DANHONEYYY!

PHAIKE DATING PLAYLIST <3

The coffee shop is empty.

The lights are still on, but there are no customers left—only the low murmur of voices behind the counter. Caelus, March, and Dan Heng are clustered together, clearly mid-conversation, when March is the first to notice you. Her eyes light up immediately and she practically vibrates where she sits.

“Boss Ma’am! Mister Phainon!” she chirps, waving both hands like she’s been waiting for you all day.

Caelus follows her gaze next, grinning the moment he spots you. “You guys got back early!”

Dan Heng turns last. “Welcome back, Miss.”

“Yeah,” you say, setting your bag down by the counter. “We wrapped things up faster than expected.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. Too early to be exhausted, but too late for customers. You look back at them.

“Actually,” you say, “you guys can head out early tonight. I’m thinking of closing up soon.”

March tilts her head. “Closing up early?”

You nod. “Phainon and I need to talk about some things.”

In an instant, Caelus’s grin sharpens, March’s eyes sparkle like you’ve just dangled the promise of premium gossip in front of her, and even Dan Heng looks curious.

“We can help clean first,” Dan Heng says almost too casually. “There’s no rush.”

“Yeah!” March hops off the stool. “We can finish up the remaining dishes and wipe everything down. It won’t take long!”

Caelus stretches, hands folding behind his head. “Might as well make ourselves useful before you kick us out, right?”

The other two nods in agreement.

“You kids don’t really have to—”

Dan Heng cuts you off, even softly shaking his head. “It’s fine, Miss,” he says.

March claps her hands together. “Oh! Before we start… do you guys want drinks?”

You glance at Phainon, who only smiles at you. You sigh. “Just water is fine.”

“I’ll have the same,” Phainon says.

March clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Only water? You old people are boring.” And then almost immediately, she brightens. “Coming right up!”

She darts toward the back, Caelus following behind her with enthusiasm and a dramatic salute sent your way. Dan Heng, on the other hand, trails after them more quietly. Their voices fade into the back, replaced by the clink of dishes and the sound of running water. And just like that, the front of the cafe is quiet again.

It’s just you and Phainon now.

You clear your throat. “Let’s sit,” you say, gesturing toward a table.

Phainon nods easily and pulls out a chair for you before taking the one across. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the backrest.

“Okay,” you begin, folding your hands on the table like you’re about to negotiate a business contract instead of fake date your best friend. “Ground rules.”

Phainon rests his forearms on the table. “Alright,” he says, “I’m listening.”

“So, first of all—we need a timeline. If anyone asks, we’ve been dating for… not too long.” You grimace. “If we say it’s been years, my mom will interrogate me about why I never told her.”

Phainon hums in agreement. “A few months then?”

“Three?” you say immediately. “I think three is safe. It’s long enough to seem stable, but also short enough to explain why it’s not… public knowledge.”

He smiles faintly, nodding. “Three months it is.”

“Second—” You bring up two fingers, “public displays of affection. We shouldn’t overdo it. It’ll look suspicious.”

“How much is ‘not overdoing it’?” he asks.

“Like… casual? Holding hands or maybe an arm around the waist is necessary. But—strictly—no kissing.”

Phainon looks contemplative. “Not even a peck?”

You stare at him.

He raises both hands in surrender. “Just clarifying.”

“No kissing,” you repeat, firm. “Absolutely not.”

It feels more like a reminder for yourself than for him, words coming out sharper than you intend, like you’re drawing a line using a permanent marker rather than a pencil.

Kissing is not casual—at least not when it involves you and your best friend who you most definitely do not have feelings for anymore. It’s not like lacing fingers together or resting a hand on someone’s waist for the sake of performance. And you already know yourself well enough to understand that you wouldn’t be able to file it under just pretend.

You’d think about it later—alone in your room, staring at the ceiling—and replay it frame by frame. You’d wonder whether it felt real to him or if he’d just been acting. You’d analyze the pressure of his lips, the tilt of his head, the breath between you. You’d probably memorize it and that would ruin everything.

You don’t think you can look at Phainon the same way ever again if that happens.

“Okay,” he says easily, softly.

“Good,” you say, quick. “Glad we’re aligned.”

Phainon doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “No kissing.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your ears burn. You clear your throat. “Next—pet names.”

His brows lift slightly. “We’re also making up pet names for each other?”

“Yes,” you say, and you hate that your voice comes out a little firm. “Couples have them all the time. I think it’ll be weird if we don’t.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Okay. Let’s test some out then.”

That sounds like a terrible idea, but— “Fine,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel fine. “You go first.”

He doesn’t hesitate, “Baby.”

You inhale wrong. “Absolutely not,” you cough out, choking on absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

He tilts his head. “Too much?”

“Way too much! That’s— no. I feel like our fake relationship would get exposed immediately if I tried calling you that.”

“Alright.” He taps his chin. “How about ‘babe’?”

You deadpan. “That’s even worse.”

“Worse?” His mouth curves first—slow and crooked—and he ducks his head slightly, like he’s trying and failing to contain his laugh. “How is that worse?”

“It just is!” you whisper-shout. “I would rather walk barefoot across gravel. I would rather fake my death.”

He finally bursts into laughter, and you hate that he’s enjoying this. You really do because he’s not even trying to hide it.

His shoulders shake a little, and he has to look down for a second like he needs to compose himself. When he looks back up at you, his mouth is still curved and the corners of his eyes crease again—those small lines that only ever show up when he’s genuinely amused. And as much as you want to be annoyed—because he’s teasing you and you’re trying to have a serious discussion about fake dating boundaries—you can’t ignore the stupid, traitorous flutter in your chest when you hear him laugh and see him smile at you like that.

You cross your arms to compensate, like that will physically contain the ridiculous skip under your ribs.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” you mutter, even though your voice lacks bite.

He exhales, and the sound does nothing to help. He’s laughing right in your face and you think you shouldn’t react like this. But there’s something about the way he does it—like he finds you genuinely entertaining. And you hate that your body responds to that.

You hate that you have to look away for a second because if you don’t, you might start smiling too.

“Stop laughing,” you grumble.

“I’m not,” he says, even though he’s biting back another laugh.

Liar.

“Okay,” he says once he finally reins himself in, though there’s still a smile tugging at his mouth. “Your turn.”

You narrow your eyes. “My turn to what?”

“To practice calling me using pet names.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Last I checked, there are two people in a relationship. You can’t veto all of mine and not contribute. That’s not how this works.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he continues, “If we’re going to be believable, we both need to practice.”

He stares at you, just a little expectant. That little tilt of his head, the soft look in his face, the way his lips curl slightly—it’s like he’s daring you to refuse. And you realize: you can’t say no to that face. Not that face—not the one that looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, like he’s waiting for you to cooperate, like it would break his heart if you didn’t. Not when he’s smiling that infuriatingly soft smile that somehow makes your chest flutter despite every warning bell in your head screaming at you to stay logical.

“Fine,” you mutter, finally relenting, because trying to resist that expression feels like punching the sun. You swallow, immediately wishing you hadn’t admitted defeat. “…Idiot.”

He gasps dramatically. “Hey, that’s not nice!”

He leans back slightly, hand pressing to his chest like you’ve wounded him, but the performance is completely undercut by the crinkle of his eyes.

“I gave you nice pet names,” he continues, voice full of mock offense, “and you insult me?”

“It’s affectionate!” you insist.

“In what world?”

“In ours!”

Then he laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him. “You’re annoying.”

“And you love me,” he says easily, grinning. “My turn again.”

Your brain stumbles.

What?

You? Love him? You absolutely do not.

Well… you do. You obviously do because he’s been your best friend since high school. Because he used to sit next to you during class and slide you snacks when you forgot lunch. Because he knows the exact tone of your voice when you’re about to cry and the exact tone when you’re pretending you’re alright. Because he’s seen you at your worst and stayed.

But that’s it. That’s all there is to it.

It’s not—

It’s not the kind of love that—

You do not love him like that.

You don’t blush because you’re in love with him; you blush because he’s teasing you. Anyone would blush because it’s embarrassing. He’s weaponizing pet names and telling you that you love him like this is some kind of experiment and you are simply reacting like a normal human being under psychological pressure.

You love him because he’s familiar. You love him because he’s safe. You love him because he’s been around long enough to feel permanent. And that’s normal—it’s reasonable and absolutely not romantic.

And yes. Okay. Fine. There was that phase—that one embarrassing and completely short-lived high school crush.

You were sixteen. He had just started wearing his sleeves rolled up for no reason. He laughed at something you said during chemistry class and you thought about it for three days straight. You overanalyzed the way he texted. And you wondered—briefly—what it would be like if he ever looked at you different.

