. “if you can’t keep up, that’s not my problem.”

“that’s so messed up!” yuji laughed anyway.

you, on the other hand, were in last.

which was humiliating, because you were usually decent at this. but your focus was shot to hell. every time sukuna shifted beside you, every brush of fabric or skin, your brain short-circuited for half a second too long.

“you’re falling behind,” he commented mildly, eyes still on the screen.

“i can see that,” you muttered.

“hm.” there was amusement in the sound. “thought you were going to win.”

you gritted your teeth and focused.

second round.

you forced yourself to breathe, to tune everything else out. slowly, muscle memory kicked in and your turns sharpened and timing improved.

you overtook yuji.

“hey!” he protested. “since when are you good again?”

“always,” you shot back automatically.

up ahead, sukuna was still in first.

of course he was. then you saw the blue shell rotating in his item slot. his camera angle shifted briefly, panning behind him. fucking hell.

you braced yourself, already imagining the explosion, the inevitable humiliation of getting knocked out just as you caught up— and then he fired.

but not backward, rather foward.

the blue shell screamed ahead, locked onto nobara in first after she’d briefly stolen the lead during the chaos. it detonated spectacularly. “you absolute—!” she shrieked, cursing with impressive creativity as her character spun out.

and sukuna… slowed down? just slightly.

your character surged forward, overtaking him and claiming the first place over the finish line. “ha!” you shouted, adrenaline surging. “in your fucking face!”

without thinking you turned and pointed directly at sukuna, grin wide, triumphant and reckless.

the room went quiet for half a beat. ice-cold sweat slid down your spine.

for a split second, you were convinced you’d signed your own death warrant.

he looked up at you and met your wide, poorly-concealed panic with a slow raised brow. crimson eyes glinting with something unreadable.

and then he laughed.

not the arrogant, taunting laugh you expected. it slipped out of him unexpectedly, warm enough that he had to cough lightly into his fist to cover it, shoulders shifting with the motion. his eyes never left your face.

you were still pointing at him, still frozen in your little victory pose.

and now, staring back at him like a confused dog trying to process a new command, head tilting slightly to the side as if changing the angle might help you understand what was happening.

that only made him chuckle again, quieter this time.

“god,” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. “you’re adorable.”

your brain short-circuited. “…huh?”

before you could process it, he rose from the couch in one smooth motion. he unfolded to his full height in front of you, broad shoulders casting a faint shadow as he towered over where you still sat clutching the controller.

then he extended his hand. and you, brilliant genius that you were, shut your eyes, slightly flinching. it made him pause, a slight crease forming between his brows.

you felt fingers against your cheek.

warm.

calloused.

pinching?

your eyes flew open.

sukuna was standing there, expression unreadable except for the faint curve tugging at his mouth, his fingers gently squeezing your cheek and wiggling it side to side like you were something mildly amusing he’d picked up off a shelf.

“i said,” he repeated, voice low and almost thoughtful, “you’re adorable.”

you blinked at him.

he studied your stunned expression for half a second longer, then let out another quiet chuckle before releasing your cheek.

the spot tingled where he’d touched you. without another word, he turned and walked off, hands sliding into his pockets as casually as if he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of the room.

the sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.

silence swallowed the living room.

“huuuuuuuuuuuuuuh?!” nobara’s shriek pierced the air like a siren.

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

Lushaka in midsummer is unforgiving.

The humidity seeps into your clothes, the scent of fuel clings to your hair, and the comms line hasn’t been quiet for a single minute since dawn. You feel the weight of every eye in the grandstands waiting to see if your team can hold its crown.

Chrysos Racing’s garage breathes with the same tension as it always does. Mechanics and engineers bustle about in their gold-trimmed uniforms, and the air is dense with the tang of fuel and scorched rubber. Screens flicker, telemetry scrolls, radios hiss. At the center of it all sits you, the race engineer directly wired into your driver’s radio.

Phainon’s car is already out on track like a streak of gleaming sunlight against the dark curve of the circuit. He drives as if Lushaka itself bends to him, attacking the corners and shattering sector times like it’s something he always does on the weekends—the picture of reckless brilliance as always.

The roar of his engine cuts through the audio feed, vibrating in your chest so loud you swear you can feel it in your teeth. As he blazes down the back straight, the telemetry data spikes red and your pulse stutters. He’s pushing harder than he should, earlier than he should, and you already feel the strategy unraveling under his hands.

“Phainon, you’re burning through the tires,” you mutter. “Back off two-tenths and box this lap.”

He doesn’t radio back in right away. There’s always a pause—that infuriating pause, as though he savors leaving you suspended between obedience and rebellion. But before you can repeat yourself, his voice threads through the static, smooth enough to curl around your ribs.

“Sounds like you don’t trust me to bring her home.”

You close your eyes before inhaling sharply through your nose. “It’s not about trust. It’s about strategy. If you keep this up, you’ll be crawling behind Dan Heng by the final stretch.”

A low chuckle vibrates through your headset like honey over gravel. He’s smiling—you can hear it even over the howl of his car. “You’re grumpier than usual today,” Phainon comments as he veers down a tight chicane. “Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?”

Your hands freeze over the keyboard as the data starts to blur on-screen. Heat sparks straight to your throat, not from embarrassment, but from the sharp edge of memory: tangled sheets, his mouth at your neck, the press of his body keeping you awake long past midnight. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always does. The words are innocent enough to pass for banter over the radio, but the weight of them is for you alone.

“Just come in for a pit stop or I might actually strangle you.”

“As you wish, Chief,” he chuckles.

Of course, he ignores you completely and sails past the pit entry at blistering speed, tires screaming as he plunges into another lap.

Not for the first time, you wonder how he doesn’t crash. By every metric, Phainon is the more erratic of Chrysos Racing’s golden duo. Mydei tempers his car like a blade, never stepping beyond what can be controlled. Phainon, though—he gambles with physics. He flirts with disaster and threads the needle where no sane driver dares. But damn him, he makes it work. There is genius inside the madness, precision tucked beneath the recklessness, and a brutal elegance that lets him pull off miracles Mydei would never attempt.

So when the checkered flag drops, and he crosses the line in third despite his constant delinquency, you aren’t surprised. But even if it should feel like a victory, it doesn’t.

When the podium ceremony is over, and the photo-ops are finished, you’re waiting for him in one of the back rooms of the garage for a one-on-one debrief. The scent of hot rubber clings to the air when he finally strolls in, fireproofs peeled down to his waist and sweat streaking his temples. He’s glowing with the kind of reckless triumph that makes you want to throttle him right then and there.

“Not a bad day,” he says, leaning against the wall as though the room belongs to him. “A podium’s a podium, right?”

You step closer with your jaw set with annoyance. “You could’ve taken first if you’d listened to me. Your tires were shredded, your braking was messy, and you bled seconds off every lap. You cost yourself points. Again!”

Phainon tilts his head, watching you with that infuriatingly calm gaze. Then he smiles. “Strange. I don’t recall you minding when I ignored you last night and kept going.”

Now that punches the breath out of you. “You—”

He doesn’t let you finish. The devil himself closes the distance between you in a few strides, cupping your jaw delicately before his mouth slants against yours.

Phainon tastes like salt and adrenaline, stealing the words right out of your throat as he backs you against the wall. You push at him, nails catching against the damp fabric of his undershirt, but when he groans against your lips you pull him closer, caught in the undertow despite your simmering rage. The garage is still buzzing on the other side of the walls, but in here, it’s only him, the grip of his hands, and the thrum of your pulse answering the race he just ran.

A knock splinters the moment.

“Phainon,” a staffer calls through the door. “They’re waiting for you to film something with Mydei. Is it okay to steal you away for that?”

His forehead rests against yours, breathing raggedly and unwilling to move. “Tell them I’m busy,” he mutters, his mouth brushing yours again.

“Go,” you hiss even though your fingers are still twisted in his shirt.

Your reckless driver both on and off the track laughs low in his chest, and you feel yourself shudder from the mere vibrations of it. He kisses you once more—slower this time, as though he's making a promise. Phainon pulls back with a smirk curling at his lips as he slips toward the door.

“Don’t run off, yeah? I’ll come find you.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the room thick with gasoline and the taste of him as your heart hammers faster than his car ever could.

If anyone told your younger self you’d end up on the pit walls of several Formula 1 Grand Prix, calling strategy for one of the most volatile drivers on the grid—you would’ve laughed. Race engineering was never the plan. You were supposed to build, not babysit. Temper engines, not egos.

But fate had other ideas.

Your childhood friend, Aglaea, the ever-golden face of Chrysos Racing’s public relations, called one evening and said it like it was no big deal: “We’re looking for a new race engineer. You’re more than qualified.”

You sat on the decision for weeks. Because deep down, you knew she was right, and that terrified you. You’ve seen paddocks in streams you caught on TV. They were all littered with men in polos and pressed trousers, sporting practiced smiles and assumptions sharper than steel. These were people who dedicated their entire lives to the skill of the drivers representing their team.

When you visited Aglaea at the circuit at her insistence, you didn’t miss the way several eyes slid over you when you trailed behind their PR manager like some lost puppy. Like a woman in the paddock was an accessory, not a mind worth adding onto the roster.

So when the offer letter came through from Chrysos Racing, you’d almost turned it down.

Until you met Anaxa.

The team principal of Chrysos Racing wasn’t the type to mince words. He’d lost an eye in an unfortunate explosion during his early years as a car designer, and rumor has it, he saw things others couldn’t—weak points, hidden angles, potential buried under noise. When you shook his hand for the first time, he looked at you like you were a puzzle he already understood.

“I don’t particularly care what the rest of them think,” he said. “I’ve read your research and evaluated your work thus far. You don’t need to prove you belong here. You just need to show me that you can keep up with the way we do things.”

You marched into their main office the next day to submit the necessary paperwork.

Since then you’ve lived up to Anaxa’s expectations—over and over again. You spent countless nights studying how to interpret telemetry data until your eyes blurred, learned how to read Phainon’s driving style like an evolving language, and pulled strategy from chaos when even Mydei’s side of the garage faltered.

But the whispers never really stopped.

Lucky hire. Anaxa’s pet project. Pretty face with good connections.

It didn’t matter how many races you optimized or how many precious milliseconds you scraped off a lap—every time you walked through the paddock alone, the air shifted. Conversations dimmed. Glances lingered a little too long before sliding away. The same old narrative followed you, as persistent as engine oil beneath your nails.

You learned not to care. You were here to do your job. The only person you were meant to build any real rapport with was the driver whose voice filled your headset for two hours straight every race weekend.

Somewhere down the line though, you might have built said rapport a little too well.

You were the one who set the rules.

No touching where others could see. No visiting hotel rooms after ten. No calls that weren’t about work.

Phainon laughed as you listed them out. “You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem,” you told him. “And I like my job, so don’t make me lose it.”

You tell yourself it works. You were careful. Professional, even. But control has a strange way of dissolving when it’s three in the morning, when the data from free practice won’t line up, and Phainon’s sitting beside you in a hotel room in the Luofu wearing a dri-fit shirt that smells faintly of his favorite cologne.

His knee brushes yours once, twice, until it’s no longer an accident. You try to keep talking about tire degradation and entry speeds, but then he leans in with one hand braced on the mattress, his voice tinged with something deeper than desire.

“Show me again where you think I’m losing time.”

You point at the screen to explain the angle, the split second of hesitation on Turn 8. But he isn’t looking at the video anymore. His gaze drifts to your mouth, sparkling blue in the low light. You can feel the question forming in the air between you like a dare neither of you ever say out loud.

And you always know what happens next.

Phainon kisses you with your laptop still prepped on your thighs—the heat permeating through your sweatpants as his lips move in tandem with yours. You’re unsure of how and when he got you to this point, where you’d respond to his shameless advances so willingly, it almost feels like instinct.

His lips part, and his tongue sweeps a slow, intoxicating path over yours. The kiss deepens, becoming greedy and desperate and entirely him. All thought of those silly data metrics evaporates like steam. The knot of anxiety that was tightening in your chest all night over the free practice numbers finally loosens into pure, unadulterated sensation.

Your laptop—that crucial, data-filled anchor of your control—is suddenly a hot, inconvenient barrier. Phainon seems to agree. He pulls back just enough to look at it, a faint smirk playing on his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded and blazing blue.

"You'd let me into your hotel room for more than just our briefings, won't you?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

Your pride wants you to bark out in protest, but instead your lips wrap around his thumb as you suckle and lick, which only makes his self-satisfied smile curve wider. With his other hand, Phainon reaches down, his fingers brushing over the hot aluminum shell of the computer. With a decisive thump, he flips the screen shut and shoves it roughly toward the foot of the bed, where it lands with a soft bounce on the comforter.

You don't even protest.

Phainon leans back in to ease you gently down onto the pillows as his thumb prods at the flat of your tongue. His body weight is a welcome pressure against yours, and when he withdraws his hand, the press of his lips on yours is encompassing—a demanding blend of heat and taste as the scent of him drowns you in heady ecstasy. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to erase the last vestiges of your self-control.

You shift, trying to get closer to the warm, smooth skin of his chest beneath the dri-fit material. He takes the hint and breaks the kiss only to drag the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark silence of the room. Phainon's skin is warm and flawlessly defined from years of keeping himself in shape. His hands slide from your face to the curve of your hip, just shy of the waistband of your sweatpants.

The contact reminds you that you are a professional, but only sometimes.

Tonight, you are just his.

The heat building between you is instantaneous, driven by his touch. You gasp into his mouth when he kisses you again, and Phainon seems to take it as a cue to pull his lips from yours. He trails a searing line of kisses down your jaw and across the soft curve of your neck, making your fingers curl desperately in his ivory tresses.

As he moves lower, he settles his head by your hip, his breath a humid puff against your skin where your midriff just sits below the hem of your own shirt. The sudden loss of pressure makes you whine, reaching instinctively for him, but before you can pull him back up, Phainon simply smiles.

"Shhh," he murmurs against your stomach, the sound muffled by your top. He uses his forearm to prop himself up, his eyes locking onto yours before he shamelessly says:

"Sit on my face."

