I should come back here 🙈

Subject: You have been invited! 🤍

Hi, cousin! I hope you’ve been doing well! It feels like it’s been forever since we last caught up. I wanted to reach out and share some exciting news with you. I’ll be getting married on February 10, in Lushaka. The whole family will be staying at a suite for the week following the wedding, so it should be a really special time together. We can finally catch up about our lives, too! Since this is a destination wedding with coordinated travel and accommodations, it is required that guests attend with a confirmed date or plus one. Flights and accommodation have already been arranged for you and your guest, which I hope makes things easier on your end. Of course, I completely understand if this doesn’t align with your availability, but if you are to join us, I’d love to have everything confirmed on or before January 31 so we can keep plans running smoothly. All additional details and the RSVP form can be found here: [link] Can’t wait to see you! ☺️ Elora

JANUARY 31

You stare at Aglaea from across the table, chin propped on both hands, your expression so severe it almost hurts your face. The cafe hums around you—the low chatter of the customers tucked into their own conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter, the comforting, familiar normalcy of a Saturday morning—but your mind is very much elsewhere.

Aglaea, of course, looks perfectly at ease.

She always does on Saturdays. It’s her one sacred day off, which somehow makes it inevitable that this would be the day you unload all of this onto her. She sits back in her chair, legs crossed and coffee cradled loosely in her hands, as though you haven’t just dropped a bomb on the table between you.

“And Elora only sent you this,” she says slowly, “yesterday night?” She glances at her phone briefly, tapping on the screen once. “Today is January 31st.”

“Exactly!” you burst out, voice pitching a little too loud than intended. A couple of customers glance over. You don’t bother lowering your voice—this is your place, after all. And if the universe wants to embarrass you, it can at least do it in your own turf. “How did she even get my email in the first place?”

“She asked me for it,” Aglaea says. “She already had my contact. Though that happened… a month ago already, I believe.”

You groan and slump back into your chair, dragging a hand down your face. “She did this on purpose. She thinks she’s so funny—springing a destination wedding on me with a one-day deadline.” You shake your head, exasperated. “She’s so annoying.”

“Indeed,” Aglaea hums, nodding in agreement. “Still, will you be going? It is still January 31st. Technically, you have time to respond.”

“I don’t know,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I mean… the free accommodations and trip are tempting, but when someone sends you an email like that a day before the deadline, it kind of feels like the universe is suggesting I just stay home.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Aglaea adds, almost offhandedly, “I will be attending. I’d like it if you were there with me.”

You blink. “Yeah? You already secured a plus one?”

You catch the brief twitch of her eyebrow, gone as quickly as it came. “I have someone in mind.”

“Well, good for you,” you mutter. “Because I don’t. She said a date is required to attend the wedding. And even if I did have one, I don’t exactly have time to find a dress suitable for a destination wedding halfway across the world.”

“I could lend you one of my designs,” Aglaea offers smoothly. “And surely you could ask one of your employees to accompany you?”

“They’re all college students, Agy,” you reply, sighing. “They’re busy. And I’m not dragging a nineteen year old to another country for family drama.”

Aglaea tilts her head slightly. “Then, what about Phainon?”

“Phainon?” you repeat. “You know how packed his schedule is. He barely even has time to hang out with us when the whole group manages to be in the same room.”

Aglaea lets out a soft huff, clearly amused. “A small correction,” she says lightly. “He barely has time to hang out with the rest of us. You, however, seem to be the exception.”

“No?” You frown at her, genuinely puzzled. “It’s just a coincidence. Whenever we hang out, you guys are the ones buried in work.”

Aglaea fixes you with a flat look, unimpressed and entirely unconvinced. Then she sighs, lifting a hand as if to brush the thought away. “Nevermind. Regardless, you should still try asking him.”

“And if he’s not available?”

“Then,” she says, “we can explore other options. One of the others perhaps.”

You hum, drumming your fingers against the tabletop, the idea settling uncomfortably—and yet not entirely unpleasantly—in your chest. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll ask him. I’ll let you know if he says yes.”