But that was years ago! It was small and harmless—the kind of crush that happens when you’re around someone all the time and your brain decides to experiment with feelings just to see what sticks.

And nothing stuck. You got over it. You moved on.

You dated other people. You lived your life. You stopped thinking about what it would feel like if he ever laced his fingers with yours or whether he’d ever call you pretty in a serious voice. That phase passed quietly without drama, so that’s proof, right? Proof that this—whatever this is right now—isn’t anything.

You don’t have feelings. You’re not secretly holding onto something unresolved. You’re not waiting for him to notice you. You’re not hoping he means it when he says things like that.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts and feelings that you don’t even notice he’s moved closer until you feel a light touch against your cheek. You jolt.

Phainon’s fingers are there, brushing gently against your skin. “What’s wrong, lovely?” he asks, voice low and soft as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Lovely. The pet name keeps echoing in your head.

What is he doing? What is actually wrong with him???

You stare at him.

He’s closer than before—close enough that you can see the tiny crease between his brows; close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. His expression is no longer teasing—it’s searching. He studies you for a moment longer, then his thumb brushes lightly along your cheek again almost absentmindedly.

“Hey,” he tries again. This time, he taps your forehead with a knuckle lightly. “Is my girlfriend still with me?”

He says it so easily and casually like it fits in his mouth—like it belongs there with him.

You are aware of your pulse in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips. You are aware that he is still leaning toward you, still close enough that you can see the tiny details on his expression. You are aware that your face feels so hot it’s almost uncomfortable.

My girlfriend. He called you his girlfriend.

Your mouth opens slightly, but your thoughts scatter in every direction. You can’t tell if you’re embarrassed or shocked or something worse. You can’t even tell if this is still a joke or if he’s just committing to the bit with terrifying confidence.

He studies you for another second, then concern flickers across his face.

“Did I break you?” he asks.

You blink once. Then twice.

You are, in fact, broken.

Your brain is trying to process that this is all just pretend. He’s just doing and saying things for practice. But the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel like practice.

It feels like—

“I hope I’m not interrupting!”

You jump so hard your chair scrapes against the floor.

March stands a few steps away, tray in hand, eyes wide and sparkling in a way that says she absolutely thinks she’s interrupting something. And Phainon is still leaning over you, though he eventually pulls away like he wasn’t in a rush to move in the first place. And as if nothing strange just happened, he turns to March with an easy smile.

“No, you weren’t interrupting at all,” he says, light and unbothered. “Are those our drinks?”

“Yup!” she chirps. “I made iced tea instead because while water is healthy, it’s so boring!”

She sets the glasses down and two straws, but her eyes flicker between the two of you. The look on her face says she definitely saw something.

“There you go! Call for me if you guys need anything else!”

“Thanks. We will,” Phainon replies.

March presses her lips together like she’s physically holding something in—the smile on her face trembling—before she turns away. The look she throws over her shoulder is way too knowing. Then she pivots toward the back with suspicious speed, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. The door swings shut behind her a little loudly.

You just know she’s about to tell the others and reenact whatever she thinks she witnessed. You exhale slowly.

“Oh, you—”

You cut in before Phainon can finish. “We should stick to calling each other by our names,” you say, because if you don’t, you’re worried he’ll casually drop another pet name that will fry your brain.

He pauses. “Oh.”

For a second, you think maybe you sounded too intense. Maybe you should’ve laughed, or framed it as a joke—at least something rigid—but the he chuckles like it’s nothing.

“Alright,” he says. “Are you okay now?”

And you answer, quick, “Yeah.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You sure? You looked a little…” He hums, searching for the word. “…out of it.”

You were not “out of it”. You were internally combusting because he casually said girlfriend like it was a regular noun and not something that rearranged your internal organs. But instead of admitting something as embarrassing as that to him, you say, “Yes. I’m fine.”

He studies you like he’s deciding whether to press. Then he shrugs and takes a sip of his iced tea. “If you say so. So what next?”

Right.

Focus.

“How about…” You pause, buying yourself a second to shove your pulse back into its cage. “How we got together? My mother would ask something like that.”

“Oh, yeah. She definitely will,” he agrees easily. He takes another sip, then adds, “Your mom’s a little nosy.”

That makes you laugh. It slips out of you, light and fond and helpless. “She is, isn’t she? She likes to gossip a lot.”

Phainon grins. “Looks like you’re actually fine then.”

Your face warms. “I just told you I am.”

“Well,” he says lightly, “can’t blame a guy for worrying about his girlfriend.”

There it is again—that word. It lands so casually in his mouth like he’s just saying “coworker”. Like he’s saying “friend”. Like it doesn’t echo in your head three times before settling somewhere dangerously soft in your chest.

Why does he seem so unaffected by it?

Is he really just good at pretending? Is this just method acting to him? Or is this what it looks like when you’re normal about things? When you don’t spiral every time a word brushes too close to something you buried years ago?

Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’re the only one assigning weight to syllables. Maybe he’s just playing along like he promised. Maybe you’re the one making it weird.

You drag your gaze down to your glass.

Ignore it. Ignore him. Ignore the way your heart did that small, traitorous skip.

Focus.

You clear your throat. “Since we’ve been friends since high school, we can just say feelings developed gradually. Like… one of us finally said something eventually.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Which one of us did?”

“You?” you answer, though it comes out uncertain. “I think you’re the type to confess first.”

“Am I?” There’s something in his voice you can’t quite put into words, and you catch yourself trying to pin it down.

Was it a drop in his tone, a pause before he spoke, or the way the syllables stretched a little differently than usual? You can’t tell and that’s the problem—you feel it, but your mind has no word for it. It feels unsettling and strange because you’ve known him for so long that you think you could read him. You’ve built years of familiarity on that certainty. But ever since you asked him to be your plus one… something shifted.

One day you were just friends who understood each other without trying. The next you’re sitting across from him wondering why you can’t tell what he’s thinking anymore.

Before, you could look at him and just know. Now when you look at him, you second-guess.

“Well…” You fiddle with your straw wrapper, folding it in half, then again, then tearing it straight down the middle. “You’re definitely better with words than I am. And you’re braver.”

And that part isn’t even exaggeration—it’s just fact. He’s always been the one who speaks first. The one who raises his hand. The one who fills the silence instead of letting it swallow him whole. While you… you’ve always needed a minute.

He laughs, soft and almost pleased. For a moment, you wonder if you just imagined everything earlier. “That is true.”

You look up at him flatly, mostly because you need something neutral to hide behind. “You didn’t even try to deny it.”

“Why would I?” he replies easily, leaning back in his chair. “You said it yourself already.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real weight behind it.

“So that’s our story?” he asks. “I confessed first?”

“Yes.” You nod, hoping the movement feels more convincing than you do. “You confessed first.”

There’s a small pause, just long enough for you to think the topic has passed. Then you hear him hum, thoughtful. “And what did I say?” he asks lightly.

Your brain short-circuits. “…What?”

“If I’m the one who confessed,” he continues, “what did I say?”

You stare at him, waiting for the grin that usually follows a setup like this. He just looks back at you. You scowl.

“We are not improvising a confession scene right now.”

“Why not?” he says. “If someone asks for details, we should have them.”

“No one is going to ask for the script.”

“Your mother might,” he counters. “My aunt might.”

“We can just deflect if my mother asks,” you shoot back. “And your aunt isn’t even invited to the wedding.”

Phainon grins, and there it is—that familiar expression, the same one you’ve known for years. It smooths something out inside you instantly; the strange distance you thought you felt earlier loosens its grip. You suddenly feel silly for even thinking anything had changed at all.

“This is already detailed enough,” you insist. “We have a timeline. We have who confessed first. We don’t call each other by nicknames. That’s sufficient.”

But your brain, traitor that it is, has already started filling in the blanks.

You picture him sitting across from you like this, except there’s no rehearsal, no agreed-upon pretense—it’s just the two of you and a question that isn’t rhetorical. You imagine him saying your name the way he does when he means something, before admitting he’s liked you for a while. That his feelings weren’t sudden. That the sudden realization just crept up on him one day and how he tried to ignore it and how he didn’t want to anymore—

Stop.

You blink and force the image away before it settles anywhere permanent.

“Fine. Maybe… maybe you said something simple,” you decide. “Nothing dramatic, no long speeches. Just that you liked me… and asked me if I wanted to try.”

“And what did you say?” he asks and his voice is softer now.

Your throat feels drier than it should. You take a second before answering, “I said yes.”