Your eyes widen, momentarily pulling you out of the haze of desire. The suggestion is so blunt, so utterly Phainon, and so far outside the bounds of your careful, professional life that it’s almost funny. You try to pull back as a flush of pure, mortified surprise rushes over your cheeks.

"Are you serious?" you manage. "That's... that's not happening."

He just grins wider, the cocky, self-assured smirk that has won him three championships and put him on countless magazine covers. He reaches up and gently rests his hand against your inner thigh.

"Why not? Don't tell me you’re worried about my neck," he challenges, his tone dripping with mock injury. He leans closer before his voice drops into a low, seductive rumble that is meant for your ears alone. "Chief, I can withstand the lateral G-force when I'm taking the fastest corner on the circuit. I can handle a few more pounds of your pleasure, I promise."

The sheer audacity and the way he uses his professional fitness to justify his demands, is infuriating. And yet... the reminder of his physical strength, his absolute control over his body, only fuels the reckless, dissolving control in your own. You chew the inside of your cheek as you meet his challenging gaze. You hate that he knows exactly how to break you down, how to leverage your shared world into this private one.

"Fine," you grit out, the word thick with reluctant surrender. "Just don't you dare bite me."

Phainon’s eyes flash with victory. "Never."

When you reluctantly manage to kick off your sweatpants, he gives you a gentle tug on your thigh, a clear instruction. You push yourself up and maneuver over him. Your heart is hammering against your ribs as you plant your knees on either side of his head. When you settle yourself over his face, guided by the slow, firm pressure of his hands on your hips, embarrassment coils with anticipation.

His grips grounds you, keeping you locked in place, and you close your eyes as the rhythmic, focused drive of the world's fastest driver is now entirely dedicated to getting you off. Phainon is utterly meticulous. There is nothing soft or hesitant about his work.

His mouth is a hot, wet vice. He starts with a savage, deliberate sweep, his tongue lashing at your slick folds like a piston. He drills his tongue in tight, tight rings around your already swollen clit until a desperate half-grunt, half-whimper is bellowed from your lungs. His grip on your hips becomes unforgiving, slamming your pelvis against his face as the pressure concentrates. You can feel the sharp bone and muscle beneath your thighs—rooting him to the spot like an anchor, refusing to let you escape.

He starts to use his teeth—a rough, controlled graze that rips a jolt of fire through your core. He alternates between that shallow, grinding friction and deep, obscene suction that sends your hips thrashing mindlessly into his mouth.

Your hands are flat against the headboard, the only goddamn thing keeping you from shattering into pieces. You try to lift off him and away from his sinful tongue, desperate to break the contact, but Phainon's hands clamp down in firm and utter dominance. You can feel the ragged effort in his breathing; he’s pushing his own limits for this.

"You want this," he snarls, his voice vibrating against your wet skin. "Stop fighting. Let go and break for me."

The control you prized so much snaps. You stop fighting the sound, letting out a raw, guttural moan as the pressure inside becomes a screaming siren. Your hips slam down onto his face, a desperate, animalistic reaction to the brilliant pleasure he's coaxing out of your skin.

Your climax hits like a lightning strike. Every muscle in your body convulses, your toes spasming as the shockwave shreds through you. You drop your head back, fingers digging into the headboard as you are utterly consumed and devoured by the shattering sensation.

Phainon doesn't stop. He holds you right there, maintaining the relentless, punishing rhythm as he drives you further up the wall. He works the sensitive peak with the savage concentration of a conqueror, demanding every last desperate drop of your surrender. He punishes the final, violent tremors, the deep, focused suction pulling you apart until your hips finally fall slack against his face.

He lets out a satisfied sound of conquest before he finally eases up, not pulling away, but simply licking your aching slit clean in a way that has you shuddering. He shifts his weight and you slide off him, collapsing onto the pillows in a slick, utterly ruined heap.

He rolls over instantly, hauling you against his damp, hot body, his arm clamping around your shoulders like a permanent shackle. You lie tangled together, your breath hitching, the metallic tang of lust and his cologne thick in the quiet room.

"See?" he rasps, his spit-slicked lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Pure, optimal performance. You just needed the right driver."

You don't have the strength to argue, only enough to bury your face into his skin and inhale the scent of his shirt. You hate that he can unravel you that easily. You hate even more how you let him.

Because when it’s over, it’s you who’s the first to pull away. You set your laptop upright and play the video pretend like nothing’s changed. He just lies there, half-smiling despite the obvious tent in his sweats, eyes tracing you like a secret he intends to keep.

“Back to work already?” he teases.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t crash tomorrow.”

He laughs softly. “You say that like you aren’t the reason I push harder.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you parse through the footage, the two of you watching the ghost of his car dance through corners on replay. He leans over your shoulder, fingers brushing your wrist as he points at map of the circuit flashed on the screen.

“If I take this line tighter next race—”

“You’ll spin out.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Or I’ll overtake Dan Heng.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming hard enough that you fear he can hear it himself.

This—whatever it is between you—exists somewhere between precision and chaos. The same line Phainon drives on track. The same one you pretend you aren’t already following him across.

You never meant to attend the fellowship event.

Evenings after race weekends were meant for data reviews, simulation tweaks, and obsessing over split-second sector times—not networking in banquet halls dressed up like opera stages. But Aglaea has a way of bulldozing past your excuses with the grace of a wrecking ball wrapped in silk.

“Networking builds longevity,” she tells you, adjusting the drape of her gold lamé gown in your hotel room mirror. “You can’t hide behind your data spreads forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” you mutter before tugging at the hem of your far more modest dress. “I just don’t like… people. Especially all those F1 moguls.”

Aglaea smirks. “You seem to like Phainon just fine.”

You choke. “That’s different.”

“Mm. Sure it is,” she says, entirely unconvinced, then hooks her arm through yours and marches you out before you can even think of retreat.

This special fellowship is set in a glass-domed pavillion overlooking the neon sprawl of Xianzhou Luofu, where the air is thick with thrum of strings and conversation—executives, engineers, and drivers mingling beneath soft amber lights that glinted off champagne flutes. The room smells faintly of perfume, money, and the sweet, antiseptic scent of success.

You feel like an impostor in a dress that doesn’t fit right and shoes that hurt. Everywhere you look, people talk in numbers and contracts, in performance margins and brand partnerships. You understood every technical term that left their lips, but you still feel like a translation out of sync.

“Smile,” Aglaea whispers as she presses a wineglass into your hand. “You look like you’re about to file for resignation.”

“Because I might.”

She grins. “At least do it after the dessert course.”

You try to keep up with Aglaea as she glides through the room. She’s in her element among the polished glass and velvet conversations, all charm and poise and practiced warmth. You, meanwhile, are doing your best not to trip over your own heels.

It’s easier to blend into her shadow. You sip quietly, ears half-tuned to the thrum of conversation, as you drift to the checklist on your phone for tomorrow’s race sim.

“The bright mind behind Chrysos’ latest tech upgrade, yes? Anaxa must be proud,” someone says in passing.

You manage a polite nod. “Something like that.”

They’re already gone before your words settle in the air. You exhale softly. Perfect. Let them keep talking to Aglaea—she thrives on the attention. You thrive on the quiet.

You’re halfway through calculating corner entry deltas in your head when a shadow falls beside you.

“New race engineer for Chrysos, aren’t you?”

The voice is low, smooth, and just rough enough to draw your gaze. When you turn, you’re met with the unmistakable sight of Jing Yuan—the Silver Lion of High Cloud Racing. Even off the track, he looks the part: silver hair perfectly disheveled, posture languid yet sharp, eyes the color of late afternoon sun through smoke.

“Ah—yes,” you manage, gripping your glass tighter. “That’s right.”

“I thought so,” he muses, eyes flicking over your face with idle curiosity. “You were the one who helped reconfigure Chrysos’ aero balance this season. Clever adjustment. I was wondering who’d had the nerve to override Anaxa’s preferred model.”

You blink. “You… noticed that?”

Jing Yuan smiles. “Hard not to, when it shaved three-tenths off Phainon’s lap in Edo Star.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Most people remember the driver, not the one crunching data behind him.”

“Then most people don’t understand how the world works,” he says simply, tone carrying an easy confidence. “The best engines in the world still need hands to tame them. And the best drivers need minds that can keep up.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You open your mouth to deflect it, but he’s already leaning a little closer, his voice dipping low enough that it threads through the music.

“Tell me, do you ever tire of trying to contain a storm like him?”

You meet his gaze, heartbeat hitching. “Is this how High Cloud Racing recruits?”

“Recruit?” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “No. I prefer to think of it as… recognizing potential.” His smile turns almost feline. “And letting it know there’s someplace else waiting for it.”

You shake your head, though your pulse betrays you. “That’s not really something you should say lightly, Jing Yuan.”

He hums. “You’re right. It isn’t. Good thing I never say things I don’t mean.”

Jing Yuan pauses just long enough for the silence to tighten. “If you ever decide you’d rather focus on cultivating talent instead of taming it, you’ll find High Cloud’s doors open. And I’m not just talking about a job offer.”

The last line lands like a spark against dry kindling. You can’t tell if he’s teasing, or if that slow, measured drawl is exactly what it sounds like—an invitation wrapped in metaphor.

Your lips part, searching for something clever, something safe to say, but all that comes out is a faint, “You’re quite bold for someone I just met.”

“Age has its privileges,” he chuckles. “So does admiration.”

For a fleeting second, it’s almost easy to forget the world beyond this little pocket of stillness—the soft hum of music, the heat of his gaze, the faint brush of his sleeve against yours when he sets his empty glass down beside your untouched one.

Then Jing Yuan steps back, bowing his head slightly—a gentleman’s farewell disguised as retreat. “I do hope you think about it, Engineer.”

He leaves you with nothing but the ghost of his cologne as he disappears into the crowd. But before you can let your thoughts overwhelm you, Aglaea gets to you first.

“There you are,” she sighs, tugging you back into the crowd. “I turn my back for five minutes and you vanish. Who were you talking to?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your glass. It would be so easy to tell her. Aglaea, of all people, would know what to make of a casual conversation with Jing Yuan. She’d dissect it, turn it into something neat and manageable like a bullet point in a team briefing.

“Just someone from High Cloud,” you say lightly. “Small talk.”

Aglaea gives you a knowing look. “Right, yes. And your face is red because…?”

“It’s humid.”

You are spared further interrogation when the room itself seems to shift—voices dipping, attention pulling toward the entrance. The double doors part in a wash of light and murmurs.

Phainon and Mydei have arrived.

Even in a room full of power, they have an allure that gravitates everything toward them. Mydei in his sharp obsidian suit; Phainon beside him donned in blue and ivory, his expression the perfect blend of poise and distance. The gold lights caught in his ivory hair, glinting off the small pin at his lapel—the Chrysos insignia.

Aglaea is saying something, but you barely hear her. Because Jing Yuan’s offer is still buzzing faintly under your skin. You aren’t the type to be swayed by flattery. Chrysos gave you a chance, a platform, a purpose. You were fine here. More than fine.

Yet, as Phainon’s crystalline gaze finds you, your pulse skips.

Maybe that was the problem.

Before your first ever race as Phainon’s race engineer, Castorice (Mydei’s race engineer, and one of the few women in the entire pit lane who wasn’t constantly underestimated) told you about your driver’s… habits on the track.

“He’s not reckless,” she said in a way that kind of suggested otherwise. “He’s just instinctive. Problem is, his instincts scare the hell out of everyone else.”

You nodded along, of course. You’ve done your research. Watched every onboard, memorized every twitch of Phainon’s steering wheel and every clipped apology he’d uttered after spinning out in the middle of a fight for position. All the information you needed was practically etched in the back of your eyelids. You were ready.

Or so you thought.

“Box box,” you told him through the radio, keeping your tone even despite the chaos unfolding on-screen. “We’re changing the front-wing configuration.”

“Copy that.”

Your eyes were glued to the data feed, waiting for the expected dip in speed that would mean he’d entered the pit lane. Instead, his delta time turned green.

“Phainon,” you radioed in again as your gut starts to twist. “You missed the pit entry.”

“Did I?” he mused playfully, like he was amused. “Just want to see how the car holds up in clean air.”

You exhaled sharply, watching his telemetry spike through the high-speed chicane. He was meant to be collecting aerodynamic data, not running Practice 1 like it was Sunday already.

By Practice 2, you’d learned two things: one, Phainon had an almost supernatural ability to make people like him, even when he was driving you insane. And two, he treated limits like vague suggestions rather than rules.

“Phainon, brake bias to the rear. You’re losing stability into Turn 9.”

“Gotcha—oh. You mean this turn?”

The telemetry spiked yet again. You could practically hear the tires screaming.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He drifted. Perfectly. On purpose.

The entire garage erupted in half groans and half cheers. From across the divider, Castorice yelled through her mic, “You’ve got your hands full over there, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy recalculating tire degradation and questioning every career choice you’d ever made.

Practice 3 wasn’t much better. Phainon had taken to calling you “Chief” over the radio and every instruction you gave was met with either stubborn experimentation or outright mischief. When you told him to lift and coast, he sang a few bars of some pop song instead.

By the time qualifying rolled around, you’d stopped expecting miracles. You just wanted a clean session. Of course, you didn’t get one.

Phainon pushed too hard. His final lap was sloppy in Sector 2, costing him enough time to drop to P5 on the grid. Mydei, calm and clinical as ever, secured pole position. The cheers on his side of the garage were deafening. You forced yourself to smile, to clap, to look like you weren’t quietly imploding.

The next few circuits passed in a blur of half-wins and hollow podiums.

At the Vonwacq Grand Prix, you’d rewritten your entire strategy sheet overnight, anticipating every one of Phainon’s worst habits. You thought if you could just outthink him, you could rein him in. But the moment the lights went out, he slipped free again—taking risks on the tightest corners like he’d made a deal with gravity. He placed fourth. You didn’t sleep that night.

Then came Pegana. The humidity there turned the track into a sauna where engines practically boiled beneath the glare. You’d told him to conserve his tires. He’d agreed, sounded obedient, even until Lap 38, when he dove into a battle he didn’t need to win and nearly clipped the barrier. The car came out intact. You weren’t sure you did.

And then Amphoreus, Chrysos Racing’s home track and crown jewel. The one circuit they could always count on to deliver. Double podiums, year after year.