Aglaea lifts her cup and takes an unhurried sip of her coffee. When she lowers it, there’s the faintest curve to her lips.

“Oh, trust me,” she says, confident, “he will.”

It’s the end of the shift.

The espresso machine is finally quiet. The chairs are all right-side up on the tables except for the two Dan Heng and Caelus are still wiping down. You step out from the kitchen, tugging your apron loose as you dry your hands on it.

“Alright,” you start, “you guys can clock out now.”

Both of them freeze. Dan Heng’s cloth pauses mid-swipe; Caelus straightens like he’s been caught doing something illegal. They exchange a look, quick and silent, before turning back to you.

“It’s late,” you add. “Go home.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Dan Heng asks. He always asks like this—always so polite.

Caelus nods immediately. “We can stay until you finish locking up! I mean—we don’t really mind.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. It’s been a long day, your feet ache, and you’re pretty sure there’s still a stack of invoices waiting for you in the office, but moments like this make it hard to complain. You think—fondly—that you’re really lucky to have such earnest, sweet college kids as employees.

“It’s fine,” you say. “Really. And didn’t you two say you’d visit March after your shifts today?”

Dan Heng hesitates. “Yes, but… I think March would understand if we told her we stayed behind to help you close.”

Caelus nods again, so hard you worry his neck might snap. “If she were here, she’d insist we stay with you, too. The Astral Express Brew family has to stick together, you know?”

You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest, and shake your head as you push yourself off the counter. “You kids are too sweet.”

You hear Caelus immediately protest—”We’re not kids anymore!”—when the bell above the front door rings. All three of you turn.

Dan Heng is the first to react. “We’re closed,” he says, automatically, already setting his cloth down.

The man standing in the doorway doesn’t look even remotely bothered by that information. He comes in—still in uniform, jacket half-zipped, and cap tucked under his arm. “Well,” the man says easily, grinning as he lets the door swing shut behind him, “it’s a good thing I’m not here to order anything, then.”

You blink. “Phainon? What are you doing here?”

Phainon laughs—that familiar, warm sound that always makes your shoulders loosen even without you realizing. “Hi. I figured I’d stop by.”

“You’re still in your work clothes,” you say, frowning slightly as you walk over to him. “You should’ve just gone straight home.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, hands tucked casually inside his jacket pockets. “I’ve got time,” he says, smiling. “You usually close around this time so I figured I’d check on you anyway. Maybe drive you back to your apartment.”

Your heart does something inconvenient at that.

Before he can protest, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the nearest table—the one Caelus had been wiping down with far too much enthusiasm—and push him into a chair. He lets you, laughing under his breath as he sits.

“I can get home by myself just fine,” you say, even though your cheeks feel incredibly warm. “Have you eaten? We’ve still got pastries left over from today if you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine,” he replies easily. “I don’t want to keep you here longer than you already are.”

You huff, unimpressed. “You say that like you’re not the one who walked into a closed cafe.”

From the side, Caelus grins. “Dan Heng and I were actually gonna wait for Boss Ma’am here,” he says proudly, slinging an arm over Dan Heng’s shoulder. “So, you know—we could all leave together.”

Phainon’s gaze flicks to Caelus, assessing. The two stare at each other in silence before Phainon lets out a quiet huff of amusement. There’s something knowing in the look he gives the college kid—something almost approving. Caelus only grins wider.

“That’s thoughtful,” Phainon says at last. “But I’m here now. You guys can head home.”

“Why don’t they ride with us?” you suggest offhandedly, the words tumbling out before you think too hard about them. “We’re going the same way anyway.”

All three of them snap their heads toward you.

Phainon’s smile wavers. His brows knit together, something like alarm flickering across his face before he schools it away. Dan Heng’s eyes widen just a fraction too much, his back straightening and going stiff. Beside him, Caelus blanches and freezes outright.

Dan Heng recovers first. He deliberately clears his throat. “It’s really fine, miss,” he says, even shaking his head. “We don’t want to intrude. We’ll just take the bus.”