Because of course you did. In this version, there’s no hesitation—no second-guessing. You don’t overthink it. You don’t ask for time. You just say yes. Why wouldn’t you? It’s fake. This is fake. You’re just constructing a believable narrative for this pretend relationship. That’s all.

But why does it feel like you just admitted something real?

“Alright,” he says. “I like that version.”

You can’t look at him.

You pick up your glass and take a long sip of the iced tea even though you’re not particularly thirsty. The cold helps; it gives you something else to focus on because if you look at him right now—if you meet his eyes while your chest feels like this—you might start wondering whether he’s picturing the same version you are.

And that is not a road you’re prepared to walk down.

So you keep your attention on the glass. On the ice shifting when you tilt it; on the faint condensation dampening your finger; on literally anything that isn’t Phainon sitting across from you.

And then, suddenly, he asks, “Should we practice?”

Your brain doesn’t process his words at first, still busy replaying the imaginary confession you definitely should not have imagined. It’s like your thoughts are buffering.

Putting the glass down onto the table with a soft thud, you say, “What?”

“I said we should practice.”

“…Practice what?”

“You know,” he says, “like holding hands.”

You stare at him like he just suggested the two of you try skydiving indoors.

“Why do we need to practice that?” you ask, baffled. “We’ve held hands before—what’s so different about doing it now?”

You have, technically.

Crossing streets once traffic lights go red and he’d just grab your wrist and pull you along without looking back. At crowded festivals where he’d hold you close so you wouldn’t get separated in the sea of people. Or that time at the park when a very aggressive goose decided you were its mortal enemy and Phainon dragged you away—

“It’s different from before because we have to make it look like we’re actually in love,” he replies.

Oh. Right. Of course.

Hand holding as friends is way different from hand holding as a couple. And you said it yourself earlier already—public displays of affection shouldn’t be overdone, but holding hands is fine.

It’s literally the lowest tier of couple behavior. People do it absentmindedly while talking. People do it while grocery shopping. People do it while scrolling through their phones with the other hand. Which means your heart should not be reacting like you’re about to perform an open-heart surgery on yourself.

“Fine,” you say. And before your brain can spiral into another dissertation, you extend your hand across the table.

Then he reaches out.

His hand is bigger than yours—that’s the first thought that appears for absolutely no reason. You’ve known this for years—this is not new information—yet your brain treats it like a shocking revelation.

His fingers slide between yours one at a time, like he’s solving a puzzle and the correct solution is your hand. Then his palm settles against yours and your fingers instinctively tense for a second before relaxing again. His grip adjusts automatically, just secure enough that your hands stay together. Then his thumb brushes against your knuckles, as if he’s testing the feeling; or maybe he’s checking if you’re about to yank your hand back and run.

You don’t, but now you’re very aware of everything.

The texture of his skin. The way your fingers fit between his. The slight pressure where your palms meet. The tiny shift every time he moves his thumb. The fact that your pulse is currently pounding in your fingertips like it’s trying to escape.

Why are you noticing this much? This is literally just holding hands, and it’s not even like this is new. But as your fingers sit there, neatly laced with his, you vaguely remember sitting in class years ago and wondering what it would feel like if Phainon ever laced his fingers with yours.

And now it’s here and it’s happening and you wonder how sixteen-year-old you would have reacted.

You glance up.

Phainon is already looking at you.

“Looks like we’re ready then,” he says lightly, and you nod.

You nod because there’s nothing else you can bring yourself to say. All you can think about is the warmth of his hand intertwined with yours and the way they fit together so naturally as if they were made to belong there.

From the back, you hear March’s delighted squeal and Caelus’s audible gasp. The sound hits you like a gunshot.

You yank your hand away from Phainon so fast the chair legs scrape lightly against the floor as you twist around. Your hear hurried footsteps, a muffled “GO GO GO—”, something clattering, and the back door slamming shut with a loud bang! that echoes through the cafe.

Silence follows.

You stare at the door, then sigh—a long, tired, deeply resigned sigh that comes from the soul of someone who knows that somewhere behind that door March and Caelus are currently reenacting the entire thing to Dan Heng.

You slowly turn back around.

Phainon hasn’t moved; he’s still in the same position you’ve left him, except now he’s looking down at his hand—the same one that was holding yours a moment ago. His fingers flex absently, like he’s testing the space where your hand used to be.

You don’t think much of it. Instead, you narrow your eyes at him.

“You did that on purpose.”

His gaze lifts. “Innocent until proven guilty,” he says mildly.

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You saw March and Caelus. Their heads were literally sticking out of the door.”

There had been hair—very noticeable and very pink hair. And beside it, an unsubtle tuft of gray that absolutely belonged to someone who has the subtlety of a marching band.

“You’re accusing me of a lot right now,” he says.

“You laced your fingers with mine after you saw them.”

He exhales through his nose, briefly looking down at the table like he’s caught somewhere between defending himself and enjoying the accusation too much. When he looks back up, he’s smiling.

“Maybe,” he says. And then he laughs.

“You’re so annoying.”

“It was still good practice though,” he says. “You want me to try holding you by your waist next?”

Your brain immediately supplies a very vivid mental image of his hand resting there—warm, steady fingers spread lightly at the curve of your side like it belongs there—and that alone is enough to make your cheeks heat up.

You glare at him to compensate. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

He laughs like that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “You and your kids’ reactions make it fun.”

“Well, my kids have classes tomorrow, so let’s end things here,” you say, crossing your arms. Then another thought occurs to you, and you narrow your eyes at him. “And you—don’t you have work? Why are you always free?”

Phainon shrugs, easy and casual like the answer is obvious. “It just so happens that I don’t have flights when you need me.”

You study him for a second, not entirely convinced.

Your mind drifts back to something Aglaea said before—that you seem to be the only exception to his busy schedule. At the time, you’d dismissed it immediately. A coincidence, you’d insisted—bad timing on everyone’s part and good timing on his. But now that the idea has resurfaced, it refuses to go away easily.

You’re about to question him about it, but he speaks again before you can get the words out.

“Can I drive you home?”

The question is simple, but something about the way he says it makes your brain pause for a second and it’s not because the offer is unexpected. In fact, he’s driven you home countless times before: after late-night study sessions years ago, after work shifts when the buses are sparse, or after dinners with friends when everyone else disappeared one by one.

So no, the offer itself isn’t strange. If anything, it’s expected—which is probably why you only sigh and shake your head.

“It’s not like you’ll let me say no, anyway.”

“That is true,” he agrees immediately with absolutely no shame whatsoever. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised Aglaea I’d return you back in one piece.”

You stare at him for a moment, before rolling your eyes. “Wow,” you mutter dryly. “How chivalrous of you.”

“Well… what can I say,” he says, smug. “I’m a man of my word after all.”

You scoff under your breath. Then you push your chair back and stand, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The table between you is littered with the remains of your drinks and you pick them up automatically.

Yours is nearly empty, nothing left but watery ice cubes clinking against the glass. His, on the other hand, is still half full.

“I’ll let the others know we’re done here,” you say. “Should I ask if they want a ride?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you notice the way Phainon’s expression changes. He stares at you like you’ve just said something stupid.

You blink at him. “What?”

He keeps staring. The silence stretches and you feel a tiny flicker of irritation spark in your chest. “What?” you repeat, more defensive now. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Phainon exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as if reconsidering his entire life. He lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he says, then sighs again. “Sure. You can ask them.”

The words come out calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. Still, you decide not to question it further and you flash him a smile instead.

“Great.” You gesture toward outside. “You can start the car and wait in there.”

Phainon straightens in his seat and immediately brings his hand to his forehead in a sharp, exaggerated salute. “Okay, Boss.”

“Stop.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“I swear—”

“Yes, Boss Ma’am.”

“Phainon!”

He grins, clearly delighted with himself. You shake your head, trying to look annoyed even though you’re smiling.

“Just go,” you say, as you turn toward the hallway leading to the back.

“Aye aye,” he replies.

Behind you, you hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, followed by the faint rustle of him grabbing his keys. A moment later, the soft chime of the front door rings as he steps outside.

When you step into the kitchen, the first thing you notice is that all three of them are gathered close together. March, Caelus, and Dan Heng are standing near the prep counter like a tiny council meeting has just taken place. The moment the door swings open, their heads turn in unison.

March’s entire face lights up, and she immediately waves both hands in the air like she’s been waiting for you. “You guys are done, Boss Ma’am?” she asks brightly, practically bouncing in place.

You walk over to the sink and set the two glasses down. “Yeah,” you reply casually as you turn the faucet on. “Did you have a great time eavesdropping?”