It should’ve been perfect.

In some ways, it was—Phainon second, Mydei third. Aventurine from IPC Racing took the win with a performance so clean it made Anaxa grind his teeth. The press still called it a victory for Chrysos, but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. Phainon had brought the car home, yes. But you knew that he could’ve done better if only he’d listened.

You stared at the telemetry transcripts that night long after the garages emptied and you retreated into your own hotel room. Every line of data felt like an accusation.

You’d done everything right. Why didn’t it feel enough?

That brought you to Anaxa’s office the following weekend, when there weren’t any races to pore and ponder about. He was already there at seven in the morning bent over a stack of reports, as you knew he would be.

He didn’t look up when you entered. “Problem?”

You hesitated at the doorway. “Am I doing something wrong?”

That made him glance up. His one good eye glinted in the lamplight, sharp and unflinching. “Define wrong.”

You stepped closer, fingers tightening around the folder in your hands. “Phainon doesn’t listen. Every call, every instruction—it’s like he’s hearing me, but not really listening. I’ve rewritten strategy after strategy, but he still does whatever he wants.”

Anaxa set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “And yet he finishes.”

“That’s not the point,” you said before you could stop yourself. “It’s like—like he’s daring me to lose control. How am I supposed to lead someone who refuses to be led?”

“You’re not supposed to.”

You frowned. “What?”

Anaxa steepled his fingers. “You keep trying to manage him like a system. But Phainon isn’t a system. He’s a storm. The more you fight it, the more it tears you apart.”

You stared at him, caught between frustration and disbelief. “So you’re saying I should just let him do whatever he wants?”

“I’m saying,” Anaxa said, voice quiet but firm, “that you need to coexist with him. Don’t box him in—read him. He drives on instinct. You think in numbers. You’re both right, but neither of you will ever work if you don’t learn to speak the other’s language.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he had the first day you met. “That’s why I hired you. Not because you’d control him, but because you’d adapt to him. The others tried to tame him and burned out but you? You might actually be able to keep up.”

That night in Anaxa’s office became your quiet turning point.

You carried his words with you through every late-night strategy revision, every 2 a.m. call with the tire engineers, every frantic adjustment you made mid-session when Phainon decided to improvise again.

It wasn’t easy. Phainon was still frustratingly impossible to pin down. But the more you watched, the more you began to see the logic in his chaos. The way he’d brake early not out of caution, but to bait an overtake. How he’d stay out a lap longer on worn tires just to test a theory you hadn’t even realized he’d formed.

When it worked—when your data matched his instincts—you’d catch him smiling in the debrief room, helmet still tucked under his arm as he whispers, “Nice call, Chief. You read my mind.”

Sometimes, he’d even thank you. It was never dramatic or loud. Just quiet, sincere gratitude that left you staring a little too long at the way his eyes crinkled when he said it.

The team noticed the difference. Chrysos was finally finding rhythm again. And for a while, you convinced yourself that was enough—that you could balance professionalism with the strange gravity Phainon carried around him.

Until Belobog.

The post-race celebration for that GP was supposed to be harmless. A team night out, nothing more. You’d spent most of it tucked in a corner booth with Mydei and Castorice, letting the bass thrum through your bones while the others danced and drank under the pulsing blue lights. It was colder that time of year, so you had no problems downing pint after pint just to keep yourself warm.

By midnight, you were tired—half-drunk, half-dazed, and wholly ready to call it a night when Phainon appeared out of nowhere.

“Leaving already?” he asked, with a smile that promised nothing but trouble.

You turned to squint at him, unsure if he was actually there or if this… hot mess in front of you was a trick of the light. His tie was undone, shirt collar open, cheeks just as flushed as yours probably are. The club’s lights washed him in flickering indigo and gold.

“Yeah,” you grumbled. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning. Unlike some people.”

He grinned. “You worry too much.”

“Because you drive like you’re immortal.”

“Maybe I am.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him, but he followed—lazy steps, hands in his pockets. You didn’t realize where you were headed until the hallway narrowed, the noise fading behind the two of you as the low hum of the heaters filled the space instead.

When you turned to say goodbye, he was already close enough that you could smell the hint of gin and citrus on his skin.

“Phainon,” you warned, but it came out softer than intended.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize something. “You’re the only one who ever makes me feel like I’m not losing control out there.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“Why not? It’s true.”

You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve reminded him of every line you weren’t supposed to cross. Instead, you froze—heart stuttering when his hand brushed your cheek with featherlight tenderness.

Then you kissed him there. Or maybe he kissed you. You’d never be sure.

It wasn’t careful or slow—it was too much, too sudden, the kind of thing that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway. The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat and the faint scrape of his calloused fingers against your skin. His tongue plundered the cavern of your mouth like all he wanted was to take and take and take. And you let him because you have the alcohol to blame, and not the low, simmering heat that has been burning for him since you first met those eyes of endless blue.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. The hallway felt smaller somehow, as if it knew what you’d done.

Phainon smiled, a little soft, a little dazed.

It should have ended there.

You should have laughed it off and bid him good night before returning to your room just a few floors up. But instead, your fingers fisted the front of his unbuttoned shirt as you kissed him again. And again. And again. Until you ended up beneath him in the secret hush of his hotel room, having changed the trajectory of your relationship for good.

Salsotto race weekend is upon you in a blink.

The air is too thick and the wind carries the faint hiss of engines long before the cars ever reach the straight. You’ve grown used to long days like this—sunset bleeding over the circuit, the whir of machinery mixing with the sharp tang of fuel. But lately, even routine has started to feel precarious.

Practice was uneventful the day before, but not in the way that reassured you. Phainon had been distant. No jokes, no teasing between turns, no lazy comments about the weather or the setup. His voice came through the comms clipped, precise, and stripped of all the warmth you’d grown used to.

And today, during qualifying, it was worse.

“Out lap looks clean,” you say into the mic. “Brake balance at minus two, watch the crosswind into Turn 8.”

“Copy.”

You frown slightly. The single word was flat, almost mechanical. You mark it down mentally, though there was no time to dwell. The car speeds into its first timed lap, and for a few minutes, everything falls into rhythm—the pulse of data, the flicker of green deltas, the steadiness that came when the world narrowed down to pure calculation.

Then it begins to slip.

You catch the hesitation in Sector 2—the faint delay in throttle, the early turn-in. A deviation you recognize instantly because you’ve seen him drive through chaos with less margin for error.

“Phainon, reset brake bias. You’re losing time in the mid-corner.”

No response.

“Phainon, do you copy?”

“Yeah,” he radios in. “I hear you.”

You press your lips together. “Then adjust. You’re—”

The telemetry spikes red.

You see the lock-up into Turn 12 happen before the feed catches up. The plume of smoke, and the jagged line on the data readout where everything went wrong. It all makes you close your eyes in quiet prayer.

“Abort the lap. Box this one.”

“Negative. I can make it work.”

“You shot your tires—”

“I said I’ll make it work.”

The words come sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. The line goes silent after that, filled only by the sound of static and your own pulse hammering through your headset.

When he finally crosses the line, the timing screens tell you everything: P17.

Seventeen.

You take off your headset slowly, fingers trembling against the weight of it. Around you, the garage buzzes with a noise you couldn’t quite place—pity, maybe, or disbelief. Mydei’s name shines steady at P2 on the livestream rolling in the paddock TV. The rest blurs.

You don’t see Phainon until hours later.

He completely avoided you in the paddock. But the night folds soft and warm around the hotel when you catch him in the hallway of your shared floor. He changed out of his uniform—loose shirt, loose sweats, hair still damp from a quick shower. For once, he didn’t look untouchable. Just tired.

“Phainon,” you call, stopping him before he reaches his door.

He turns, the faintest curve of a smile forming as though he’d been expecting you. “Evening, Chief.”

You search his face. “You want to tell me what that was today?”

“Bad day, I guess.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you then, and it is the first time since landing in Salsotto that he’d met your gaze for longer than a heartbeat. His voice, when it came, is soft enough to break you.

“We all have bad days,” he mutters. “Guess this was just mine.”

You want to argue, to demand something more, but the words die on your tongue. He smiles again, small and aching, before stepping back and reaching for the door.

The latch clicks shut behind him with an echo of finality.

When race day comes, the morning sun glitters along the asphalt, and despite everything, you let yourself believe that today will be different. Mechanics swarm the garage, cameras flash along the pit lane, and you force your nerves into the rhythm of pre-race checks, tire temperatures, last-minute calibrations.

You told yourself last night that whatever weighed on Phainon would pass. He’s weathered worse storms. He’s the driver who could thread a needle at two hundred miles an hour, who laughed through downpours and brake failures alike. Seventeenth place or not, you believed he’d find a way to climb. You believed in him.

When the race begins, he does exactly that. The first few laps are clean—measured aggression, controlled overtakes, that effortless precision that used to make your heart ache with pride. By Lap 15, he’s already in tenth, hunting the next gap with his old, steady fire. You catch yourself smiling, even daring to exhale.

But then Lap 20 arrives.

The DRS zone opens, and everything happens at once. A flash of silver in his mirrors, a twitch of the front wing, and everything spins out of control. You don’t even see the impact so much as feel it. Carbon shrieks against barriers and a violent bloom of smoke and debris erupts across the straight.

“Phainon—!” You fumble for the mic, your voice catching on instinct. “Phainon, are you okay?”

No response. Only the scrambled feed of the crash replay looping on the monitors, the safety car already screaming down the lane. Your heart stutters, cold spreading through the hollow behind your ribs. Around you, people are running and shouting but all you can hear is your own breath echoing in your headset.

You picture him in the hotel hallway last night. The weariness in his eyes. The way he smiled, small and tired, before walking away.

“Phainon, do you copy?” you try again, your voice breaking.

For a long, unbearable moment, nothing.

Then, through the static—a crackle, a sharp inhale, and a voice rasping back.

“…No.”

The smell of antiseptic hits you the moment the infirmary doors slide open.

It’s smaller than you expected—no more than a handful of curtained rooms, each buzzing faintly with the low rhythm of medical machinery. The air-conditioning hums over the distant roar of engines outside, a reminder that the race hasn’t stopped. The world moves on, even as your pulse hasn’t caught up.

You reach the check-in counter with Anaxa and two other managers, still in your team jacket, still half-shaking. The medic glances up from her datapad, expression neutral.

“He’s fine,” she says before anyone can ask. “Minor contusions, light bruising along the ribs, no fractures. He’s been cleared for discharge once observation ends.”

The words make your knees nearly give out from relief.

“The car’s totaled,” one of the others mutters under his breath, scanning a tablet. “Millions of credits down the drain.”

Anaxa only hums, folding his arms. “Cars can be rebuilt. Drivers can’t.” His gaze shifts to you. “Per infirmary protocol, one visitor at a time. Go ahead and check on him.”

You blink. “What? Why me?”

“You’re his engineer,” he reminds. “You’ll need to hear what happened firsthand. Experiences like this…” His good eye narrows, not unkindly. “…they make you steadier. Better.”

You want to protest—to insist that he’s the senior, the one who should be handling it—but the words catch somewhere between your throat and your chest. The others are already turning back toward the exit, talking in low, brisk tones about parts inventories and data recovery.

That leaves you.

The medic gestures toward the last door on the left. You thank her before letting your feet carry you to your destination.

The light inside is soft, washed pale by the filtered sun through frosted glass. Phainon sits propped against the bed’s headrest, still in his race undershirt with a few dark smudges of bruising visible near his collarbone. His hair is tousled, his summer blue gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

When he notices you, his lips curve faintly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Well you nearly made me one.”

Phainon huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so frayed at the edges. “Guess I should be flattered you care that much, Chief.”

You ignore the nickname, stepping closer and taking a seat at the foot of his bed. “You scared everyone. The team thought—” You stop yourself, fingers curling at your sides. “What happened out there, Phainon? You never crash. Not like that.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to his hands, bruised knuckles flexing restlessly over the blanket. “My head’s just… not been in the right place lately.”

“Since when?”

He shrugs, a sharp little motion that doesn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. “Since a while.”

You tilt your head, watching him closely. “I’ve noticed. You’ve been off since practice. You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right? If it’s the car, I can take a look—”

“It’s not the car,” he cuts in.

“Then what is it?”

Phainon exhales slowly, the kind of sound that comes from somewhere deep. He mutters something under his breath—too soft for you to catch. You narrow your eyes and shift closer, refusing to let him retreat into his usual walls. “Say that again.”

He glances up at you, blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, something unreadable flickering behind them. For once, he doesn’t hide.

“There are rumors that High Cloud’s been trying to poach you.”

You blink. “What?”

He gives a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You didn’t know?”

“How did you even hear about that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phainon says, eyes flicking away. “Word gets around.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You mean to tell me you’ve been off your game because of some rumor?”

He doesn’t answer right away—just presses a thumb against the bruise blooming along his knuckle, like he can will it to disappear.

You stare at him for a long moment, torn between exasperation and disbelief.

Of all the things he could’ve said, this—this rumor, this ridiculous, baseless thing—was what had him unraveling on track? What cost them a car, a small fortune, and nearly your sanity?

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. “You could’ve just asked me.”

Phainon doesn’t rise to it. He just sits there, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed somewhere past your knee. His hair falls into his eyes, soft and unruly from sweat, and for a heartbeat, you catch the faintest downturn of his mouth—the kind that looks too much like a boy who knows he’s done something wrong.

The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, something traitorous and too tender for this place. Your annoyance dulls to a sigh.

“You really thought I’d just… leave?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates before speaking. “All my life, people have said the same thing about me,” he says slowly, as if he’s forcing the words through his teeth. “That I’m all instinct and no restraint. All talent, no direction. They called me a storm that no one could tame.”

Your breath stills.

“My race engineers used to last a few races, maybe half a season,” he goes on, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. “They’d try to manage me, box me in, until it all fell apart. But you—” His voice softens, almost reverent. “You never tried to control me. You learned how to read me. We work because you don’t fight the storm—you ride it. You’re the best engineer I’ve ever had.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat feels too tight for words.

So you settle for the easiest thing: a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “If that’s how you feel,” you murmur, “then why do you keep purposely pissing me off?”