“Yeah—yeah!” Caelus jumps in. “Totally fine! No rides needed. Buses are—uh—very efficient.” He nods once, then again, as if affirmation might get them out faster. “We’ll text once we get to March’s place! Promise!”

“Oh.” The sound slips out of you quieter than you intended. “Okay then.” There’s a faint crease between your brows—something like disappointment, though it’s soft. “Just don’t stay up too late, alright? You’re still growing boys.”

“We’re practically adults already!” Caelus protests, scandalized.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Sure, sure.” You gesture toward the counter. “Just leave your aprons there and I’ll handle the rest. I’ll see you both next week—maybe even March as well once her fever’s gone down.”

Dan Heng inclines his head politely, relief written all over the motion. Caelus waves with exaggerated enthusiasm, already halfway to the door. The bell chimes as they head out, ringing just a second longer than usual—as if even it is aware they’re abandoning you to what is clearly Not Their Business.

Once they’re gone, Phainon speaks up, “Do you need help with anything?”

You shake your head, already moving—already slipping into “closing mode” as you duck behind the counter. You gather the abandoned aprons and the slightly damp towels Dan Heng and Caelus left behind, folding them over your arm like second nature.

“I’ll just return these, then we can go,” you say, halfway to the back already. Then you pause, halting in your steps, the thought catching up to you all at once. Right! The wedding! You turn back, a little brighter. “Oh! I also need to tell you something.”

Phainon stares at you. The shift in his posture is subtle, but you notice it—the way his back straightens like he’s bracing himself for something.

“You… need to tell me something?” he repeats.

“I’ll tell you once we’re in the car,” you add, oblivious to the war going on inside his head. “You can wait for me there.”

For a second, it looks like he might say something—his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. He’s hesitating, like your name is right there on the tip of his tongue. Then he exhales slowly, a quiet breath he doesn’t seem to realize he was holding.

“Yeah,” he finally says, a restrained smile pulling at his lips. “Alright. Take your time.”

He pushes his chair and stands. You don’t think much of it as you head into the backroom.

The storage area smells faintly of detergent and coffee grounds. You hang the aprons where they belong, line up the towels, wringing out the last of the water before tossing them into the bin.

When you step back out front, the cafe is quiet and Phainon is nowhere to be found.

The chair he had been sitting on is already right-side up, tucked neatly under the table as if no one had ever occupied it at all.

He really did go wait in the car.

You exhale softly, shake your head, and move on. You flip the sign on the door, lock it, then check it once more out of habit. The lights click off one by one, the cafe falling into its familiar after-hours stillness. Then you grab your things and finally step outside—ready, at last, to say what you meant to tell Phainon.

The car is already cold when you get in, and it smells faintly like his cologne. Phainon’s already in the driver’s seat, hands resting on the wheel like he’s holding on for support. You shut the door, the sound loud in the enclosed space.

“Okay,” you start as you settle into your seat. You hesitate, fingers curling around the strap of your bag. “So… about that thing I was going to tell you…”

Phainon stiffens. His shoulders tense, his grip tightening just enough that you notice it from the corner of your eye. He glances at you, then back at the windshield, like he’s bracing himself.

“I’ve li—” he says, turning toward you at the same time.

You speak over him—too quickly, thanks to your nerves. “Can you be my plus one for my cousin’s wedding?”

The words land all at once. There’s a beat. Then another.

“What?” you both say, perfectly in sync.

You blink. “Wait, what did you say?” you ask. You genuinely hadn’t caught it, too focused on getting your question out.

Phainon’s mouth is still slightly open, whatever it is he was about to say hanging there unfinished. He looks at you for a moment, but then shakes his head, like he’s cutting something short before it can hurt.

“It’s nothing,” he says. He then puts on a smile. “Sorry. What was it you said again?”

“Oh.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud the car seems despite there being just the two of you inside. “Um—” You clear your throat. “I asked if you could be my plus one. For my cousin’s wedding.”

He doesn’t even seem to think about it. There’s no long pause, no careful weighing of pros and cons—just an immediate: “Sure. When is it?”

You stare at him for a moment longer than necessary.