March lets out a tiny giggle and ducks her head, suddenly looking very guilty. “I wasn’t— well—”

Before she can finish fumbling through an excuse, Caelus jumps in. “I promise we didn’t hear anything!”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Really?”

He grins sheepishly. “Well… we did see something.”

You sigh, turning back to rinse the glasses as you shake your head. “Right,” you say. “You and March made sure to let us know you did.”

March giggles again, this time covering her mouth with both hands. Caelus rubs the back of his neck, chuckling as well.

Then, Dan Heng speaks, “Are you and Mister Phainon finally together?”

The question catches you off guard, and a warm flush spreads across your face instantly. “Y-Yeah,” you stutter. You clear your throat, brushing right past it. “Anyway! Do you guys want to ride with us?”

March squeals. “Really?!” She spins towards the others, eyes sparkling. “Can we go with them please?!”

Caelus makes a face. “Let’s not—”

“We wouldn’t want to intrude, Miss,” Dan Heng says.

“What? Of course not!” you protest, waving your hands, sending little flicks of water into the air. “You won’t be intruding on anything. I asked, and Phainon said it was fine.”

The two boys exchange a look, then turn in unison to glance at March—who’s still staring at them expectantly, practically buzzing with hope. Dan Heng sighs.

“…Alright,” he says. “Since Miss said so, then we’ll take the offer.”

March lights up and jumps in joy. Caelus shakes his head.

“Great!” you say, smiling.

And it’s only as you turn back to the sink, reaching for a towel, did it hit you.

Finally?

Your hand stills for a moment. You frown slightly, staring down at the counter.

…What did he mean by that?

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: How did the conversation go? You: We went over everything. Rules, backstory, what we call each other, PDA You: How long we’ve been “dating” Aglaea: I trust it went well? You: I think so You: Though he was weirdly calm about it all Aglaea: That’s just how he is. Aglaea: And you? You: I don’t know, Agy… You: I guess I’m a little scared Aglaea: Of what? It’s just Phainon. You: That’s the problem. It’s Phainon You: I don’t want to ruin things between us 🥲 Aglaea: You won’t. Not unless you start overthinking everything. You: You make it sound so easy, Agy Aglaea: Because it should be. You’re the one complicating things. Aglaea: Tell me. Do you still have feelings for Phainon? You: I was over him, Agy You: But then this whole fake dating thing happened and now I’m not so sure Aglaea: 😪 Aglaea: And what are you going to do now? You: I’m going to pretend nothing changed Aglaea: That’s a terrible plan. You: It’s the only one I’ve got Aglaea: Then at least remember it’s fake. Aglaea: Don’t start believing your own act. You: I’ll try Aglaea: Good. Now get some sleep. You: Thanks, Agy 🥺 I love youuuu! Aglaea: And I love you.

✉︎ Aglaea + Phainon

Phainon: Aglaea, hello! Aglaea: Do you need something? Phainon: Not even a hello? :( Aglaea: Hello. What do you need? Phainon: :D Phainon: I come bearing a humble request! Do you happen to own any shirts or tops that match your cousin’s dress? Aglaea: The same color or something that just complements it? Phainon: Same color would be ideal! Aglaea: Alright. I’ll find something in the same shade. Phainon: You’re a lifesaver! Aglaea: You know, matching outfits will make things more believable. Why not match the entire time you’re there? I can lend both of you clothes. Phainon: That’s actually genius. I’m in! Aglaea: I’ll inform my cousin. Anything else? Phainon: Not at the moment. Phainon: Unless there’s something you want to say to me? :D Aglaea: There is, actually. Phainon: What is it? Aglaea: You’re an idiot. Phainon: Unprovoked?? I’m being attacked for no reason :( Aglaea: If you think this is unprovoked, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Phainon: That’s harsh! I’m sensitive, you know :( Aglaea: No, you’re not. Phainon: Haha, fair! Aglaea: Good luck with your fake dating arrangement. You’re going to need it. Phainon: Hahahahahahaha Phainon: That obvious, huh? Aglaea: Painfully so. Phainon: Don’t worry. I’ve got it handled Phainon: Have a little faith! Aglaea: 😪 Aglaea: Good night, Phainon. Phainon: Good night, Aglaea!

FEBRUARY 8

You leave for Lushaka today.

The flight is in a few hours. Your suitcase is already packed by the door. Your dress—Aglaea’s dress—is somewhere safe, handled by someone far more competent than you. And Phainon is coming to pick you up.

You stare at your ceiling, then drag a hand down your face.

The apartment feels quieter than usual, like it knows you’re about to leave it behind for a week. You move through your morning routine on autopilot—shower, clothes, a quick check of your bag for the fifth time (passport, a book, wallet, charger, your ticket even though it’s digital). You hover by your suitcase after, staring at it like it might suddenly sprout legs and run away.

Your phone buzzes.

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: Are you ready? You: As I’ll ever be Aglaea: Good. Aglaea: Phainon will be there in 20. You: How do you know that?? Aglaea: He texted me. You: Why is he texting you??? Why didn’t he tell me??? Aglaea: Because I asked him to make sure you get to the airport in one piece and don’t forget anything important. You: Hmph You: And you? Aglaea: You’ll see me at the airport.

The conversation ends there.

You shove your phone into your pocket and move faster after that—putting on your shoes, double-checking the stove even though you know you didn’t use it, glancing around your apartment one last time like you’re about to disappear for months instead of days.

Right on cue, there’s a knock on your door.

You absolutely do not rush to open it. You walk at a completely normal pace, wiping your hands on your dress before reaching for the knob. You open the door—Phainon is there.

He’s dressed casually: a simple shirt and a jacket, sleeves rolled up, and jeans. His hair is a little tousled, and when he sees you, he smiles. “Good morning. You ready to go?”

“Good morning,” you echo. “I’m all ready.”

He glances past you into the apartment, then back at you. “You sure?” he asks.

“I already checked everything,” you say, defensive. “Five times.”

He shrugs. “Sixth time’s the charm.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but step aside anyway, gesturing vaguely behind you. “Fine. Go. Inspect.”

He hums, slipping past you like he lives there. He does a quick lap around your place, peeking into the kitchen, glancing at the counter, the couch, the table. You hover near the door, arms crossed, watching him like you’re waiting for him to fail some kind of invisible test.

He pauses by your coffee table and picks up your keys. You freeze.

“Okay… so maybe I did forget something,” you admit.

He holds them up between two fingers, turning back to you with a look that’s way too pleased with himself. “Sixth time’s the charm,” he repeats.

You walk over and snatch them from him. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’d be locked out when we get back,” he says, and you hate that he’s right.

“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing your bag and heading for the door. “Let’s go before I forget something else and you get another ego boost.”

He laughs softly behind you, and you try very hard to ignore the way the sound settles somewhere warm in your chest. You step out into the hallway first, and you barely get two steps in before he reaches past you and grabs the handle of your suitcase.

You blink, caught off guard. “I can—”

“I know,” he cuts in, already pulling it along like it’s his by default. “I want to do it, though.”

You stare at him for a moment longer than necessary, then turn back around to lock and close the door because there’s nothing to argue about. He’s already doing it, and it’s not like you really mind.

The two of you walk down together. He rolls your suitcase down the steps like he’s done it a hundred times (he probably does, given his profession), and you trail behind. Outside, his card is parked just where you expected. He pops the trunk before you even reach it, and again—without asking—lifts your suitcase in like it weighs nothing.

You hover beside him almost awkwardly. “…you know you don’t have to do everything, right?”

He shuts the trunk and looks at you. “I know.”

“Okay… I just thought—”

“Like I said, I want to do it,” he says. “You and I both know I like helping.”

You sigh. “Of course you do. Your childhood wish was literally to fulfill your friends’ and family’s wishes.”

He grins like that’s exactly the response he wanted, then walks around to the driver’s side. You follow, sliding into the passenger seat out of habit more than anything else. His car always smells faintly like something clean and something warm—like fabric softener and coffee that’s no longer there but somehow still exists in the air.

You buckle in, setting your bag on your lap, and by the time you look up, he’s already starting the engine.

He glances at you briefly. “Seatbelt?”

You tug on it pointedly. “Already on.”

“Good.” There’s a small pause, then he asks, “You forget anything else?”

You think about it for a second. Your keys are in your pocket. Your phone is in your bag. Password, checked. Wallet, checked. Charger, checked.

“No,” you say, more certain this time.

He nods once, satisfied, then he pulls out and you’re off.