Phainon’s mouth twitches—the smallest flicker of a smile, but it’s enough to soften everything. “Because I wanted your attention,” he admits, shameless and fond. “I never said I wasn’t a nuisance.”

That earns an honest laugh from you, low and helpless. It spills into the quiet like something fragile but real. The space between you narrows without either of you meaning to, until the edges of your knees brush, until you can feel the warmth of him radiating through the sterile air.

Then, slowly, his hand finds yours.

It’s bruised and rough and calloused from years of work, but warm. So impossibly warm. He holds it like it’s something he doesn’t quite trust himself to keep, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a hesitance that feels achingly unlike him.

“Phainon,” you start, trying to make sense of the ache building in your chest. “High Cloud did make an offer. But it’s not something I was planning on accepting anyway.”

He looks up, searching your face like he’s afraid to believe it.

You squeeze his hand once. “You really think I’d walk away from this? From you?”

Something flickers behind his eyes—relief, maybe, or something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth lifts, but the sound that escapes him is a low, uneven exhale.

“Didn’t mean to crash the damn car over it,” he murmurs. “I just… couldn’t focus. Kept thinking about how it’d sound—hearing someone else’s name on your radio comms instead of mine.”

Your heart stutters.

There’s no witty comeback, no lecture sharp enough to break the spell of the moment. Just the sound of theb infirmary air conditioner, of his trembling breaths, of the cars still speeding beyond the walls.

You exhale slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t let go of his hand after that.

Not for a long while.

The final race of the season feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

The paddock buzzes with nerves and static, engines screaming through the cool dusk air. It’s not just another circuit—it’s the decider. Phainon and Mydei, same team, same machines, separated by only a handful of points. One race left to settle everything.

You stand by Phainon’s car as the last of the mechanics do the finishing touches. Beyond the garage, the track gleams under the floodlights, silver and sharp, like a living thing about to wake.

“Last one,” you say, checking his telemetry readouts one last time. “No mistakes today.”

Your driver stands beside you, already suited up with his visor propped open. There’s a calm about him that borders on dangerous—that particular stillness that always comes before he does something breathtaking.

“You sound nervous, Chief.”

“Of course I’m nervous,” you mutter, scanning the numbers again even though you already know them by heart. “Do you realize what’s at stake?”

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours through the half-shadow of his helmet. “World championship. Eternal glory. The usual.”

“It’s been years since a title fight was this close between teammates. Everyone’s watching.”

His lips twitch in a quiet, knowing smile that only ever shows itself when it’s just the two of you. “Guess we should give them something worth watching, then.”

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head as he exchanges a brief, heated glance with Mydei from the other side of the garage. However, just before Anaxa yells for both of them to strap in, Phainon steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that no one else can hear.

“If I win this, will you give me a reward?”

Your stylus stills mid-air. “…A reward?”

His grin sharpens, the kind that could melt steel. “Something to look forward to at the finish line.”

“Focus on the race then we’ll talk,” you deadpan.

“Oh, I will,” Phainon says cheekily, slipping his visor down with a click. “You just gave me all the motivation I need.”

Minutes later, the lights go out and the race begins.

What follows is fifty-four laps of relentless precision—twenty drivers pushing their machines, their nerves, their trust to the limit. Every call you make, he responds to without hesitation. Every adjustment, every risk—executed flawlessly. You can almost feel the rhythm of his heartbeat in sync with your own.

Mydei holds pole for most of the race, but Phainon’s patience is razor-sharp. On the final lap, he dives inside the last corner with a move so clean it looks effortless. The checkered flag waves. Phainon crosses the line in first place.

Cheers erupt across the paddock. The engineers, the pit crew, the crowd—everyone’s shouting his name. You stand there frozen for a second, headset slipping around your neck as the roar sinks in.

He did it.

Then his voice filters through the radio, low and soft beneath the static.

“This one’s for you, Chief.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Copy that. Now get back here soon—you’ve still got a podium to stand on.”

Phainon laughs. “Can’t I cash in on that reward first?”

The radio crackles again, and you know every word is still being broadcast live. You inhale slowly, trying to ground yourself as laughter and cheers erupt in the background.

“Fine,” you say him exasperatedly, despite the smile creeping on your face.

“But you better make it quick.”

The podium gleams under floodlights and champagne spray, but it feels strangely incomplete. Mydei and Jing Yuan, who came in second and third respectively, raise their trophies as camera flashes pop from every angle. The crowd roars, commentators scramble to fill the gap with excuses—“delayed interview,” “team debrief,” “perhaps a technical issue.”

But everyone knows what they’re really thinking.

Where’s the one in first place?

Phainon’s portrait blares across every monitor, every banner—Champion of the Season, they already dubbed him—yet his place on the top step stands empty, the trophy waiting on its pedestal, gleaming and untouched beneath the lights.

But somewhere in a hotel room with its lights still off, he’s receiving a more worthwhile prize.

When the door clicks shut, Phainon doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your hips with the same precision he’d used to control a car at two hundred miles an hour. The wall meets your back a second later, the breath stolen clean from your lungs as his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and adrenaline, the taste of victory still sharp on his tongue. His fingers dig into you like he’s anchoring himself, grounding the rush that hasn’t yet left his veins. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your pulse thrumming in your ears like the engine he’d commanded to glory only half an hour ago.

His fingers find the collar of your uniform, tugging until the first button gives, then the next, each sound making your chest prickle with anticipation as he helps peel it off your body. The cool air hits your skin, chased instantly by the heat of his palms as they slide up your sides.

“Been hard since the last lap,” he murmurs against your mouth. His hips press forward so you can feel the truth of it, thick and insistent against your thigh. “Kept thinking about you moaning all pretty for me, taking my cock deep in your guts.”

The words send a jolt through you, heat pooling between your thighs at his shamelessness. Your breath hitches as his lips trail to your jaw, nipping hard enough to make you gasp.

“Phainon,” you mumble, hands fisting in his half-unzipped fireproofs, “s-slow down...”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound that vibrates against your skin.

“Slow down?” His voice is rough, dripping with the arrogance that carried him through every win. “Chief, haven’t I been patient all season, listening to you in my ear, telling me to brake, to push, to win?” His hands roam behind you to unclasp your bra and discard it onto the floor. With your tits bared, his thumbs circle your nipples until you arch against the wall with a soft whine.

“I’m just claiming what was promised to me.”

Phainon’s hands are relentless, shoving your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. After you kick them off, you’re left bare against the wall, trapped by the heat of your driver’s body. He doesn’t waste a moment. His palm slides between your thighs, finding you slick and ready, and he groans as his fingers tease you open.

“Fuck,” he quite nearly whines, rutting against you like he can’t wait another second. “Gonna make you feel so good, just like the moment you made me a champion.”

The heat coiling in your core threatens to swallow you whole, his voice fanning it higher with every word. But then that spark inside you catches, sharp and defiant. You’ve spent all season steadying his chaos, steering his storm. You’re not his prize. You’re the one who kept his career intact.

You’re here to remind him of that.

In a blink, you duck under his arm, catching him off guard. Phainon’s taller, stronger, but you know his rhythm too well—how he overcommits when he’s too sure of himself. The next thing he knows, it’s him against the wall, breath knocked out of his lungs in a startled laugh.

“Huh.” He grins, cock twitching against his racing suit. “You’re not usually this dominant.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, despite the same need burning through you. Your free hand yanks at his fireproofs, shoving them down just enough to free his thick length. It springs free, hard and heavy in your palm and Phainon tips his head back against the wall with another groan. The effect you have on him sends a rush of something addicting straight into your head, prompting you to bring your lips to his ear.

“I told you to slow down, didn’t I?”

You don’t give him time to answer. Dropping to your knees, the cool marble bites into your skin as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He’s thick, veins pulsing under your fingers, the tip already glistening with a pearly white sheen. You glance up to catch the way his jaw clenches, his summer blue eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide with want. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even started.

You lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length and savor the shudder that runs through him. His hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, not quite pulling but holding on like he’s anchoring himself to the world.

“Fuck, Chief,” he breathes, voice cracking as you swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salty tang of his precum. It coats the back of your throat as you take him deeper, lips stretching around his girth, the weight of him heavy on your tongue.

You hollow your cheeks and his hips jerk forward as a choked moan spills from his lips. Phainon’s head tips back against the wall, exposing the taut line of his throat, sweat-slicked and flushed from the race and now this. His grip in your hair tightens; not forceful, but desperate, as though he’s fighting to keep control.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you push further, the stretch making your jaw ache. You breathe through your nose, fighting the reflex to gag because the salt and musk of him is overwhelming but intoxicating. Your hand works what your mouth can’t, stroking the base in time with the bob of your head, slick sounds filling the quiet suite. His moans are obscene and each one sends a fresh wave of heat between your thighs.

Unable to help yourself, one of your hands slips down your own body, fingers finding your clit already slick from how turned on you are. The sight of Phainon unraveling—his parted lips, the way his chest heaves, how he’s gripping your hair like a lifeline—makes you ache. You rub tight circles into your pulsing nub, moaning around his cock as the vibration draws another wrecked sound from him.

“You’re so good for me,” he pants, hips bucking harder now, chasing the heat of your mouth.

Tears streak down your cheeks, mixing with the mess of spit and precum as you take him as deep as you can. His hand fists tighter in your hair, guiding you faster, his control slipping with every thrust. “Gonna—fuck—gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he growls, eyes locked on the way your lips stretch around him and the way your eyes glint with tears and defiance.

Your fingers move faster against yourself in a steady, delicious stream of pleasure. His hips stutter, cock twitching in your mouth, and you know he’s close. His whole body is tensing like he’s about to hit the apex of a corner at full speed. You pull back just enough to tease the head with your tongue, sucking hard, and he breaks into a litany of broken curses, his grip in your hair almost painful now.

“Chief,” he gasps in warning, but you don’t pull away. You want him to fall apart, to see the champion you’ve guided all season come undone because of you. Your fingers press harder against your clit, moaning around him, and next thing you know, the sound pushes him past his limit. His hips jerk one last time, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick, the salty taste flooding your palate.

You swallow what you can, some of it dripping down your chin as you pull back. Phainon slumps against the wall with his chest heaving and his hand still tangled in your hair. He looks down at you, all wrecked and flushed as a lazy grin spreads across his face.

“I can’t…” he mutters hoarsely. “You’re gonna kill me before the next season starts.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smirking as you rise, legs shaky but steady enough to stand. “Good. Means you’ll listen to me next time.”

Phainon’s grin sharpens with the spark of a challenge flickering in his summer blue eyes. He moves fast, shedding the rest of his fireproofs in a blur of motion, the material pooling at his feet until he’s gloriously bare—all lean muscle and race-honed power. Before you can catch your breath, his hands find your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. The show of raw power makes your core clench, slick gushing from your cunt as he holds you like you weigh nothing.

His mouth crashes into yours, sticky with the remnants of his cum, and you moan into the kiss, the taste of him mingling with the heat of his tongue. It’s sloppy and desperate as he carries you across the room, your arms looping around his neck to hold on. Your eyes flutter shut, expecting the soft give of the bed, but instead, a shock of cold glass presses against your back, jolting you alert.

“Phainon,” you gasp, breaking the kiss when you realize you’re by the floor-to-ceiling window. “People might…”

You trail off, the words dying in your throat as you catch the look in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, absolutely fucked out in a haze of lust and triumph that makes your stomach swoop. Of course. Phainon, the reckless bastard who thrives on adrenaline and eyes on him, would love the idea of the world seeing you like this—his engineer, his partner, his everything, pinned and panting for him.

“You’ll let me have you right, Chief?” he mumbles against your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just hard enough to make you whimper. His hips shift, his hardening cock dragging along your wet slit to tease your entrance as he presses you harder against the glass. The cold bites into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body, and you shudder, arousal spiking as he ruts against your pussy. “Need to cum in you. That’s my prize, isn’t it? Getting to fuck you senseless?”

You know you should protest, insist on the bed, on privacy, on anything but this reckless exposure. But his voice wraps around you like smoke, making your head spin and your resolve fray. His mouth latches onto your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and you tilt your head back, moaning as he grazes his teeth over your pulse.

“Phainon,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea, your legs tightening around his waist as he grinds against you, his cock slick with your arousal.

“Say it,” he growls, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, angling you so the tip of him catches at your entrance. “Say you’re mine, Chief. Let me have you.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, the city lights blurring beyond the glass as your body screams for him. “Okay,” you gasp, lightheaded and aching. “I’m yours. Take me, please.”

With a groan that sounds like victory, he surges forward, sinking into you in one deep, brutal thrust, filling you to the hilt. You cry out, head tipping back against the glass, the world outside forgotten as he sets a relentless pace, claiming you as his true prize.

“So fucking warm for me,” he moans into your ear as his hips piston into you. “I think I would’ve lost my mind if you… hah—left for fucking High Cloud….”

His cock stretches you perfectly, every inch dragging across your gummy walls and hitting spots that make your vision blur. You’re delirious, lost in the burn of him and the way he splits you open with every thrust, your cunt clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper. The team will have questions about why you both vanished from the podium ceremony. The FIA will throw fines, the media will speculate, but fuck if his cock doesn’t erase every shred of logic and reason from your mind.

You curl into him, thighs locked tight around his waist as he keeps you hoisted, his strength unwavering even as he fucks into you with a rhythm that’s all instinct and need. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the hotel room, mingling with your gasps and his low, filthy groans. The glass at your back rattles with every thrust, cold against your fevered skin, and it grounds you just enough to keep you from spiraling completely.

“Feels so fucking good,” Phainon rasps, his breath hot against your neck. “This cunt’s mine, yeah? Been dreaming of having you every time since I first laid my eyes on you.” His hips snap harder, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your moans pitching higher. “Gonna fill you up, make you drip with me. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

His words hit like fuel to a fire, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like trophies. You whimper as your head starts to spin, your body arching into him while he pounds into you. “Fuck, don’t stop, please.”

“Stop?” He laughs, rough and breathless. His grip on your thighs grows tighter. “Not a chance, Chief. Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk, till you’re screaming my name loud enough for the whole city to hear.” His cock drags out slow, then slams back in, the stretch so good it makes your eyes roll back, your walls fluttering around him.