Aglaea was right, then. He really did say yes.

“The 10th of February,” you say, finally. “It’s a destination wedding, in Lushaka.” You shift slightly in your seat. “My cousin’s covering the cost of everything—the plane tickets, the accommodations, all of it. So all we really need to do is pack a week’s worth of clothes. And, you know, whatever else we might need.”

“A week’s worth?” Phainon tilts his head, brows lifting.

“Yeah,” you say. “Apparently, after the wedding, everyone’s staying for the following week. Lots of family dinners and scheduled stuff, I think. But I’m sure they’ll let us wander off on our own during the day.” You shrug. “It’s basically a short vacation.”

“Wow,” Phainon says, genuinely impressed. “Your cousin is rich.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Everyone in our family is rich, Phainon.”

“Oh. Right.” He lets out a small, awkward laugh. Then, more quietly, he asks, “Why me, though?”

“Well…” you start, “you were the first person that came to mind.” You glance away, then add, almost casually, “If you’d said no, I would’ve asked Mydei next.”

“It’s a good thing I said yes, then,” he says, almost immediately, though lightly enough that it almost passes for casual.

For half a second, your heart picks up the pace. You think—stupidly, traitorously—that he might follow it up with something else. Something softer. Something honest. That he might say it’s because he wants to be there with you. Instead, he adds, “My flights have never taken me to Lushaka before, so I’m really glad you thought of me first.”

Oh.

You swallow, the disappointment sharp and immediate before you can stop it. You don’t know why you even let yourself think—why your mind leapt so quickly, so stupidly, to something romantic.

He’s your best friend, you remind yourself firmly. Of course he doesn’t think of you like that.

The thought stings more than it should. You turn it over, try to flatten it, to make it less embarrassing. And why am I so affected? You’ve moved on. You’re sure you have. Whatever feelings you might’ve had once are old and dull now—things you packed away neatly and stopped touching.

“Well,” you say after a moment, forcing your voice to stay light, “I’m glad you said yes.” You glance at him, then back at your hands. You fiddle with the strap of your bag. “Of all the people I know, you’re probably the only one who can handle the drama in my family.”

Phainon laughs, easy and genuine, and the sound loosens something in you despite yourself. “Is that my qualification now?” he asks. “Able to withstand family drama?”

You snort despite yourself. “Yeah. We’re sharing the burden.”

“Wow,” he says, mock offended. “I feel so honored.”

Then he grins and glances over you. “So… do you want to go home right away?” he asks. “Or do you want to go somewhere else first?”

You look at him, and something in your expression must give you away because the smile on his face softens, concern flickering briefly across his eyes. You turn away before he can ask.

“I want to go home,” you say quietly. “I still need to respond to my cousin’s email.”

“Okay,” he says.

He doesn’t press further; he just starts the car and turns the radio on low. Streetlights blur past the windows as he drives onto the road.

For some reason, the ride to your apartment feels quieter than it should even with music playing in the background.

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

You: He said yes Aglaea: I told you. Aglaea: Did you respond to Elora’s email yet? You: I just got home. I’ll send a reply in a bit You: Phainon came by btw Aglaea: What good timing he has. His my-best-friend-needs-me alarm must’ve set off. You: ????

✉︎ Astral Express Brew Fam 🚂

Caelus: we got to march safe and sound boss ma’am!!! (ᴗ͈`ヮ´ᴗ͈) Dan Heng: Thank you for having us again today, miss. Dan Heng: Are you home yet? March: I’m so sad I couldn’t go to work todayyyy March: Caelus told me Mr. Phainon came by before you guys closed up March: Why did I have to get the flu right now 😢 Caelus: you would have agreed to the free ride if you were here March: It’s FREE!!! March: And Mr. Phainon has an expensive car!!! You don’t get to ride a car like that everyday Dan Heng: There was a reason we declined. You: Hi everyone! You: I just got home. Thank you for asking, Dan Heng ☺️ You: And what could be the ‘reason’ you declined, Dan Heng? Dan Heng: Oh. Hello, miss. Dan Heng: It’s nothing really. We just didn’t want to be a bother. Caelus: we didn’t want to crash your bonding moment with mr. phainon boss ma’am Dan Heng: Caelus, kindly shut up. Caelus removed a message. You: Oh, what was that? I didn’t get to see it 😅 Caelus: no worries boss ma’am Caelus: it was just me getting the sillies You: Well, if you say so You: Don’t stay up too late, okay? You: And hopefully you can get back to work by next week, March ☺️ March: TT_____TT March: We love you, Boss Ma’am!!! You: I love you guys too :) Caelus, Dan Heng, and March loved this message.