The drive to the airport is uneventful. There’s no awkwardness, no weird tension, no pressure. Nothing dramatic happens. The fake relationship arrangement doesn’t even get brought up.

At one point, you reach into your bag to check your passport again and he doesn’t say anything, just glances over and then back at the road. At another, he hands you a bottle of water without looking, like he already knew you were about to get thirsty.

You don’t question how he knows—you never really have.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it doesn’t feel like a big moment. You think it should. You’re leaving for a week. You’re about to see your family. You’re about to pretend to date your best friend in front of people who will absolutely analyze everything. But instead, it feels… normal.

Your family’s private jet means there’s no long lines, no crowded terminals, no rushing through security with a million other people. Still, there are steps—check-ins, confirmations, small formalities that need to be handled.

And somehow, even in that, there are moments.

He takes your suitcase out the trunk before you can even reach for it, and you don’t even bother stopping him this time. When you’re at the counter, he stands so close to you that if you shifted slightly or turned around, your arm would brush his and you’d be face to face with his chest. You hand over your documents. He hands over his.

At some point, he leans in over just a little and you feel his breath ghost over the shell of your ear, “You’re holding your passport upside down.”

You look down. You are.

You flip it quickly, heat creeping up your neck. “I knew that.”

“Of course you did.” You don’t look at him, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You step onto the apron with Phainon, both your suitcases rolling smoothly in his hands. Your family’s jet isn’t hard to miss; it’s just parked a short distance away. You’ve seen it a hundred times before—rode it a couple times even as a child.

You hear Phainon whistle next to you. “That’s yours?”

Right. This is his first time seeing your family’s jet.

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah.”

“Must be nice,” he says. Then he gestures forward, smiling. “Come on, then, pumpkin.”

You grimace. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, princess.”

You elbow him lightly.

The two of you don’t get far before you spot them.

Aglaea is already there—beautiful, composed, and put together, like she belongs in every space she steps into. Beside her is—

“No way,” you say as you approach, because there is absolutely no way what you’re seeing is real. “You’re Agy’s plus one?”

Anaxa looks up from whatever he was doing, and his expression shifts into something faintly amused. “Good morning to you too,” he says. Aglaea sighs from beside him.

“No, but seriously— you?” You look at Anaxa, then at your cousin. “He’s your plus one?”

Phainon laughs beside you, clearly entertained.

Anaxa crosses his arms. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Uh… Yes?”

“Right.”

“I mean— sure, we’re all friends,” you say, “but I thought Agy would be bringing Tribios. You two are basically like cats and dogs.”

“Can we not do this right now?” Aglaea pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s here and he’s my plus one. End of discussion.”

“That settles that then,” Phainon says rather cheerfully. He nods toward the other two easily like nothing happened at all. “Did we keep you waiting?”

Aglaea shakes her head. “Not at all. We just got here ourselves.”

Anaxa then glances at the two of you, gaze lingering for just a second too long. You narrow your eyes at him slightly in suspicion. He smiles.

Ohh. I don't like that.

“So,” you say, turning back to Aglaea, “everything ready?”

“Yes. The crew’s already finished most of the preparations. We can board whenever we’d like.”

The four of you start moving toward the jet, suitcases rolling across the tarmac. You’re mentally running through your checklist again—passport, wallet, charger—when Anaxa speaks.

“I know about your arrangement, by the way.”

You stop walking. Phainon stops walking.

The wheels of your suitcase screech slightly as it lurches to a halt beside you. You stare at the back of Anaxa’s head because he’s still moving, completely unbothered, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you.

You turn to Aglaea. “You told him?”

She doesn’t look at you right away. “He would have figured it out anyway.”

“But why?”

“I know it’s supposed to be something just between the three of us,” she starts, calm and measured, “but Anaxa isn’t going to tell anyone about your predicament. And is he not your friend, too? I think it’s better that he knows now than letting him figure the two of you out on his own.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

She’s not wrong—that’s the frustrating part. Anaxa has known you long enough to know when something is off, and he’s the kind of person who would notice things. If he’d spent even just half a day watching you and Phainon, he would have arrived at his own conclusions.

Still.

You look at him. He’s glanced back now, expression hovering between neutral and entertained. “I’m not going to snitch on you to your family, I assure you,” he says.

“You better not!”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” Anaxa glances at Phainon then, though brief.

Phainon clears his throat beside you. You turn to look at him. He flashes a placating smile at you, the picture of innocence.

“Right,” you say, mostly to yourself, and you grab the handle of your suitcase and start walking again because standing in the middle of the tarmac is not going to make any of this better. “Wonderful. Great. Everyone knows. Let’s move on now.”

Aglaea falls into step beside you. You don’t look at her. She doesn’t say anything, which means she’s waiting for you to work through it on your own.

“I’m not upset with you, Agy,” you murmur to her.

“I know,” she says.

You exhale. “I just would have liked a warning.”

“Would you have agreed if I’d asked first?”

You think about it honestly for a second. “…probably not.”

“Then you understand why I didn’t.”

You do. You hate that you do, but you do.

You walk the rest of the short distance in silence, and when you reach the steps of the jet, you let Phainon take your suitcase again without arguing—mostly because you’re tired of fighting small battles this early in the morning, and partly because it’s Phainon, and he was going to do it anyway.

When you step inside the cabin, it is warm and familiar and slightly too loud, layered with overlapping conversations. It’s got that particular energy of people who haven’t seen each other in a while and are making up for lost time.

You immediately clock most of the faces—cousins, aunts, uncles, and some family friends you recognize but can’t name immediately. The space is comfortable and well-appointed in that way that stops being impressive once you’ve grown up around it, though you notice Phainon isn’t beside you anymore—he’d peeled off just outside to handle the luggage with Anaxa.

Then your mother sees you.

“There she is!”

You barely have time to brace yourself before she’s crossing the cabin with your father right behind her, both of them wearing the kind of expressions that make you feel like you’re twelve again and coming home from a long trip.

Your mother reaches you first, pulling you into a hug that’s tighter than the occasion calls for, and you hug her back automatically, laughing a little despite yourself.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” She pulls back to look at your face, hands on your shoulders, studying you the way she always does—like she’s checking that everything is still where she left it.

Then your father steps in, quieter but no less warm, and wraps an arm around you briefly. “You look good,” he says simply.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Your mother spots Aglaea next and immediately pivots, opening her arms. “Aglaea! Come here.”

Your cousin steps forward and accepts the hug gracefully, returning it with the kind of practiced warmth that comes from years of being folded into your family’s orbit. Your father greets her as well, and for a moment, the four of you fall into easy small talk—how was the drive to the airport, how has the studio been, how long has it been since they last saw each other.

Then your mother turns back to you, and the shift in her expression is immediate. “So,” she says, “where is Phainon?”

Right on cue, the cabin door opens behind you.

You turn. Phainon steps in, slightly windswept from being outside, straightening the front of his jacket as he scans the cabin. His eyes find you first, and then he clocks your parents standings right beside you and smiles, easy, like he’d been expecting this exact moment.

Your mother makes a sound you would describe as delighted.

Aglaea smoothly excuses herself with a small smile before stepping away into the cabin, leaving you standing there with absolutely no buffer.

Your mother is already moving toward Phainon before he’s fully crossed the cabin, waving him over with both hands like she’s flagging down someone she’s been waiting for. Phainon doesn’t miss a beat—he meets her halfway and when she pulls him into a hug, he returns it with the same ease he does everything.

“It’s so nice to see you again, ma’am,” he says when she lets go, warm and genuine. “It’s been a while.”

Your mother lights up completely you almost have to look away. “Oh, you remember me! Of course you do—you were always such a sweet boy.” Then she waves a hand at him, almost dismissive. “And stop calling me that! Just call me Mom since you’re my daughter’s boyfriend now.”

Your heart skips a beat at that.

“Haha, okay, Mom.” The word rolls out of him naturally, and your mother looks like she could float. Then Phainon turns toward your father and extends a hand. “Sir.”

“Not sir—call me Dad now.” Your father bypasses the handshake entirely, grabbing Phainon’s outstretched hand and using it to pull him into a quick hug instead, with one firm pat landing on his back.

You watch all of this happen, smiling with your whole face because you are in front of your parents and that is the only acceptable expression to be wearing right now.

Phainon glances over at you from beside your father, and the look on his face is calm but also amused, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and finds it genuinely funny.

You keep smiling. He keeps staring.

Your mother notices, of course, because your mother notices everything. She glances between the two of you and sighs contentedly, like she’s watching something she personally arranged come together exactly as planned.

“Well,” she starts, pleased with the world, “I’m so glad you’re both here.”