Then, abruptly, he stops, pulling out entirely and leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine, a desperate, broken sound, as he sets you down on wobbly legs, your thighs trembling from the sudden loss of him. Confusion clouds your face, your brows knitting as you look up at him, panting, aching, and utterly wrecked.

“W-what—”

Phainon doesn’t let you finish. With a swift, practiced move, he spins you around, his large hand splaying flat across your spine, pressing you forward until your tits squish against the cold glass of the window. The shock of it makes you gasp, your palms slapping against the surface for balance as your breath fogs the pane. The city sprawls below, lights twinkling like a sea of stars, and the reality hits you hard—people could see you, bare and pressed against the glass, fucked senseless by the champion who ditched his own podium.

“Phainon,” you start, voice shaky with a mix of arousal and alarm, but before you can get another word out, the head of his cock catches at your slick, abused entrance. He sinks back into you in one brutal thrust, filling you so completely your back bows and a helpless whimper spilling from your lips. The new angle is devastating, his cock dragging deeper, harder against your tight walls, hitting that spot with every stroke until your legs threaten to give out.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, leaning over you, his rippling chest pressed tight against your back, dwarfing you with his size. His lips find your neck, pressing breathy, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. “Taking me so well. This pussy’s gripping me like it doesn’t wanna let go.” His hips snap forward, relentless, the wet slap of his skin against yours echoing louder now, filling the room with the raw, filthy sound of it.

You’re beyond coherence, moans tumbling from your lips as he fucks into you, the cold glass against your breasts a stark contrast to the heat of him inside you. The thought of being seen—by anyone, by the world below—should terrify you, but it only makes your cunt clench tighter around him, slick dripping down your thighs. You gasp his name, barely able to form the syllables, and your head lolls back against his shoulder as he drives into you.

“Love how you sound when you’re like this,” he murmurs against your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your breast to give it a tender squeeze. “All fucked out just for me. Bet you don’t even care who sees, do you? Let them watch. Let them know you’re mine.” His other hand grips your hip, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, the angle so perfect it has you seeing stars.

You should care. You should be thinking about the team, the fallout, the questions waiting when you both show up late, disheveled, and reeking of sex. But his cock is too good, stretching you so perfectly, dragging against every sensitive spot until you’re trembling, your mind blank except for the overwhelming need for him.

“Please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for, your body arching further into the glass, chasing the pleasure that’s building, coiling tight in your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his thrusts growing harder, more erratic. His hand slides from your hip, slipping between your legs with a precision that’s almost embarrassing. His fingers finding your clit in an instant. It’s a testament to how well he knows your body, every curve and trigger point mapped out over months of stolen moments like this. You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Phainon starts to rub tight, relentless circles against your slick, swollen nub, and you’re so fucking close you can taste it.

“Come for me,” he rasps, licking a hot, wet stripe along the curve of your neck. “Soak my dick like a good little engineer. Show me how much you love this.” His hips snap harder, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you, and his fingers don’t let up, pushing you closer until the coil in your core snaps.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as you cry out and your walls clench tight around him. Your legs shake so violently you’d collapse if not for Phainon’s strong arms wrapping around your waist, hoisting you up against the glass to keep you upright. Your palms press hard against the window, fingers splaying as you ride out the pleasure. Almost embarrassingly, your cunt pulsing around his cock as slick drips down your thighs in a messy, obscene rush.

But Phainon doesn’t let up. He fucks you through it with deep, brutal thrusts, chasing his own release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbles, his voice a wrecked, incoherent stream of filth. “So fucking tight, squeezing me so good—gonna fill this pussy up, make you mine, fuck, I love you so fucking much—” The words slip out in the haze, raw and unguarded, but you’re too lightheaded, too lost in the aftershocks of your climax to process them fully. His hips stutter, his grip on you tightening, and with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you. The white-hot warmth of his release floods your core, satisfying in a way that makes your toes curl and your body tremble against the glass.

He holds you there, both of you panting, his chest pressed to your back, his arms still wrapped around your waist as you both come down from the high.

And in that split second when your brain finally kickstarts again—

“So,” you pant. “You love me so fucking much, huh?”

Phainon laughs, breathless and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. He tilts your chin back with a gentle hand, his summer blue eyes glinting with something softer now, though still edged with that reckless spark.

“Don’t think about it too much,” he murmurs, before capturing your lips in a long, passionate kiss that steals what little air you had left. His tongue moves sweetly and slowly and you melt into it completely.

You pull back just enough to smirk, your voice playful despite the haze in your head. “Big words for a guy who just ditched his own podium ceremony. Gonna have to explain that one to the team, loverboy.”

He chuckles, unbothered, his hands sliding down to scoop you up princess-style, cradling you against his chest with that effortless strength that still makes your core flutter. “Let them talk,” he says, carrying you toward the bed, his voice low and warm. “Worth it for this.”

You stare dumbly at him, having expected to start cleaning up. After all, you both should be rushing back to the circuit, damage control already spinning in your mind. But instead, Phainon lays you gently on the mattress, the crisp white sheets cool against your overheated skin. His spend leaks from your soiled cunt, a warm, sticky trickle that stains the fabric. You prop yourself up on your elbows, ready to protest, but then you catch sight of him crawling toward you, those unfairly beautiful blues dark with intent.

“Phainon,” you start, voice tinged with disbelief, “don’t tell me—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His hands nudge your thighs apart, spreading you open as he settles between them, gaze fixed on your dripping core with a hunger that makes your breath catch. “

“Not done with you yet, Chief,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, before he leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds. The sensation is overwhelming, his cum and your slick mixing as he laps at you, cleaning you with a reverence that feels almost obscene. You gasp, your head falling back against the pillow, your fingers gripping the sheets as he works you over, his tongue relentless, dipping inside to chase every drop.

All of a sudden, the year flashes through your mind in fragments—taking the job as Phainon’s race engineer, the late nights poring over telemetry, the tension of every radio call, guiding him through corners and chaos. He was a wildcard, a driver who pushed every limit, on the track and off it. You’d clashed at first, his arrogance grating against your precision, but somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

Stolen glances in the garage, brushes of hands during debriefs, the first time he kissed you in that afterparty in Belobog. It’s been undefined, messy, a secret kept between hotel rooms and quiet moments, but as he worships you now, his mouth working you with a devotion that makes your heart stutter, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The podium ceremony can wait. The fines, the questions, the media frenzy—they don’t matter. Not when Phainon, the most insatiable man on the grid, is between your thighs, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he brings you to the brink again.

You’re his, and he’s yours, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

"Wait- you're actually serious? You want me to film your friend flexing for strangers while washing cars for a penny?"

"It's actually for five dollars. Don't underestimate it, it'll add up." Cipher pipes in all of a sudden, and you whip your head over to her. Your eyes narrow at her chiming in so randomly, since she's been lounging on the grass like a cat tans in the sun.

"Well... it's cringey... and I have dignity I want to preserve, so just- no." You reply curtly, barely even creating a good argument from the absurdity of the request. The damage it would do to your non existent reputation!

"Come onnnn! This will be great blackmail material for me. And it's not like you like him or anything, right?"

Of course you don't. In fact you've never actually seen him ever in your life. You've been to Cyrene's house several times, but never encountered her longtime childhood friend- Phainon, you remember his name was. Every hang out, every sleepover, every picnic in her backyard... you were always surprised Phainon never made an appearance.

From the minimal knowledge you do have of him, is from hearing Cyrene complain about him, or his ugly photos on her wall of photos of friends since childhood. You remember him- who wouldn't? He was the only one with fluffy white hair and eyes as blue as the sky. The photos were taken when he was a lot younger- maybe elementary school and high school... which was probably why Cyrene needed more "updated" blackmail. Most of the bad photos were mostly of him crying- one probably when he was a teenager from eating something too spicy, another from him sleeping with his mouth hanging open. Sadly, you find yourself on that wall too taken from the most unflattering of angles (thanks Cyrene).

"Behold: The Idiot", or "His fashion sense was terrible back then- some things never change!" is what Cyrene would say when she acquired a new photo for her wall. Yeah, that's a pretty mean thought for a child, but you figured it had to mean something for how much Cyrene complained about how annoying he was. Either way, this was the narrative she created of him for you as well.

"Why can't you do it? Or Hyacine? Castorice? What about you Cipher? You don't seem to be doing anything." You protest, and it was a perfect argument. Why you?!

"Mmph- what?" Cipher almost chokes on her own saliva as she suddenly jolts up from the grass. "No no no- not me. I do have better things to do, so I won't be watching boys soap up cars."

"Hyacine and Castorice have class until tonight. Plus, they're way too jittery. As for you, I've seen your face go stone cold even when the school mascot sang Despacito in the middle of our lecture." Cyrene responds, although you still don't think thats good enough to convince you. "And obviously I can't go, he'll know somethings up. Which is why, you need to be my valiant Trojan Horse~"

"Okay... but what is a Trojan Horse without the actual horse...?" You internally smirk to yourself, thinking you had her now. How could you even go to the shirtless carwash if you had no car to wash? And you knew Cyrene didn't have one either.

"You can borrow mine~" You and Cyrene turn your heads at the same time to Cipher, who just nonchalantly offered. "It could use a nice cleaning, y'know?"

You make a face of disgust, though you're not sure if it was more for Cyrene's wide smirk, or Cipher smiling and somehow not seeming like she's scheming for once. Why.

Anyway, something something "it's a five dollar car wash, in this economy?!", is how you find yourself walking off with a huge sulk. With Cyrene's annoying, "See you later! Tell me how it goes and send me the pics!", you were off to war. The war that was shirtless boys, with your Trojan Horse known as Cipher's car. You were starting to think Cyrene was the annoying one, and not her idiot friend.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

The parking lot was a complete mess- though what did you expect? Buckets were clattering on the floor, hoses spraying everywhere, loud pop music blasting. And of course, wet shirtless boys. Shirtless carwash customers were supposed to be people who have zero shame of ogling at abs. God, if there was one place you didn't want to be, it was here.

You reluctantly pull up in Cipher's car, slowly driving into the lot. It’s weird that she has such a nice car, you think for a brief moment. Maybe you could go so slow that you'd disappear and then have a nice evening at home, without the embarrassment. Instead, one of the volunteers rushes you forward and suddenly you have to go in. Shit, now I'm actually doing this, you think.

"Welcome! You here for the carwash?"

"I- uh... I'm with the photography club." Your brain blanked, trying to find a way to save face. You mentally facepalm at your stupid excuse. Yeah it sounds plausible but the photography club was already out and taking pictures... you know- not in a car ready to look at boys? But the volunteer didn't seem to care, despite the suspicion.

"Okay... well we have an open spot on the left." He gestures to the empty spot on the left, and suddenly you think of something. You don't even know if that spot was Phainon. There were so many boys, and you didn't know which one was Phainon.

"Phainon."

"What?"

"I- I mean... I need Phainon." Way to be subtle.

"Oh. Of course you do." The volunteer sighs with a smile then redirects you. You want to crawl in a hole. "Well in that case, pull over to the right over there and he'll wave you over. He should be finishing up."

Did the soldiers inside the Trojan Horse ever die in there? You didn't know, but you sure did. You pull over to the right as instructed and idly wait. Your heart starts beating really fast and suddenly you realize that you don't even know why you're actually taking this seriously. You were glad you made the call to ask for Phainon but it really wasn't worth the embarrassment. You take a deep breath, mentally calming yourself before what was about to happen. Cyrene was right wasn't she? You were stone cold, and boys are cringe- Phainon was no exception. You even started to feel bad knowing this scrawny kid was sacrificing his dignity to wash cars for five bucks. Maybe you'd even share a laugh with him knowing Cyrene bullied you both, which was fine because she always told you how...

"Hey, were you looking for me?"

...how hot he was?

No.

This... This guy was supposed to be the one who slept with his mouth open and makes ugly faces when eating spicy food. The one who was awkward and wore mismatches clothes. And now- his abs were about to be in your window.

You gulped as you slowly parked inside the empty lot. He was tall, with white hair all damp and starting to curl from how many times the water probably splashed on him. The sun was highlighting every ridge of his muscles, which were straining against the tight white t-shirt he wore. He has definitely bulked up. His shorts were slung teasingly low, and it was worse that he strutted over to you like he owned the place. But looking closer, the guy was unmistakably Phainon- with the same white hair and bright blue eyes. This was him now?!

"Hi..." You roll down your window and suddenly your face goes beat red. He hasn't even done anything yet, and somehow he's got you wrapped around his finger. He leans his forearm on the ledge of your open window, and cocks his head to the side as if he was a cute puppy. You knew this was already spelling more trouble if you were more flustered than him. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

"Cute. And you are?" Shit. He called you cute too.

"Uh- I'm with the photography club." You blurt out. It seems your brain was still thinking about the embarrassment and how to save face.

"I was asking for your name sweetheart." He chuckles, and oh it is so unfair how handsome he is when he smiles (even at the expense of you being an idiot). "But not to worry. You asked for me personally, so I'm sure I'll get to know your name later."

"I-It's not like that." You softly protest. You knew asking for Phainon from the volunteer earlier would spark that kind of thought- like you were here for something else.

"Mm, I'm sure." He says casually with a teasing lilt. You were sure he wasn't believing you. He was already getting the hose ready, testing the spray to wash your car. That seems to snap you back to why you were here in the first place- oh yeah, record the idiot. The idiot who happened to be a hot idiot who now had abs and a nice smile and called you sweetheart.

"...Is it okay if I filmed this?" You ask shyly. You knew you had a duty to do for Cyrene but truly you didn't want to do it and humiliate the poor guy.

"Of course, that's why you're here isn't it? Photography club?" He looks over his shoulder and smirks when he says that, almost in a mocking way. He knew. He definitely knew. And the worst part was, he knew and he was enjoying it. You watched as he tugged the hem of his shirt and peeled it up and over his head with practiced ease, revealing his bare chest. He flings his shirt carelessly somewhere on the grass, his eyes never leaving yours. The cocky smirk he wore told you exactly what you didn't want to hear.

He's doing this on purpose. He knows exactly what he's doing.

"You ready?" He asked, and you hated the way his voice dipped in a teasing way, like he meant something else. You gulped but didn't answer, only rushing to close your window before he started rinsing the car.