✉︎ Boss Ma’am’s Favorite Employees 🔥🔥🔥

Dan Heng: We’re lucky miss didn’t see your message, Caelus Caelus: dan hengggg Caelus: i’m sorryyyy 😔😔😔 Caelus: aren’t you tired of their pining though Caelus: i mean it’s cute but it’s kind of pathetic Dan Heng: It’s their love life. We’re just in for the ride. Dan Heng: And they’re adults already. They’ll eventually get to that point. Caelus: they’re so mutual pining friends to lovers slow burn with 33550336 million words coded March: Why is that so specific March: Also why are we talking in the gc?? March: We’re literally all in the SAME room

Subject: RSVP - February 10

Hi Elora, Thanks for the invitation. I just saw your email. I’ll be attending the wedding on February 10, and I’ll be coming with a plus one. His name is Phainon, so you can include him in the arrangements you’ve already made. I’m glad I managed to respond just in time, though I will say it was a little impressive to receive the invitation the night before the RSVP deadline. You certainly know how to keep things exciting. Looking forward to seeing everyone in Lushaka. With regards, Your dear cousin

FEBRUARY 1

Subject: Re: RSVP - February 10

Hi! Got your RSVP! Thanks for sending it over. I’ve noted that you’ll be attending on February 10 with a plus one. Phainon will be included in the flight and accommodation arrangements that were already made. Glad you were able to respond before the deadline! Everything worked out perfectly in the end, so no worries on my side. I’ll also note that I won’t be sending emails right before deadlines again! We’ll be sharing finalized flight details and the full itinerary soon, so keep an eye out for that. Looking forward to seeing you in Lushaka! 🤍 Elora

FEBRUARY 3

Subject: Flight Details, Tickets, and Wedding Itinerary 🤍

Hi, cousin! As promised, I’m sending over the finalized travel details for Lushaka, along with the soft copies of your tickets and the full wedding itinerary. Everything has already been arranged with your plus one, so you shouldn’t need to worry about logistics in your end ☺️ Attached: - Flight tickets (soft copy) - Accommodation confirmation - Wedding week itinerary Your outbound flight is scheduled for February 8, with a return on February 15. Airport transports will be waiting upon arrival, and all transportation during the week has been coordinated. The itinerary includes several formal events in addition to the ceremony itself, so please remember to bring proper attire—especially your best dress for the wedding and evening functions. If there are any issues with the attachments, let me know. Otherwise, everything should be set. Safe travels! 🤍 Elora

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: Have you gotten Elora’s email? You: I just read it You: She’s so condescending, Agy You sent a screenshot. You: Is she telling me I have bad tastes in clothes Aglaea: It’s a good thing you have me, then. Aglaea: Are you free tomorrow? I’ll clear my schedule for you. Aglaea: Let’s try on some dresses. You: Agyyyy You: I love youuuuu Aglaea: Yes, yes. And bring Phainon along.

FEBRUARY 4

When you texted Phainon last night to ask if he’d be available the next day after lunch for a fitting with Aglaea—for the wedding, you clarified, as if he didn’t already know—he replied almost immediately.

Phainon: Yes :D Phainon: I’ll pick you up at your cafe.

No question mark—like it was already decided. Well, it’s a free ride anyway so you’re not really complaining.

The next morning passes in a blur of muscle memory and routine. You remind Dan Heng—twice—that you’ll be leaving around noon, and that if you don’t come back before closing hours, he’s in charge of locking up. He nods, solemn, committing it to heart like it’s a sacred duty. Caelus makes a big show of telling you that he’d make sure to remind Dan Heng if he forgets. March, finally recovered from the flu, dramatically declares she has missed this place so much and then immediately starts gossiping about customers again like she never left.