Your father settles back slightly, hands in his pockets, looking between you and Phainon with the quieter version of the same satisfaction your mother is wearing openly on her face.

“So,” your mother says, folding her hands together. “How long have you two been together?”

You glance at Phainon. He glances at you. It lasts maybe half a second, just something long enough for something to pass between you.

Just like what we practiced.

“Three months,” you both say at the same time.

Your mother blinks, then breaks into a wide smile, clearly reading the synchronization as something far more romantic than rehearsal. Your father makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh.

“Three months,” your mother repeats, as if savoring it. “And you kept it from me for three months.”

“We wanted to be sure first,” Phainon says, smooth and easy, and you could have not said it better yourself so you simply nod along like that was always going to be your answer too.

Your mother turns to your father with an expression that very clearly says I told you so without using any of those words. Your father receives it with the patience of someone who has been on the receiving end of that look for decades.

“Well,” your father says, returning his gaze to the two of you, “I’m glad you’re here, Phainon.”

Phainon smiles. “I’m glad to be here, sir—” He stops himself, and glances at your father. “Dad.”

Your father nods once, satisfied, like that was the correct answer.

“We won’t take up too much of your time now,” your father says. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up once we land. Your mother’s already made dinner plans.”

“Dinner,” your mother confirms, pointing between you and Phainon like she’s booking a reservation on the spot. “Just the four of us once we’re settled in Lushaka.”

“We’d love that,” Phainon says, and you nod beside him, smiling.

“Good.” Your mother looks satisfied in the way she gets when something she wanted has been granted to her before she even had to ask twice.

She reaches put and pats your cheek once affectionately, then Phainon’s arm, and then your father is already steering her gently back toward their seats. You watch them go for a second, then exhale.

“First obstacle done,” you say, though mostly to yourself.

“We’ll survive,” Phainon says, smiling.

The two of you make your way further into the cabin, looking for seats, and then that’s when it happens. Your aunt catches your eye from across the cabin and makes a beeline for you. Her gaze lands on Phainon and stays there.

“This is your boyfriend?” she says, not quite asking, reaching out to grab your arm.

“Yes,” you say.

“How handsome!” She’s already looking at him like she’s appraising something. “Oh, you did well. You did so well.”

Phainon laughs, gracious about it in a way you could never be. “Thank you, auntie.”

That does it—the auntie alone sends her. And where she goes, the others follow.

You spend the next several minutes being passed between relatives like a relay baton, except the baton is you and the thing being examined is Phainon standing next to you. There are cheek pinches—yours, not his, which you find deeply unfair. There are comments about how good you look together, about his height, his face, about how polite he is, about how your grandmother would have adored him.

One of your older aunts grabs both your hands and then his and holds them together like she’s performing a blessing. “You’re going to have such gorgeous children,” she says with complete sincerity.

You laugh because the alternative is you combusting. “We’ve only been together three months.”

“And? Your uncle proposed to me after two.”

You have no response to that.

Then another aunt claps her hands together and looks at Phainon directly. “So when’s the wedding?”

Phainon tilts his head, and the smile that settles on his face is relaxed and warm and just happy enough that you almost believe it yourself. “We just started dating, auntie,” he says, “but who knows—maybe if she catches the bouquet during the ceremony, ours could be next.”

The collective reaction from your aunts is immediate and extremely loud. Meanwhile, your face goes completely hot.

You turn to Phainon with your eyes wide and your mouth open and you smack his arm with the back of your hand. He doesn’t even flinch—he just laughs, bright and unbothered, like he didn’t just say that to a captive audience of your most excitable relatives.

“You—!” you start.

He’s still laughing.

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, which only makes it worse because now he’s looking at you with such expression—the one that’s fond and amused in equal measure—and your aunts are watching all of this and sighing like it’s the most romantic thing they’ve ever witnessed.

You grab his arm and pull. “We’re going to sit down now,” you announce to no one in particular, already steering him away before anyone can ask a follow-up question. There are both delighted and disappointed sounds behind you. You don’t look back.

You find two empty seats near Aglaea and Anaxa and drop into yours with the energy of someone who has just survived something. Phainon settles in beside you, still smiling and unruffled.

Aglaea looks up from whatever she’d been reading. She takes one look at your face and understands. “The aunts?”

You nod tiredly. “The aunts.”

Anaxa glances at Phainon. Something passes between them, and you haven’t even looked much further to identify what it could mean before Anaxa looks back down at his phone without comment.

You sink a little lower in your seat.

The pilot’s voice comes through the speakers much later, letting everyone know they’d be taking off in the next minute or two. Around you, the cabin settles into that pre-flight quiet—the rustling of seatbelts, the last few conversations tapering off, and people shifting into their seats properly.

You buckle in, glance out the small oval window beside you, and then look at Phainon. “Have you ever been assigned to fly one of these?” you ask. “A private jet, I mean.”

He looks up from where he’d been adjusting his seatbelt. “Yeah, a few times. I don’t take them often though.”

“How come?”

He tips his head slightly, considering how to explain it. “Private flying is more luxurious on paper, but it’s a lot more exhausting than a commercial flight.”

You frown. “How?”

“On a commercial flight, I’m responsible for flying the aircraft,” he explains. “On a private one, I’m responsible for the entire aircraft. Loading the luggage—and that stuff gets heavy—cleaning the cabin, restocking everything, the toilets—”

“You clean the toilets?”

“I clean the toilets.” You stare at him. He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s part of the job.”

“What about when the client hires attendants?” you ask.

“It helps,” he says,” but it doesn’t change the fact that as the pilot, I’m still ultimately responsible for everything on board. There are physical and operational tasks that fall on me regardless of who else is there.”

You’d always known in the vague, general sense that Phainon’s job was demanding—the odd hours, the unpredictable schedule, the way he sometimes looked genuinely tired in a way that sleep didn’t entirely fix—but there was something about hearing it laid out plainly like that. And although he did say he doesn’t take these kinds of flights all the time, the luggage and the restocking and the responsibility that didn’t end when the flight did made it feel more concrete. He gave—gives—a lot to his job.

“That sounds really exhausting,” you say.

Phainon looks at you. Then he smiles and reaches over to flick your nose, gentle, before settling back in his seat. “You’re cute,” he says.

Your face warms and you rub the area he touched softly. “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he says, still smiling. “That’s what makes it cute.”

You turn back toward the window because that seems like the safest place to look right now. You don’t say anything else, and neither does he. But when the jet lifts and the ground falls away beneath you, Phainon’s shoulder is warm where it presses lightly against you, and you find that you don’t particularly feel like moving away.

The cabin settles into its cruising quiet sometime after takeoff. Around you, conversations have tapered off, replaced by the sounds of people finding ways to pass the time. You’ve got your book in your lap. Phainon, somewhere along the way, had pulled out his phone and put his earphones in, and you’d both drifted into your own separate silences.

You’re somewhere in the middle of a chapter when you feel it—a slight shift of weight, and then his head comes to rest on your shoulder. You go completely still.

His breathing has already evened out, which means he’s genuinely asleep.

You look up.

Aglaea is already looking at you, while Anaxa is asleep beside her, head tipped back. You stare at her and she raises an eyebrow. You make a face that you hope communicates the full scope of what you are experiencing right now. She only blinks—like a cat who has found the situation beneath her to intervene.

How helpful…

You face forward again. Okay—you think—this is fine. People fall asleep all the time; sometimes on each other even. It’s a long flight and he’s tired—you literally just learned how exhausting his job is, so this is completely reasonable and normal and you are not going to make it weird by thinking about it too hard.

But I’m already thinking about it too hard!

His hair is slightly tickling your neck. His shoulder is warm where it presses against your arm. You are painfully aware of the weight of his head and his breathing and the fact that if you turn even slightly, you will be looking directly at his face.

So, you do not turn. You attempt to read the same paragraph you left earlier—only to fail four times. You read it a fifth time, but the words are all just shapes now and you can’t retain a single word. You close the book and set it on the table.

You stare out the window and try to think about nothing, which is to say you mostly think about Phainon sleeping on your shoulder and how your heart has been racing since then.

Eventually, your eyes get heavy.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

The first thing you register is a sound—a soft, short snap and it pulls you through the layers of sleep. Your eyes open slowly, and that’s when you feel it.

Your cheeks is against Phainon’s hair. Your arms are around him, hands loosely wrapped above his elbow, his arm tucked neatly against your chest like you’d decided somewhere in the middle of sleep that you needed something to hold onto. His head is still on your shoulder, still asleep.

You look up.