Without waiting, he suddenly angles the hose at himself and sprays his chest with the water. The water streamed all over his sculpted lines, glinting under the sun. He let out a boyish giggle and he ran a hand through his hair, which was pointless because it just fell back in the same handsome formation.

You fumble as you shyly hold up your phone, trying to document the spectacle but it was too much. Your hands were shaking the entire time, and Phainon seemed to be enjoying the subtle reactions he got out of you. In every frame of your video so far, Phainon has held your gaze, almost as if he was making sure you were watching every flex of his muscles and teasing smile.

Cyrene was right about one thing- he was annoying.

Your grip tightened on your phone, not sure how much longer you could stay sane while needing to record him. You tried thinking of other things, like how much you were going to kill Cyrene. But that thought could only go so far, because your eyes kept darting to Phainon and his stupidly hot- ...everything.

As Phainon gradually made his way around the car to wash it, you were sure he knew how attractive he was. He wasn't just washing the car anymore, he was performing. It was so stupid. He's so stupid. You get it now, you really do. When Cyrene called him a clown, an idiot, a buffoon... you get it.

He dragged the sponge with long wipes, making sure for it to take the most strength it could out of him so his arms could flex. His abs still dripping with water and rippled every time he stretched over to clean a certain place. You also realized he had a sun tattoo on his neck, which you were sure was a sign from the gods that mocked you because it reminded you of how the sun was highlighting all his features. Worst of all, his eyes kept darting towards yours too, seeing if you were still recording. What did you get yourself into? He wasn't supposed to be hot.

And for the last part- where he finally ended up right in front of your window, he lifted the hose again and sprayed it on his chest again, as if to shred the last of your composure. God you hated this. You hated that he knew how hot he was and that you just discovered it five minutes ago. The water cascaded all over his chest, letting it drip down the lines of his stomach.

At this point, you weren't even paying attention to the recording anymore. This was a blatant thirst trap and you fell right into it.

Before you knew it, Phainon finally shut off the hose and tosses the sponge and towel into the empty bucket as if he was wrapping up your performance. He dries himself off and puts his white shirt back on- which by the way was useless since his torso was still damp so you could still see his stupid abs underneath. He tapped on your window and you snap out of your trance, rolling down your window again. He bent down slightly, the same cocky boyish grin he had on earlier.

"Hey gorgeous," He said casually as the water droplets were slightly dripping into the car. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

Ugh. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out as you barely know how to respond. But suddenly a voice interrupts you and you don't have to.

"Phainon?"

Professor Anaxagoras?

"Professor Anaxa! Hi!" Phainon yells and waves with both arms as Professor Anaxa passes by the parking lot, absolutely disgusted with what he's seeing.

"Don't- Don't call me that- in fact don't call me anything. I cannot even look at you in the eye right now." Professor Anaxa sputters and averts his eyes, quickly speed-walking away from the shirtless carwash. "And (Y/n), I expected better of you-"

You suddenly flinch when Professor Anaxa addresses you. You blush in embarrassment as you didn't know he even realized you were in the car. Phainon on the other hand, spins his head back towards you, his baby blues widening.

"You're (y/n)?"

"Yeah..."

"Oh, so you are Cyrene's friend." He's caught you, you think. Wait he knows you? "I thought you looked familiar when you pulled in."

"Anyways- for the carwash..." You quickly pull out a five dollar bill and hand it to him, hoping to cut off his suspicions to why you were really here. Hopefully after this you could just be on your merry way. He takes the cash and puts it in his pocket. He looks at the sky for a moment, noticing the sun about to set then turns back to you.

"So, I think I'm done for the day. What do you say I drive you back to Cyrene?" He offers. You're suddenly confused as his large hand dips through your window and unlocks the rest of the car doors. He doesn't even let you answer, only smiling as he opens your door and gestures for you to come out. You’re confused yet you can’t help but comply when a hot boy commands you to do something.

"Wait- what..." You awkwardly round the car and head in to sit in the passenger seat as Phainon gets in the drivers seat. You put on your seatbelt, your heart pounding. Suddenly, you see Phainon already staring at you.

"I think I'd know if I was washing my own car, princess." Phainon tilts his head in the most annoyingly hot way and gives you a wink. Your face drops- he knew it from the start. Cyrene and Cipher set you up. You knew you had a weird feeling of Cipher having a crisp black car. No, he was never the idiot, you were.

He holds his hand out, as if waiting for you to put something in his hand. And you knew. You took the car keys out of your pocket and put them in his palm. He starts up the car (why did he look hot doing that?) and doesn't back out yet. He senses your embarrassment and chuckles, finding it cute.

"Well, seeing as we're both being bullied by Cyrene, what do you say we go out for a bite to eat instead?"

Was he... asking you on a date? No... he was just a mutual friend, right?

"Sure..." You curse yourself, thinking of how easy it is for Phainon to make you fold and say yes.

"Perfect," He says, with a smile as if he knew you were going to say yes. "Let's go then, photography club."

“Oh my god…”

He laughs as you bury your face in your hands, both of you knowing that your ploy was silly and was foiled from the start. But somehow, you find yourself feeling comfortable with him. And with his window open and his fluffy white hair flowing in the wind, you can't say you're complaining about the view either-

"Careful sweetheart. Keep looking at me like that and you'll make me think that you came here on your own looking for me." Phainon smirks without taking his eyes off the road. You whip your head to the other side. Why was he so good at this?

"I-It's not like that..." You say shyly.

"Mm, I'm sure. This feels like deja vu." He says teasingly. You scoff trying so hard to be annoyed with him, but he's too handsome. He only chuckles again.

"Don't worry, you're cute so... I'd let you."

The words lingered in the air for a bit longer than you imagined. For once, Phainon's usual (hot) smirk was replaced by the genuine smile and light tint of pink on his cheeks. His eyes kept facing forward and his hands were steady on the wheel, but the faint blush of his face betrayed him. You stared at him for a moment too long, your chest fluttering at the implications. How many times has he called you cute by now?

This wasn't supposed to end with a date, let alone anything romantic. And yet you somehow find yourself smiling, like it was all going to end up how you never would've dreamed of.

You, and the hot idiot known as Phainon.

⋆⋅☼⋅⋆

After a bit of back and forth with Phainon in the car, you fumble with your phone, almost forgetting about the main task. You send the videos to Cyrene.

Y/N: Here. Y/N: [see video attachments]

Cyrene: Those are for you to keep! Cyrene: You're welcome ;)

Y/N: fuck you

And of course, it was completely deliberate.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Edit: Hi friends, thank you for the support on this. 300+ notes in a day is quite a lot for me. I loved reading all of your comments.

II. A Guide to Chemistry (Written in Phainon-Speak)

(Or, a glimpse into Phainon's notebook)

He's doomed. And Mydei, his best friend, is now aware of it.

They were studying together after classes, reviewing notes and discussing lessons. But this study session has long devolved into Phainon drawing stick figures of you and him with electrons drawn between them. He has not been paying attention to any of Mydei's words for the past 15 minutes and Mydei is starting to be annoyed at the lack of response. So he turned his gaze to his silent friend and came face-to-face with a very concerning list of things.

✧ Note A: Bonding Types ○ Ionic bond: When someone gives away everything—like I would, if they asked. One-sided, but powerful. Painful and devastating, very me-coded. ○ Covalent bond Shared electrons = shared food and drinks. Strong and stable. Very couple-coded. ○ Hydrogen bond Small and fleeting, like when their hands brushed against mine once and I couldn't breathe for three minutes.

✧ Note B: Magnetic Fields Technically it is formed when charges move. But also, when they enter a room and all my atoms realign. North Pole, South Pole? All irrelevant, my compass only points to them.

✧ Note C: Activation Energy The minimum energy needed to start a reaction. For me, that's three hours of inner turmoil, two hours of Mydei pep talks, and one caffeine overdose just to text them: 'hey do u wanna study together later maybe if you're free haha'.

✧ Note D: Chemical Equilibrium When the forward and reverse reactions are equal and occur at the same rate. It's like when they flirt with me by accident and I flirt back on purpose, they get flustered and I get flustered, we both freaked out and retreated at the same time. Balance. Equilibrium achieved. Both parties suffering.

"You're gonna fail both chem and romance in the same semester at this rate."

"HEY!!"

Mydei is tired and exasperated.

But Phainon? Phainon has never understood chemistry better.

III. Midterm Examinations and the Paper That Started It All

Phainon's Chemistry Midterm Paper

(Graded by: Professor Anaxagoras Professor Cerces)

Comment (all written in Cerces' handwriting): Professor Anaxa has refused to grade this paper properly so I have taken the liberty of grading it in his stead.

Question 1: Define polar vs non-polar covalent bonds. Answer: A polar bond is like when I like them more than they like me. Unbalanced, but still connected. A non-polar bond is when we're both blushing idiots too afraid to confess. Equal, with maximum tension. (I prefer non-polar, personally) Comment: Full marks.

Question 2: Describe an exothermic reaction. Answer: An exothermic reaction releases heat into the surroundings. Like when they laughed. Or when they brushed my hair back last Tuesday and I short-circuited. Pretty sure I melted internally. 100% heat released. No regrets. Comment: Correct. Also, too much detail.

Question 3: Explain Le Chatelier's Principle. Answer: When a system is disturbed, it shifts to restore balance. If I start ignoring them (usually by accident), they start sending me dog memes. When they forget to reply, I send them stupid chemistry puns. We always shift to equilibrium, return to chaotic harmony. It's the balance of love. Comment: Scientific accuracy = ✔️ Emotional damage = also ✔️

Question 4: What is an intermolecular force, and how does it differ from intramolecular force? Answer: Intermolecular = between separate molecules = the gravitational pull I feel when they walk by. Intramolecular = inside the molecule = the feelings I try to supress but fail to contain. TL;DR: both are responsible for me being completely stuck on them Comment: Perfectly phrased. It's brilliant, but also tragic.

Extra Credit (Free Response): What does chemistry mean to you? Answer: Chemistry is the invisible pull between two elements. Sometimes reactive, sometimes dangerous. but sometimes... just right. They are the element I wasn't supposed to discover, but now that I have, I don't think I'll ever be inert again. Also, please pass me. I need this for graduation. I'll even name my next molecule after you. Comment: A+ Score. And do note that the one who graded this paper is me, Cerces, not Anaxa.

Final Score: 85/100. PASS.

IV. And The News Spreads

It starts small.

Anaxa "accidentally" leaks a few lines to Aglaea in the faculty lounge. A student nearby heard their conversation and got their hands on the original paper. An anonymous student submitted it to the school zine as a meme; it somehow passed checks and got published under the title "Chemical Bonding: The Sappy Edition". The zine was quickly stopped soon after but word still spread faster than flu season in the dorm halls.

But they weren't just laughing at it, they were studying with it. Freshmen started using it as study guides. Then came the memes, the academic forum post, and a bootleg version was reprinted under the name "Chemistry of Love 101" in a study zine.

And Phainon... Phainon became a chemistry icon.

V. The Dreaded Day (But This Time Phainon Is Ready)

Phainon walks in early with a confident stride and sit front and center. He was calm. Too calm. Anaxa side-eyes him from his position on the podium.

A few hours later, the exam papers had all been collected and ready for grading. Anaxa's hands reaches for one at random. He took a quick glance at the answer, then stared hard at the name column, and finally released a huge sigh. Today is going to be a long day.

Then, one afternoon, the results came in

Students filtered out of the lecture hall in waves, clutching their graded papers with expressions ranging from mild horror to cautious joy.

You were sitting on the steps outside the chemistry building, drink in one hand and phone on the other, scrolling aimlessly. The air was buzzing with noise and the breeze was warm. You honestly didn't expect much from today—maybe a nap, maybe existential dread. But what you certainly didn't expect is for Phainon to stand in front of you, nervously hugging a stack of papers like it contained both his future and his grocery list.

"Hey," he said.

You looked up. He was flushed, hair a little messy, expression nervous but hopeful.

"Hey," you answered, smiling. "You okay?"

He hesitated, then dropped onto the step beside you with a dramatic sigh.

"I'm about to do something dumb," he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow at that. "Is it the same kind of dumb as replacing Mydei's sugar and salt bottles, or...?"

"No, like—emotionally dumb," he said, then pulled a single sheet from the middle of the stack and held it out. "Here. Read this."

You blinked. "You're... giving me your final exam paper?"

"Just look at it. Please?" he said, eyes wide and weirdly intense. "I swear it's not about the grades."

You took the page. At the top was his name written in familiar scrawl.

And right below that is what you could recognise as Anaxa's handwriting:

Grade: 100/100

Comment: I refuse to ever lay my (singular) eye on this paper again. I recommend you send these "texts" to the actual recipient instead of my grading inbox.

You snorted. "Already promising," you said, flipping the page.

What followed is less like a science exam and more like a romantic thesis disguised as academic desperation.

Some carefully selected excerpts from Phainon's finals:

"A chemical reaction must overcome activation energy. I overcame mine the day I met them."

"Endothermic reactions absorb heat. But being around them is exothermic, they make me burn and I will do so happily."

"Stability constant, K = [Products]/[Reactants]. And I am more stable when they are near."

"When I say I love them, it's not hyperbole. It's data. Proven through every beat of my heart and every laugh of theirs that knocks the air out of my lungs. They are the catalyst and I am hopelessly, irreversibly reacting."

And at the very end, written almost like a postscript, is your name followed by "will you be my equilibrium?"

You stared at the last line for a long moment, something warm and strange tightening in your chest. Beside you, Phainon was silent. You turned your head. He was staring straight ahead, hands fidgeting on his lap, as if afraid to look you in the eye.

"You really wrote all this?" you asked softly.

He let out a breath that trembled at the edges. "Yeah. I didn't think Professor Anaxa would read the whole thing. I was just—y'know—sleep deprived, emotionally compromised, and full of caffeine."

You traced the margin of the paper with your finger.

"But I meant all of it," his voice was firm although he still wasn't looking at you. "Even if i flunked, i figured i should try telling the truth, just once."

You reached into your bag and pulled out a red pen of your own. Phainon blinked as you uncapped it and scribbled something at the end of the paper, then passed it back to him.

He read it. Paused. And nearly fell off the steps.