By noon, you’re at the register, halfway through making change and explaining today’s specials to a customer, when someone appears at the counter beside them. An arm rests on the counter, far too casual and familiar, like it belongs there.

You look up—and promptly make a noise that is not dignified, not professional, and not something you will ever admit came from you.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt to the customer, mortified, already fumbling for their receipt. “Your order will be ready for just a moment. Thank you—thank you so much—”

You shove the receipt into their hands and immediately call out, “March! Cashier, please!”

March pops out from the back, cheerful. “On it—oh!” Her face lights up when she sees him. “Mr. Phainon! Hello!” she chirps, waving enthusiastically.

Phainon smiles back, easy and unbothered, returning the wave with a small nod like he hasn’t just derailed your entire nervous system by existing in your place of work without warning.

“Sorry, March,” you say quickly, already shrugging out of your apron. “My—uh—my ride is here. I’ll leave everything to you and the others for now, okay?”

She nods and gives you an exaggerated salute. “We won’t let you down, Boss Ma’am!”

You don’t even respond. You just flee.

You grab your bag and your phone from the back, your movements a little too frantic. When you come back out, Phainon is still leaning at the counter, chatting with Caelus. You usher Phainon out before anything else can happen.

Outside, the noise of the cafe dulls behind you, replaced by the noise outside and the hum of traffic. You turn on him immediately.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?” you ask.

He grins, wide and unapologetic. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You groan. “And you did. I made a noise, Phainon. And in front of a customer, too.”

“That’s how I know it worked,” he says, delighted. “I don’t usually get reactions like that from you.”

Your cheeks heat up. “Don’t do that again! It was embarrassing!”

He laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll warn you next time.”

Next time, your brain repeats traitorously, and you shove that thought somewhere deep and inconvenient as he opens the car door for you.

The drive is… nice.

Sunlight is spilling through the windshield in stripes, and the radio is turned low enough to blur into background noise. Phainon hums along under his breath to a song you don’t recognize, fingers tapping absently against the steering wheel.

You talk.

You ramble, because it’s easier than sitting in the quiet. You tell him about March coming back from the flu and acting like she never left. About the regular who keeps asking if you’re hiring despite being told no, repeatedly and firmly. About how Aglaea texted you at midnight to remind you not to chicken out of your plan for the morning after—because she knows you well enough to predict how much you hated dress fittings.

Phainon listens, as he always does. He laughs when you laugh, nods when you talk, like this is exactly where his attention is meant to be.

And you don’t think about four days ago.

You don’t think about pulling up in front of your apartment that night. About the way the car suddenly felt too small once the question was answered—once the conversation drifted back into safer territory.

You don’t think about how you’d unbuckled, thanked him, and grabbed your bag.

You don’t think about how you’d turned back with your keys already in your hand, heart thudding stupidly in your chest, because for a second you’d thought he might say something else. Not because it was new, or convenient, but because it was you.

You don’t think about how he’d only smiled and wished you a good night instead. You don’t think about the wave you gave him—a reflex, the kind you give when you don’t trust your voice not to betray you. And you definitely don’t think about how disappointment had settled in your chest afterward.

Misplaced disappointment, you’d told yourself.

It was ridiculous. What were you even expecting? He said yes. That should’ve been enough. Anything more would’ve been you reading into things that weren’t there—projecting feelings you should’ve put away years ago.

You don’t think about how you’d gone upstairs and sat on the edge of your bed for a long time, replaying his words and hating yourself for focusing on the one thing he didn’t say.

It’s easier to pretend it never happened. Easier to sit here now, four days later, talking too much, smiling too easily, and letting the drive pass by like nothing between you ever went unsaid.

You glance at Phainon from the corner of your eye.

He’s focused on the road (as he should be) like nothing is weighing on him—like he didn’t expect anything else from you that night.