Aglaea is lowering her phone with the satisfaction of someone who has just accomplished exactly what she set out to do. When she sees your face, she says nothing. She simply sets her phone down the table calmly.

Your mouth opens, and she tilts her head slightly. Don’t wake him up, the look says. You close your mouth.

You look down at Phainon, still asleep and completely unbothered by all of this. Then you look back at Aglaea, who has picked up her book and is now reading it like nothing happened.

You exhale through your nose as quietly as possible, and reach over with the hand not currently wrapped around Phainon’s arm. “Phainon,” you say softly, and touch his arm. “Hey… Wake up.”

He stirs slowly. His head lifts from your shoulder. He blinks once, straightening up and running a hand briefly through his hair. Then he looks at you, still soft around the edges with sleep. “Are we landing?”

“No,” you say. You’ve already unlooped your arm from his without drawing attention to the fact that it had been there in the first place. “But we’re almost there, I think.”

He nods and leans back in his seat. He rolls his neck once, then glances over at you with a smile. “Did you sleep?” he asks.

“A little,” you say.

Across the table, Aglaea turns a page.

The jet touches down an hour later and everyone starts gathering their things, and you’re stuffing your book back into your bag when you feel Phainon’s hand brush against your shoulder—to let you know it’s time to move—and you nod and stand.

The heat hits you the second you step out of the vehicle, thick and salty and immediately making your dress stick to your skin. And the sky above Lushaka is so blindingly bright and blue you have to squint against it as you make your way down the steps.

The apron is already busy by the time you get there, family members spilling out in loose clusters, hugging and laughing and talking over each other, and you spot Elora almost immediately in the distance. She’s standing near the front with a man you assume is her fiance.

Your aunts and uncles go first, swarming toward Elora with delighted noises, and you watch from a distance as she gets passed around from hug to hug.

You, Phainon, Aglaea, and Anaxa hang back because you’d all gone to grab your luggage first while everyone else had already been shuffled ahead, and you’re honestly fine with being last—you’re in no rush to get swept into whatever this reunion is going to turn into. But then, Elora’s eyes land on you from across the open and her whole face lights up.

She starts walking over before you’ve even finished bracing yourself, and you feel your stomach drop because you know exactly what’s coming—you can already see it in the way she’s opening her arms. You plaster on the kind of smile you reserve for customers who complain about their coffee being hot even though they asked for it hot.

“You made it!” Elora says, arms already wrapping around you in a hug that smells like expensive perfume, and then she pulls back just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, and you just stand there for a while before finally lifting your hand and patting her back twice.

It’s awkward and you know it is and you can feel Aglaea’s gaze on the back of your head, but you can’t help it. Your body just doesn’t know how to do warm and easy with Elora.

“I’m so glad you came,” she adds, stepping back, and her smile doesn’t waver even a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks for having us...”

Her eyes flick briefly past your shoulder, and you don’t even have to turn around to know who she’s looking at. Elora’s gaze stays there, and then she tilts her head slightly.

“Is this your plus one?” she asks.

“Yes,” you answer. “He’s—”

“Phainon!” She cuts in before you can even finish, and the way she says his name comes out delighted, and she’s already stepping past you to get a better look at him. “Am I right?”

“That’s me,” Phainon says easily, and he offers her a smile that’s polite enough to pass for genuine if you didn’t know him as well as you do; though you catch the way his eyes flick briefly to you before settling back on her.

“Wow,” Elora says, drawing the word out. She looks at him the way you’d look at a car you’re thinking about buying. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Never in my life would I have thought I’d get to meet my cousin’s boyfriend ever.”

Ugh, you think, I hate her!

She says the word boyfriend like she’s trying it out, even though you never once used that word in your RSVP. You just said plus one and left it at that, and you feel irked because she took one look at a name in an email and ran with the most exciting version of the story without even bothering to check.

She’s the one who put me in this mess!

“Right,” is all you say, but she’s entirely unbothered and uninterested in whatever else you have to say. Her attention is solely on Phainon now.

“So how did you two meet, exactly?” Elora asks Phainon. “I’m dying to know!”

“High school,” Phainon says. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

Elora smiles, bright. “That’s so sweet! Honestly, I’m just surprised, you know? You’re clearly very handsome, very put together—” she gestures vaguely at him, “—and I guess I just didn’t expect someone like you to end up with someone like… my cousin.”

The words land easily and casually, wrapped up in a compliment so you can’t even call her out on it without sounding like you’re the one being difficult, and you feel your face go warm. Not from embarrassment, but from something closer to irritation—the old and familiar kind you’ve spent years learning to swallow rather than spit back out.

Phainon doesn’t miss a beat. “I got lucky,” he says simply, and he reaches over, settling a warm and steady hand at the small of your back. “And she’s not hard to notice, really.”

There’s a deliberate emphasis on those last few words, small enough that Elora might not even catch it, but you do. And so does Aglaea, who you can hear making a small sound behind you that’s suspiciously close to a laugh she’s trying to hold in.

Elora blinks, and something flickers across her face briefly before she smooths it back into that same easy smile. “Of course,” she says. “I just meant it as a compliment.”

“I figured,” Phainon says, still smiling. And you think, not for the first time, that you’re really glad he’s on your side.

Elora is quick to move on from Phainon—like flipping a page before anyone can dwell too long on the last one—and her attention swings toward Aglaea and Anaxa standing just behind you, luggage still in hand.

“Aglaea!” she says, voice climbing back up into that bright and delighted register, and she steps forward to pull your other cousin into a hug that Aglaea returns with the same practiced warmth she gives everyone. “You look stunning as always. I swear you get more intimidating every time I see you.”

“You flatter me,” Aglaea says.

Elora giggles and then her gaze drifts to Anaxa, who hasn’t said anything yet. “And you must be Aglaea’s plus one,” she says, extending a hand toward him. “I don’t think we’ve properly met yet. I’m Elora.”

“Anaxagoras,” he says, shaking her hand once.

“Anaxagoras,” she repeats, testing the name. “That’s certainly a memorable name. How long have you and Aglaea been together?”

Anaxa doesn’t even blink when he says, “Long enough.”

Which, technically, isn’t a lie since they have been friends for years, but it’s vague enough that it tells Elora nothing at all, and you have to bite back a smile because you know exactly what he’s doing—giving Elora just enough to chew on without actually feeding her anything.

“Well, you two make a striking couple,” she says, undeterred, clapping her hands together. “Honestly, I don’t know how you all keep finding people who look like they walked out of a magazine. Must run in the family.”

Her eyes flick toward you for a brief second when she says it, long enough for you to catch it. You feel Phainon’s hand press slightly firmer against your back, like he caught it too—but neither of you says anything. And then Elora seems to remember something, glancing back over her shoulder before reaching out to tug a man close by the sleeve.

“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” she says, pulling the man into the little circle you’ve all formed. “Everyone, this is Nikolas. My fiance.”

Nikolas steps forward with an easy, almost sheepish smile—the kind that immediately feels warmer than anything Elora’s said in the last five minutes.

“Hi,” he says, giving a small wave like he’s not quite sure if a handshake or a hug is more appropriate and would rather not overstep. “It’s really nice to finally meet you all. Elora’s told me so much—I feel like I already know everyone.”

“Good things, I hope,” Aglaea says, and there’s the faintest curve of amusement at her mouth.

“Only good things,” Nikolas says, laughing a little.

He turns to you next, and his smile doesn’t shift into anything performative the way Elora’s does. “You must be the cousin who owns a cafe,” he says. “It’s great to finally put a face to the name.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you say.

He glances at Phainon beside you before speaking, “And, of course, the boyfriend. Nice to meet you too, man.”

“Likewise,” Phainon says, and this time his smile looks easier and much more genuine, like he’s already decided he likes Nikolas a lot better than the bride.

Elora claps her hands together at once, drawing everyone’s attention back before the conversation can wander any further. “Okay, we’ll catch up properly tonight, I promise, since we’ve got a family dinner planned once everyone’s settled in,” she says. “But for now, everyone should head to the villa first and get some rest. It’s been a long flight and I don’t want anyone falling asleep during appetizers.”

“We’ll see you tonight then,” Aglaea says, already steering the group toward the cars waiting at the edge of the apron.

“See you tonight!” Elora calls after you, and Nikolas gives one last easy wave before the two of them turn to greet the next cluster of relatives making their way down the steps.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Beside you, Phainon leans down slightly to your ear, voice low enough that only you can hear it, “Nikolas seems nice. How does someone like that end up marrying her?”

“Even I don’t know the answer to that,” you mutter and he laughs, and the sound helps loosen something tight in your chest that’s been sitting there since the second Elora’s arms wrapped around you.