Beside the black ink of his own handwriting is your newly added words written in red.

"will you be my equilibrium?"

Grade: 100/100

It’s always been the 7:00 one. Always the same train car, and sometimes even the same seat—if it’s vacant. Any train earlier than that gets you to campus way too early. Any later and you’re stuck in a shitty crowded car with an onset headache to plague you for the rest of the morning, and that’s the very last thing you want.

The thing about your life lately is that it has you in a damn frenzy most of the time. And weirdly enough, it's routines like this—even something as simple as setting a designated seat for yourself—that keep you sane. A little pocket of normalcy that you think is nice, because it's familiar, and something to expect.

And then there’s him. 

You’ve seen him every morning for weeks now, down to the same train car, even. You’ve seen people from your campus come and go on the 7:00 train, but he’s always in the same one as you. Or at least, most of the time. You almost expect him to be here nowadays (for no particular reason–it’s not like he’s really pretty or anything), and get a little bit disappointed whenever he’s not. He always has that quiet energy to him–hood up, headphones in, and leaning slightly against the window with a huge duffel bag in between his legs that you’re pretty sure would kill you if you ever had to carry it across campus.

He doesn’t talk. You sometimes wonder what he’s listening to, but never dare to actually ask. Other times, you see him doomscrolling on his phone and laughing (at what, you don’t even want to know—Instagram reels are becoming extremely questionable nowadays), yet you feel yourself unconsciously smiling too.

You swear you’re not a stalker. He’s just a friend crush (that’s definitely all there is to it), and you’re just extremely observant.

You’re not totally sure when you realized that you both go to the same school, but one day, you noticed him get off the same stop as you, and watched him disappear into the general direction of your campus building. Now, it just feels like common knowledge. Of course you go to the same school as him. Of course he almost always takes the same train as you. He’s practically a part of your morning routine at this point, which is… weird. But oddly comforting, in a way. You’ve never actually spoken to each other, but you’ve noticed how he glances up at you whenever you board. Just once, brief and subtle. It makes you wonder if he recognizes you, too.

It gets to a point where it starts feeling less of a coincidence and more like a pattern that you’ve started to look forward to.

The day that you finally talk to him for the first time, it’s raining. 

You stayed up far too late finishing a paper that’s already past due, and it shows–everyone on board could see that you’re only running on fumes. You manage to sit down onto the nearest seat with heavy eyes, pulling your hood down with splatters of rainwater all over it. With your earbuds loosely in, you don’t even have the energy to check if he’s on the train, and just let the sound of the rain pitter-pattering against the window gently lull you to sleep.

You fall into a dreamless slumber for the entire train ride. You don’t notice the train eventually slowing at your campus stop. Don’t notice the other students gathering their things, already making their way to leave. 

Oh, but Mydei does.

Ever since you stepped on the train this morning, he’s been a little bit concerned for you. You didn’t even stare out the window like you usually do. Didn’t spare a second glance at your phone, or bother to look in his direction at all. You just closed your eyes and slept like you hadn’t in days (and judging by the way you practically melted in your seat the second you had the chance, maybe he was right).

So when he glances over his shoulder, just as he’s about to leave, and still sees you completely knocked out?

He freezes. And then almost lets out a laugh, not because it’s funny (well, maybe it is a little funny), but because he’d never truly admit it out loud, but you looked a little… cute like that. Which is not a thought he should be having about a complete stranger that he’s never even talked to. What the hell is wrong with him?

The train jerks, and the doors begin to open, and Mydei realizes he needs to act fast–both for his sake and yours. He steps toward you quickly, traversing everyone that’s still shuffling out the doors, and hesitates for only a fraction of a second before gently tapping your shoulder. “Hey.”

Nothing. He’s almost amused. You sleep like a rock. 

So he tries again, tapping a little more incessantly this time as the speaker overhead begins to announce the next station, which is in a completely different city from your campus location… so Mydei’s growing concern starts to become a little bit more warranted. Taking the train back was not about to be a part of his morning, and he’s certain that you don’t want it to be a part of yours, too. “Hey, this is our stop.”

He almost considers shaking you awake, but your eyes finally flutter open, just in time. You blink repeatedly to try and ground yourself. “...Huh?”

“You’re gonna miss the station,” says the mysterious guy standing over you. He almost… looks a little familiar. If only you could see. “Come on.”

Your vision begins to clear, albeit still fogged with exhaustion. He’s… tall, blonde, and wearing a dark hoodie. He also has a nice voice. And he’s kind of–

Wait.

Wait a minute.

You finally register who’s standing in front of you.

Holy shit. Did I die? Is this heaven?

You don’t actually say that out loud, by some miracle. He’s even more attractive when you’re not staring at him from across the train car, and better yet, he’s right in front of you. It’s certainly a pretty sight–there’s warmth in his voice, the same calmness in his expression, and your wildly beating heart is still trying to figure out why he’s talking to you, of all people.

And then—all of a sudden—his words finally catch up to you, and so does the terrifying realization that the train is still very much at your stop, and it will not wait for you to finish gawking at the man in front of you like he’s some sort of eye-candy (well, he certainly is—but that’s besides the point).

“Shit–” you say, immediately getting up on your feet and grabbing your bag from the floor, avoiding the questionable gazes of the other passengers. You hear him laugh beside you, and that’s when you decide that even if you aren’t a dead man yet, you’re certainly about to meet your end now. “Holy shit–thank you so much,”

You step off the train with him in a daze, just barely missing the doors closing behind you. The rain’s stopped, and you heavily consider jumping off the station, or maybe even lying down on the tracks. Any plan works, so long as you never resurface on Earth ever again.

You don’t know what to say as you gradually regain your composure, and you almost want the ground to swallow you whole at this point. 

But then he looks over as you both start walking across the platform towards campus, and finally breaks the unbearable silence. “You looked so comfortable, I almost didn’t wake you.”

You blink up at him, face caught somewhere between amusement and lingering embarrassment. “You really considered leaving me behind? It’s a pain in the ass to get all the way back here.”

“I know. And I thought about it,” he says with a genuine straight face, so deadpan that you almost do a double-take. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t joking, but the way his eyes soften–just so very slightly–says otherwise. “But then I figured I’d save you all the trouble, you know? You looked like you had enough going on.”

His words make you laugh, startling you with how easily it comes out. You can’t help it. He’s funny, in an almost unintentional way, and suddenly, he doesn’t feel so distant anymore. He lets out a small smile too, just barely, and there’s a strange warmth blooming in your chest. It’s almost like his gaze (which holds something akin to that of the sun), is slowly cracking through the clouds and deciding to settle there, right under the crevices of your ribcage.

It feels… nice.

“Seriously, though,” you mumble, a little quieter this time. “Thanks. For waking me up. I, uh–didn’t catch your name?”

“Mydei,” he says, and maybe it’s the way he says it, or maybe even the way he’s looking at you–like you’re familiar to him–it makes you feel like a little kid getting their favorite toy on Christmas Day. You say your name in return, and he nods, repeating it under his breath as if he were already familiarizing himself with it. Absolutely priceless. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”

You pause at that. You weren’t even sure if he’d noticed you after all this time. But now? He’s looking directly at you and waiting, like this little routine of yours was something you really did share this entire time, and it’s something to expect for both of you now. “Yeah, of course. See you tomorrow.”

And for the first time since you started taking the 7:00 train, you’re actually looking forward to it.

It’s silly, maybe. But that’s where it all begins, your little friendship with Mydei, and it's also when things start to change. Your designated seat shifts to the one right next to his. He starts saving it with his duffle bag before you finally board the train, and it becomes another part of your routine that neither of you has to talk about. And you also never miss the way his eyes light up when he sees you every morning, like you’re the one piece of the day that he’s been waiting for. 

With Mydei, there’s never any pressure to fill the space with words–the silence is actually something you find comfort in. Some days, you talk the whole ride to campus about anything and everything, until, much to your dismay, you have to part ways for class (those are the days you love the most). On other days, you rarely talk at all. Instead, you exchange a few words and sooner or later find yourself asleep right next to him, while he makes sure that you don’t miss your stop (like what almost happened before).

But that never happens anymore. Not when you’re with him.

And then there’s the day it happens–the day you’re running on 2 hours of sleep again (unfortunately, days like that have been finding you more often recently, regardless of how much you try and take care of yourself), a vending machine granola bar, and a prayer that you’ll actually make it home without collapsing.

It’s past 8 p.m. when you finally drag yourself onto the train.

The fluorescent lights faintly hum overhead, and the seats are half-empty. It’s currently the awkward in-between hour, but you’re just glad that the evening rush period is winding down, and you’re granted a little bit of peace. Your bag feels far heavier than it should be, your hoodie’s too thin, and for a second, you seriously consider lying down on the seats. Thankfully, the sanitation risks of doing that, as well as your remaining decorum, both outweigh just how tired you are.

For a moment, you’re too tired to scan your surroundings. Your body moves on autopilot–one step after the other–and you don’t even register the familiar tuft of blonde hair sitting in the corner until he lifts his head. “Mydei?”

He blinks. Then, lets out a smile–soft and easy, and you think that sight is perhaps the only good thing to come out of today. You rarely ever see Mydei on the train back from campus, since you have conflicting schedules that never overlap with each other. Sometimes, you work overtime at the cafe if you ever need extra money. On other days—days that you literally have to pray for, your roommate Anaxa graciously offers you a ride home whenever the damn stars align and his schedule allows it (although it rarely does, much to your chagrin). And finally, there are days—grueling days like today, when there are far too many things to do after classes, even though there’s nothing more you want to do than go home.

You think that seeing him for the second time today is exactly what you needed right now. Like for once, the universe had finally granted you a cosmic favor.

“Oh. Hey,” he says, and he moves his duffle bag to make room for you, just like what he always does in the mornings. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Me too,” you mumble, sitting down next to him with a huff. You rub your eyes, which are already thick with exhaustion, and the familiar tiredness almost feels verbatim to that one day when he woke you up. At least the chair gives you a little bit of respite. And his presence–steady and familiar–does more to ground you than you expect. “What’re you doing out this late?”

“Just finished up at the gym,” he replies coolly, and you notice the way his hair is still slightly damp and smells slightly of cedarwood shampoo, clean and warm and way too good for your current mental state. (He’s swapped out his usual hoodie for a black compression shirt, and… Okay. How the hell is he not more popular with the girls?) 

You’re no fool, you wish you could ogle a bit more at the way that tight shirt hugs his muscles for a little bit longer, if only you weren’t running on sheer willpower right now. But still, you make the effort to stay awake. All so you could talk to him. “What about you?”

“Stayed after class. Had to finish a project, and time got away from me.” He nods at your words, doing a once-over at your appearance. It’s not in a judgemental way, it’s never judgemental with Mydei–it’s just in that quiet, observant way that he always seems to do things. 

The train car hums. You notice that you’re not exactly brushing arms with him, but your hoodie sleeve is close enough that it’s touching his whenever the train bumps. The proximity is enough for you to feel safe. Familiar. 

“You okay?” he asks after a beat, a little quieter this time. “You… need to learn to take care of yourself better.”

“I know,” you say, and you certainly do. And that’s the thing. It’s hard to take care of yourself when you’re simultaneously learning how to juggle fifty things at once, when at most, you were only ever equipped to juggle five. But it’s also challenges like these that help you grow a little more as a person. You’re trying. Even when it feels like you’re on your wits' end sometimes, like how tonight has you, you’re still trying your best. And hopefully, it’ll all pay off someday. “I just haven’t been able to sleep much. I’ll be okay.”

Mydei doesn’t push it. He just shifts slightly, letting his shoulder tilt a little towards you as if it were a silent offer. You glance at him, and he doesn’t look back, but you know that he sees you anyway. Really sees you, even though this entire day, you‘ve been feeling nothing more than completely see-through.

You two fall into silence after that, his soft, quiet breathing filling your senses. It’s familiar—the one you’re used to with Mydei, the kind of silence you get when you’re too tired to talk, but want to be there for each other anyway. And it's enough for both of you. It always has been.

You’re not exactly sure when your eyes flutter shut, but at some point in the train ride, the world feels a little fuzzier and a little quieter. The culmination of everything exhausting you’ve felt today finally hits you all at once, and you can’t help but fall asleep.

Then it happens–somewhere in your unconsciousness, your head tips to the side and lands softly against his shoulder.

And he freezes.

You don’t see it–how his breath hitches, how his jaw tenses and then quickly softens. How he’s afraid to move a single inch, in fear that he’ll wake you. How he swallows hard, like maybe if he pretends to be calm, he can stop his heart from racing. But damn, it’s racing like hell, and he’s anything but calm.

Because here’s the thing: If you’ve started falling for Mydei after all those shared mornings with him, he’s already a step ahead because he’s definitely fallen harder. He’s had a teensy little crush on you… for a while. It’s the easy, slow kind—the kind where you’ve begun to bury a little hole in his heart, and he doesn’t notice until you've already sunk your teeth in and he’s too far gone to just back out. You’ve carved such a special place within him without even trying… and now he’s got you asleep on his shoulder, like it’s nothing?

And maybe to you, it truly is nothing. But to him? It feels like everything right now, and more.

He has one hand hesitating in the air before carefully resting it on the seat behind you–not quite touching (no matter how much he wants to put his arm around your shoulder), but enough to shield you if the train ever sways. He’s so careful with you. Like you’ll break if he does something wrong. Like this moment matters, and that it’s far more than just you being exhausted. A part of his mind is trying to convince him that this was purely accidental, and that you didn’t mean to fall asleep on his shoulder. But then another part of him says that you trust him enough to be in this close proximity with him, regardless of whether you meant to do that or not.

And yet, he can’t help but take this opportunity to really look at you—as if you hung the stars yourself, because he knows that he’ll keep looking at you that way, even if you didn’t mean to do any of this. Even if you don’t know just exactly what you’re doing to him. 

And then you shift.

You nuzzle in a little closer, nose brushing the edge of his sleeve, and mumble something into his shirt that sounds a little something like, “...You’re really comfy.” 

Fuck.

Mydei literally forgets how to breathe. 