And that settles it, you tell yourself. Whatever disappointment you felt back then was yours alone. It was a misunderstanding—a moment of foolish hope that had no business existing in the first place.

You turn back to the window and keep talking.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t ask.

You let the past four days stay exactly where they are: unacknowledged, unspoken, and ignored.

Aglaea’s studio always feels a little unreal. Light pours in through tall windows, catching on expensive fabric and metal and glass.

Phainon lingers near the seating area, his jacket folded neatly over the back of a chair. He’s standing, not sitting—like he’s waiting for instructions he doesn’t expect to receive.

Aglaea, meanwhile, wastes no time.

“Alright,” she says, clapping her hands once. “Let’s start.”

She pulls out several dresses in quick succession—soft colors, airy fabrics, silhouettes that look expensive even from a distance—and drapes them over the arm of a nearby chair.

You stare at the growing pile. “That’s… a lot.”

“This is me narrowing it down,” she says.

“Narrowing it down from what?”

Aglaea smiles at you over her shoulder. “Everything.”

You sigh and retreat behind the fitting room curtain before she can say anything else alarming.

The first dress she’s chosen is elegant. The kind of dress you’d expect for a wedding—tasteful neckline, tailored waist, but nothing too loud. You step out, smoothing the fabric automatically, waiting for her verdict.

Aglaea circles you once, thoughtful. “It suits you,” she says. “But it’s too heavy.”

“Heavy?” you repeat. “For a wedding?”

“For Lushaka,” she corrects.

You frown. “What does that mean?”

She looks at you, eyebrows lifting just lightly. “You do know where Lushaka is, yes?”

“Yes,” you say, defensive. “I know it’s coastal and warm. I just assumed—” You trail off, something clicking belatedly into place. “Wait. Are you telling me—”

“The ceremony is outdoors,” Aglaea finishes for you.

Your stomach drops. “Outdoors?”

“Yes. On the beach.”

“What?” You whip toward her, nearly tripping over the hem. “Elora didn’t tell me it was going to be a beach wedding!”

Phainon glances up at your raised voice, startled.

“I thought it was going to be a church wedding,” you continue, incredulous. “You know—pew, aisle, solid ground.”

Aglaea hums. “It’s a semi-formal beach wedding. Very picturesque.”

“Picturesque,” you repeat faintly. “I’m going to be walking on sand.”

“Which is exactly why,” she says smoothly, “we are not putting you in anything stiff or restrictive. You need something lets you move.”

Then she gestures for you to change.

The second dress is lighter—flowy and soft around the edges. When you step out this time, you turn slowly, watching how it falls when you move.

“It’s better,” Aglaea says. Then, without looking away from you, she adds, “Phainon, what do you think?”

Your shoulders tense immediately.

He straightens just a little, attention fully on you now. You catch his eyes in the mirror.

“It looks good,” he says after a moment.

And you nod—though the word ‘good’ feels strangely underwhelming. You don’t say anything, just glance back at Aglaea. She doesn’t look convinced.

The next dress doesn’t even make it our of the fitting room. You take one look at the color and shake your head. “Absolutely not.”

“You haven’t even tried it on,” Aglaea says.

“And I don’t need to,” you retort.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue when you step back out a moment later, already out of it.

“It’s definitely a no,” you say again. And when Aglaea looks at Phainon, he nods his head, as if agreeing with your sentiment.

By the time you reach the last dress, you’re tired—feeling a little warm and a little overwhelmed by the sudden realization that this wedding is not going to be what you pictured at all. You stare at the hanger for a moment before pulling it on.

The fabric is cool against your skin, softer than you expect. It settles instead of clinging, draping naturally as you adjust the neckline. When you look up at the mirror, you pause. The color is a soft blue, almost like shallow water under sunlight. The neckline gathers delicately, the rest of the dress falling smoothly down your frame. It feels light—like it belongs somewhere open.

You swallow and step out from behind the curtain. Aglaea stops moving.

You watch her expression carefully, bracing yourself. She approaches slowly, smoothing the fabric at your waist, adjusting the fall at your hip. She doesn’t say anything at first, which makes your nerves spike. Then she straightens and looks past you.