The limousine rolls to a stop in front of the villa, and the driver comes around to open the door for you and the others. You step out, and behind you, Phainon is still climbing out of the car, looking around like he’s trying to memorize every detail of it before it disappears.

“Okay, so,” he starts once he’s beside you, voice pitched low with something like disbelief, “riding in a limo is actually insane. Like… genuinely. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in a car that had a mini fridge in it before until now.”

“Phainon, it’s just a car,” you say, though you’re smiling a little at how wide his eyes still are. If he had a tail, you just know it’d be wagging uncontrollably right now.

“It’s not just a car to me,” he says. Then he gestures back toward the other two limousines pulling up behind yours, doors opening and relatives spilling out onto the gravel in twos and threes. “And your family owns three??”

“Five, actually,” you say a little absentmindedly, already reaching for your bag. “The other two are probably back home in Amphoreus.”

Phainon just stares at you.

“What?” you ask, letting out a huff out of amusement. “You look ridiculous.”

“Five,” he repeats, like the number physically hurts him to say out loud. “Your family owns five limousines and I only found out about them now. And we’ve been friends for how long?”

“A long time,” you say.

“Yes, a long time,” he echoes. “And in that long time, you never once mentioned that your family owns a small fleet of limousines. I’ve known you since we were thirteen—thirteen!—and I’m only now learning this.”

“Well… The topic never really came up during past conversations,” you say, shrugging. “Our family owns a yacht too, if you want to know, and I think that’s far more interesting than a limousine.”

He shakes his head slowly, looking almost betrayed. “Okay, but then why did you even go to a public school? If your family has this kind of money, you could’ve gone anywhere. Some elite private academy with a uniform that probably costs more than my rent.”

You don’t even think twice about the words leaving you or how they might land when you say, “Then I wouldn’t have met you.” Because it’s genuine and it’s true—the same as the skies and waters of Lushaka being blue.

And Phainon goes still.

You glance over at him and he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking somewhere off to the side, ears going faintly red, jaw working like he’s trying to find something to say and coming up empty every single time, and you feel a smug satisfaction settle in your chest in your chest at having finally, for once, been the one to fluster him instead of the other way around.

“Are you—” you start, teasing, but before you can finish, Elora’s voice rings out from somewhere near the villa’s entrance.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention for just a second!” she calls, waving an arm to draw the group closer. “I know you’re all tired so I’ll make this quick. I just want to show you to your rooms so you can all rest before dinner.”

The crowd shifts and drifts toward her, and Phainon clears his throat beside you, still not quite meeting your eyes and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “that’s so unfair” before he grabs both your suitcase and his and starts walking—just a little too fast—toward the villa.

Elora leads the group through the villa room by room, pointing out names on little cursive place cards taped beside each door, and one by one relatives peel off with tired, grateful sighs. Eventually, she stops in front of a door near the corner of the hallway, tapping the little card taped to it.

“And this one’s yours,” she says, glancing between you and Phainon.

You blink at the door, then blink again when you realize that there’s only one card—both with your names written on it—which means there’s only one room and you need to share it with Phainon. The thought of staying in one bedroom with your fake boyfriend hadn’t even crossed your mind until now.

“Wait,” you say, almost in disbelief. “Just one room?”

“Well, you’re a couple,” Elora says in a tone that says like this should be obvious. “It’d be strange to put you in separate rooms, wouldn’t it? People would talk.”

Your mouth opens, but absolutely nothing comes out because your brain has apparently decided to short-circuit at the exact moment you needed it the most. You can feel your face heating up—can feel the way your grip on your bag tighten. But Phainon is already moving, sliding smoothly into the silence you left behind.

“Of course,” he says. He speaks so easily and unbothered like he already prepared for something like this to happen. Like sharing a room with just you and him is absolutely okay and normal for him. “Thank you so much for showing us around, Elora. We really appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course, anytime! I just want everyone to be comfortable and I figured—”

“We should probably get settled in before dinner,” he cuts in—still smiling, still polite—already reaching past you to push the door open. “Thanks again!”

And before Elora can get another word out, his hand finds the small of your back and he’s steering you inside. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound that leaves the two of you standing alone in the middle of the room.

Outside, you can just barely hear Elora’s voice moving further down the corridor—”Aglaea, Anaxa, you two are just down this hall”—already onto the next set of names and doors, the two of you forgotten and left behind in favor of the rest of the tour.

Your eyes catch on the bed immediately. One bed, and it’s not even a particularly large one. You look at it, then back at the bed, doing quiet, frantic math in your head about positions and space and how exactly two grown adults are supposed to share something built for one person without it being A Whole Thing.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Phainon says, setting both your suitcase down near the foot of the bed. “I’ve slept in far worse.”

You look at the floor. It’s tiled and hard and looks unforgiving. Then, with a sigh, you say, “Phainon, it’s fine.” You set your bag down before you can talk yourself out of it. “I don’t mind sharing the bed with you. I trust you.”

He looks at you, assessing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say. “So please, no need to sleep on the floor.”

“You’re accepting this much easier than I thought,” he says, and there’s something curious in the way he says it. Like he expected more resistance, more flustering, more of the reaction you gave Elora in the hallway moments ago.

You think back to what Elora said—about people talking, about how strange it would look like if you and your supposed boyfriend weren’t even sharing a room during a whole week of family events—and you sigh again, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s not like we can really do anything about it,” you say. “Beside, we can think of this like a sleepover. You know… like the ones we used to have before with the others.”

Phainon raises an eyebrow. “Those were more like torturous study nights. Anaxa made sure of that.”

“Still,” you say, “we all slept together in the same room.”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, though there’s no real protest left in it. “Fine,” he says. “Though maybe we should put a pillow in between… Just so I don’t accidentally squash you in the middle of the night.”

“You are pretty heavy,” you say.

He laughs at that, shaking his head as he drops down onto the other side of the bed to test the mattress. “Wow. Okay.” He looks over at you, grinning. “Well, now that that’s settled, should we unpack for now? Or do you want to rest first?”

You glance at the suitcases still sitting by the foot of the bed, then out the window where the light outside has started shifting into gold over the water in the distance.

“Let’s unpack,” you say. “If I lie down now, I don’t think I’m getting back up before dinner.”

“Fair point,” he says, already pushing himself up off the bed and reaching for his suitcase.

You watch him for a second before you get up too and grabbing your own, and the room settles into something easy and quiet. It’s just the two of you moving around each other, familiar in a way that almost makes you forget—for a moment—that any of this is supposed to be pretend.

© 2026 kominigiru.

taglist: @ofcdimi

end note: i actually didn’t know how to end this chapter and the ending seemed kinda rushed but i’ve been writing this chapter for too long now and i feel bad for those who have been waiting since january akdbahfhsh

thank you to maemae for giving me the idea of “there’s only one bed” trope!! bwahahaha i can’t wait to do something about it…. (rubs hands together) 🪰 and for those who voted for phainon falling asleep on reader, yay for you! 😋

the amount of research i had to do for this chapter was ABYSMAL (not really) but it was actually so fun learning new things LOL i felt like a nerd (in a good way!!) writing the conversation between the mc and phainon during the plane scene. it’s not really relevant to the fic but phainon is a senior first officer. they’re basically the co-pilot and second in command—right after the captain (either the junior captain or the senior). in my head, both mc and phainon are in their late 20s (either or between 27-29yo. also imagine pining for someone for 11+ years 😅) and phainon can technically upgrade to a junior captain position but he just chooses not to because their schedules are a lot more flexible than that of a junior captain and they still need to work during weekends and holidays while a sfo is guaranteed to have off days on weekends. i think it suits phainon a lot, especially in this fic if you consider the fact that his schedule is almost always free when it comes to mc :D

Recently watched zombie stage and saw the way Sua looked and had to draw Phainon as her in this scene with vivinos's style >< same with the eyes since Phainon's are just so pretty <3

P.S. Just now i realized i should have called Phainon's the eyes of hate FUCK

P.P.S Was gonna call the warning instead of eyeballs Phaiballs... and then realized how people would think i meant something else ◕_◕

Tags! : @tdg4lore @danhoneyyy @sunphais @yae-yu127 @voxetty @bonbonboniita @shoohsooo @tllamas @lollipipz @baekeigo13 @euphoriasgly @kayzvxa @bazoonkas @supertrashycolors @burningfacetraveler @nightchrono @ahzxu @belchyra @aelxr @what-is-wrong-with-everyone @shrikehearts @raw4dawgger @kaishameer @luminescent-kinger @celesteelysia @amphitrie