Because now, his suspicions were just confirmed–this was, in fact, not accidental, and he doesn’t know how long he can keep pretending that this is all casual to him anymore. Because this is anything but casual. You mean something to him, and that something is deep, even though he's only known you through these shared mornings and train rides. Moments like these are so simple, yet he wouldn’t trade them for the world.

And this is also the moment where he has his second realization: He needs to tell you how he feels, and soon, before he completely loses it. Before being your shoulder rest on the train is the closest thing he ever gets to holding you. To ever being truly yours.

Because if this keeps happening—and you keep looking at him the way you do, keep dozing off against him like this, mumbling half-asleep about how comfy he is to lie on…

Yeah, he’s gonna be a complete goner. 

And the worst part? Mydei doesn’t think he minds all too much.

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke my heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swing things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and all he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

“what movie are we watching again?” he asks.

you blink a few times at him, your brain a little hazy with arousal. “um… i’m not too sure.”

“you picked it,” nobara says through a mouthful of popcorn.

“it’s a romcom!” yuuji exclaims cheerfully. everyone turns to him with weird looks and his eyes widen momentarily. he crosses his arms over his chest, slumping on the couch. “i mean… it’s some stupid romcom.”

“right…” maki says, rolling her eyes.

“salmon roe,” toge says.

“everyone quiet! the movie’s starting!” panda says.

with every ounce of self-control that you have, you force your eyes onto the screen rather than on your boyfriend. you swallow thickly, pulling a blanket over your legs as if it might suffocate your arousal.

megumi only makes matters worse by scooting closer, grabbing the edge of the blanket, and covering his own legs with it too. his side is now flush with yours, arms bumping into each other gently. his large, warm hand finds home on your thigh and he gently massages the flesh. you look down at your covered lap, then up at him. feeling your eyes on him, he turns to you.

“you okay?” he asks, furrowing his brows as if he’s trying to read your mind.

you nod. “perfect.”

he studies your face for a beat longer, eyes searching for the answers you won’t give him. he nods slowly and turns back to the movie. his hand doesn’t move from your thigh. in fact, his thumb starts to rub slow, absentminded circles over the bare skin that falls right below your sleep shorts. the movement sends waves of heat through your body that you can barely contain.

it takes everything in you to keep your attention on the movie, but you can’t even remember the title of it now. characters are talking to each other. arguing? laughing? it’s all distant under the hammering of your pulse in your ears.

you’re not sure how long you manage to hold out. a lot longer than you expect, but you’re still sneaking glances at megumi when he’s not paying attention.

the movie plays on, but the warmth of megumi’s thigh pressed against yours and the slow, casual circles his thumb is rubbing on your leg is short-circuiting your brain. you force yourself to chew popcorn just to seem normal, although your appetite for food vanished the moment he saw down next to you.

every now and then megumi will lean forward to grab some popcorn or shift slightly to get comfortable, and every little movement causes that damn shirt to shift with him. it rides up, hangs from his shoulder, stretches before falling loose again. it’s all a real problem.

you try your best to act normal. you laugh when something funny happens on screen, occasionally make comments to nobara, but it’s getting harder. your voice is thin, body humming with energy. every brush of his hand is sending heat down your spine.

and you assume he doesn’t notice until you glance at him out of the corner of your eye and find that he’s not watching the movie. he’s watching you.

“what’s going on?” he asks softly, leaning in a little closer, keeping his voice low enough that only you can hear.

you blink. “nothing.”

“you’re acting weird.”

“i’m not acting weird,” you whisper back, a bit too defensively.

his brows pull together. he leans back to study your face more carefully. “you’re flushed.”

“i’m fine.”

“are you sick?” he asks, clearly more concerned than before.

you shake your head, glancing at the others as if they might save you. no one seems to be paying attention though. yuuji and panda are fully invested in the plot, maki has a drink in hand, nobara is scrolling through her phone, and toge is busying himself making another cup of tea.

megumi slides his hand from your thigh to your wrist, gently wrapping his fingers around it. “come with me.”

“what? why?”

“just for a second.”

you want to protest, but the concern in his voice is genuine and you know that if you say no he’ll only worry more. so you nod and let him tug you to stand up. everyone watches you two, but doesn’t say anything as you two exit the common room. megumi leads you quietly down the hall and into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

“now tell me what’s going on,” he says gently.

you stand next to his bed, heart pounding. he’s facing you with arms crossed, the oversized black shirt hanging off him like a damn invitation.

you let out a slow breath. “i told you already. i’m fine.”

“you’re not fine. you’ve barely said anything since i sat down and you look like you’re gonna pass out.”

you groan and press your hands over your face. “megumi, please. just drop it.”

of course, he doesn’t. he takes a step closer, gently pulling your hands from your face. “talk to me baby.”

your eyes flick up to meet his and he freezes. something in his expression shifts, the confusion melting away into realization. his gaze trails over your face, then down, then back up again. his lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“is this… about the shirt?”

you stay silent, but the look on your face is answer enough.

“i didn’t realize… i mean, i’ve worn this around you before—”

“and how did those nights turn out?” you challenge. “and it’s not just the shirt. your hair was all wet and you smell like that, and i’m trying to watch a damn movie with my friends two inches away from all of it.”

megumi blinks, flush blooming across his cheeks. he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “shit.”

you cross your arms, more frustrated at yourself than with him. “i was doing fine, you know, until you sat down and started rubbing my leg like it was nothing.”

he gives you a half-smile. “it was nothing.”

there’s a moment of quiet where the air between you two shifts. you can feel the electricity, the tightening of the silence between you. you watch megumi’s eyes dip down to your lips and stay there.

megumi steps forward, standing right in front of you now. close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off his body. his fingers brush your cheek, tracing slowly to your jaw, tilting your chin up.

“you’ve been like this since i sat down,” he murmurs, voice low. “you could’ve just said something.”

“it isn’t exactly the easiest thing to bring up,” you say. your breath catches as his thumb grazes your bottom lip. “you were just sitting there like it was nothing.”

he smirks, tilting his head. “so what? me wearing this shirt is your kryptonite?”

you glare at him. “don’t make fun of me.”

“i’m not,” he says, leaning in so his nose grazes yours. “i’m trying to figure out what i should do about it.”

his lips brush yours, just barely, enough to make you chase the contact. he pulls back with a little hum of amusement, clearly enjoying the way you squirm.

“megumi…”

he finally kisses you, slow and deep, swallowing down the breathless sound you make against his mouth. his hands slide to your waist, guiding you backwards until your knees hit the edge of his bed and you sink down with a quiet gasp. he doesn’t break the kiss as he follows you down, settling his body between your thighs and bracing himself with a hand beside your head.

he grinds down into you and it sends a jolt through your whole body. you can already feel how hard he is against you, even through both of your clothes.

“you really were losing your mind out there,” he says against your neck. “all that squirming.”

you whimper and he grins, something low and dark and utterly satisfied.

“you could’ve asked me to take care of it, you know?”

“i didn’t want them to know,” you whisper, fingers clutching at the back of his shirt.

“they still don’t,” he says, lips brushing over your ear. “but you’re not leaving this room until i’ve fixed your little problem.”

his shirt brushes your skin as he shifts above you, and it makes you feel crazed. like the thing that drove you insane is now trapping you underneath him. the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he moves like he knows exactly what you need… it leaves your head spinning.

he kisses down your neck, trailing lower as his hands tug at your clothes to slowly strip you down. his pace is agonizing, teasing. he keeps you breathless and needy, never giving you everything at once.

when you’re finally bare beneath him he leans back slightly, eyes dragging over your body like he’s committing it to memory.

“fuck,” he murmurs, “you look so pretty like this.”

he yanks off his clothes in a hurry before kissing you again—hungry now, deeper than before. he gently guides himself into you, slow and steady, holding your hips still when you try to list them to meet him.

“not yet,” he whispers. “i want to feel all of you.”

your hands scramble for something to hold onto, his back, the sheets, anything as he begins to move. the pace is slow but firm, every thrust drawing a soft moan from your throat.

he pins your wrists beside your head, leaning in close, and the low sound he makes when you clench around him is pure filth.

“you feel that?” his hips roll deep into yours. “that’s what happens when you hold back all night.”

you moan, helpless and desperate. his thrusts grow sharper, hungrier without losing his control. he watches every reaction, every twitch, every gasp, feeding off the way you fall apart beneath him. 

“you gonna be able to sit through the rest of the movie after this?” he teases, lips brushing your ear.

you can’t answer, not with words at least. you cry out, back arching off the bed, pushing your tits up towards him.

he grins. “didn’t think so.”

his mouth moves from your ear to your neck, kissing and biting at your soft skin as he moves inside you. he lets your wrists go and they immediately wrap around his back, scratching up and down his exposed skin. 

“you’ve been sitting out there all worked up.” he drags his lips down to your collarbone. “thinking i didn’t notice, but i saw you chewing your lip. felt your thighs squeeze together whenever i moved.”

he punctuates the words with a slow thrust that hits deep, your breath stuttering out of you.

“you like the shirt that much?” he asks, brushing his lips just above your breast. “you gonna lose it is i keep wearing it around you?”

you nod, voice breathless. “yes. yes, please, wear it every day—”

he chuckles, dark and amused. “desperate little thing.”

his mouth wraps around your nipple and your back arches, a whimper breaking free as his teeth graze the sensitive skin. he switches sides, teasing with his tongue and lips while his hips keep their rhythm. slow, deliberate thrusts that make you feel every inch of him.

“you’re so wet,” he growls. “fuck, you were probably soaked the second i walked in, huh?”

i was,” you admit, flushed and wrecked. you dig your nails into his back, thighs trembling around his hips. “i couldn’t focus on—” you’re cut off by a particularly deep thrust, ripping a moan from your lips.

his pace speeds up, just enough to make the bed begin creaking underneath you both. he pushes your legs up, pinning them down at the knees with his hands on either side, spreading you wide open for him as he drives into you deeper. hitting that perfect spot over and over again.

your fingers tangle in the sheets, moaning loudly, completely at his mercy.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and ragged. “you’ve been falling apart since i sat down. now you’re shaking under me.”

”megumi—“ you gasp, voice high and wrecked.

he leans down, pressing his chest to yours, lips brushing your ear. “come on, baby. i know you’re close. let go for me.”

your fingers grip his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as his name spills from your lips in a mix of a sob and a moan. the orgasm is blinding and hot, crashing through you and making your entire body shake under the weight of him.

he doesn’t stop, coaxing every wave of pleasure with slow, grinding thrusts that have your nails dragging down his back. then you feel him pulse inside you, reveling in the sharp inhale he takes as he buries himself deep with a quiet, low groan. you whimper as he fills you up, gently fucking the cum back into you. he stills for a beat, catching his breath, body heavy and warm above you.

the room fills with your shared breathing and the gentle creak of the bed beneath you. 

megumi lets out a soft, breathless laugh and kisses your forehead. “you good?”

you blink up at him, dazed. “i think you broke me.”

“yeah?” he smirks and kisses the corner of your mouth.

you both lay there, tangled up in one another, for a while. your bodies are still warm, breath still uneven, the world outside the bedroom feeling nonexistent for a fleeting moment.

eventually, megumi shifts, brushing his fingers along your hip. “we should probably go back before they really start wondering.”

you groan. “i don’t even want to know how long we’ve been gone.”

“you’ll live,” he says, standing and pulling his shirt back on. you watch him with a tired, dreamy smile. you lick your lips when the shirt hangs loose on him again, the damn thing that started this all.

you both clean up quickly, getting somewhat presentable, though there’s a flushed glow that gives you both away. you both linger at the common room door for a moment, stealing a final kiss and trading a silent glance that says ‘act normal.’

when you reenter the common room the lights are dimmed low still, the volume just loud enough to fill the space. the movie’s still going, somewhere in the middle of an emotional montage. nobody really pays either of you much attention initially, although yuuji does lift an eyebrow briefly when megumi casually settles back down beside you, an arm slung around your shoulder. 

it’s then that you begin to over analyze. megumi’s hair is slightly messier now, like someone had tugged on it… which you very much had done. you tug the blanket a little higher when you notice the slight tremble of your legs continuing.

“everything alright?” nobara asks, glancing at you with a curious tilt of her head.

“yeah,” you say smoothly, curling under the blanket with megumi again. “we just had a talk.”

megumi nods. “she wasn’t feeling great. needed some air.”

“oh,” nobara says, sounding convinced enough. “feeling better?”

you nod and smile. “everything’s fine now.” your voice is calm and practiced.

toge offers you a mug of warm tea with a small smile, and you take it with a grateful nod, sipping carefully to occupy yourself and avoid any further questions.

the next few minutes are quiet, peaceful. you refocus on the screen, your body pleasantly warm and tired as you lean into megumi’s side. his thumb strokes your shoulder in slow, lazy circles that are more comforting than dangerous.

then it happens—the main couple on screen is suddenly tangled together in a hotel bed. there’s soft lighting, heavy breathing, whispered confessions. the scene is surprisingly drawn out, full of tension and teasing and half-lidded gazes. the sound of the protagonist moaning drags everyone into a sharp focus.

there’s a beat of awkward silence.

“okay…” yuuji says, “wow. that escalated quick.”

panda stifles a snort. nobara slowly turns to you and megumi, squinting.

maki speaks first, completely deadpan. “so. just a chat, huh?”

you stiffen.

“must’ve been one hell of a conversation,” panda adds, barely holding back his laughter.

yuuji leans forward, grinning. “wait… is that why it took you guys twenty-five minutes to come back?”

toge covers his face, but you can hear him wheezing softly behind his hand.

your mouth opens, then closes again.

megumi stays perfectly still beside you, his expression unreadable. then he raises his cup of tea to his lips and says calmly, “timing’s a bitch, huh?”

you choke on a laugh.

nobara hits you with a pillow. “i knew it!” she groans. “the moment you walked in here looking all dazed—”

“i looked fine!”

“you looked thoroughly handled,” she snaps.

yuuji bursts into laughter. “handled is exactly the word!”

you groan and bury your face in mergumi’s shoulder. “can we just finish the movie in peace.”

“sure,” panda says. “but don’t be surprised if we all start mysteriously needing to talk one-on-one after this.”

you sigh, eyes on the screen, megumi’s hand now resting on your knee.

“next time,” you whisper to him, “you’re wearing a hoodie.”