“Phainon,” she calls. “Your thoughts?”

You turn toward him. He’s staring—openly—like something in his brain short-circuited. His mouth is slightly open.

The silence stretches, and it makes your chest tighten.

“Is it bad?” you ask, embarrassment flooding in. “I know it’s different, but if it looks weird or wrong or doesn’t suit me, that’s totally fine. I can just—”

You reach for the curtain.

“That’s it.”

You stop. You look back at him.

“That’s the one,” Phainon says, voice certain. “That’s… yeah. That’s the one.”

Aglaea smiles immediately, triumphant. “I agree,” she says. “No need to try anything else.”

You stand there, caught somewhere between disbelief and heat creeping up your neck. For a moment, you don’t know what to do with the way he’s still looking at you—or with the strange, fluttering thought that maybe this dress isn’t just right for the wedding. That maybe it’s right for something—someone—else, too.

“I’ll go change,” you say, a little too quickly. You retreat behind the curtain before either of them can respond.

The fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and you hang it carefully on the hook like it might fall apart if you don’t treat it gently.

You’re halfway back into your clothes when your phone starts ringing. The sound feels abrupt in the small space, vibrating against the bench beside you. And you frown, already reaching for it, expecting a message from one of the kids back at the cafe. But then you see the caller ID.

Mom.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary before answering, lifting the phone to your ear. You don’t turn speaker on. “Hi, Mom—”

“You didn’t tell me you and Phainon are finally in a relationship!”

The words hit you so abruptly you almost drop the phone.

“What?” You blink, one hand still gripping your unbuttoned pants. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

“You’re going to Elora’s wedding with him, right?” she continues, voice bright and excited.

Your confusion deepens. “Mom,” you say slowly, “where did you even get that information from?”

“Elora,” she says immediately. “She told me you’re attending with someone named Phainon. And of course we assumed he’s your boyfriend. This Phainon is the same Phainon from before, isn’t he? The one you used to have the biggest crush on back then? Or am I wrong?”

Your mouth opens, and then closes. And then— “Yes,” you manage, though hesitant. “He’s the same person.”

“Ah!” she cheers, triumphant. “I knew it.”

“Mom,” you try again, heart beginning to thud uncomfortably, “we’re not—”

“Oh, how I’ve been waiting for this,” she interrupts, already barreling ahead. “I knew he liked you, too. I knew it. I’ve seen the way he looks at you—you can always just tell, you know? And back then, when he used to come over all the time during your high school days? He was always so polite—always staying just a bit longer than necessary.”

You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut.

“I’m so glad you finally told him how you felt,” she continues, practically glowing through the phone despite the camera being turned off. “Or was it him who confessed first? Either way, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re together now.”

You should correct her—you know you should. This is exactly how misunderstandings spiral out of control. This is how expectations get built on nothing solid; how things get complicated and messy and impossible to undo. But your mother sounds happy—genuinely happy—like this is something she’d been quietly hoping for and didn’t want to pressure you about. Like she’s been waiting for this outcome without ever asking for it outright.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

She keeps talking—about how she always thought you’d end up together, about how your father will be pleased, about how time really does bring people back to where they’re meant to be. You murmur vague acknowledgements where you can, noncommital sounds that don’t quite agree with anything but don’t deny either.

At some point, you manage to interrupt. “Mom, I should go. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, though she sounds reluctant. Then brightly, she adds, “We should have dinner together sometime. With Phainon. Your father and I miss you.”

You smile, but your heart gives a small, painful twist. “Maybe next time,” you say. “He’s busy. You’ll see each other at Elora’s wedding anyway.”

“That’s true,” she says, satisfied. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The call ends shortly after that, with a warm goodbye and more excitement than you know what to do with. You lower the phone and just stand there for a moment, staring at your reflection in the mirror. And when you finally change back to your clothes and step out from behind the curtain, the studio feels emptier.

Aglaea is there, flipping through fabric swatches, but the chair where Phainon was sitting is vacant. His jacket is also gone. The space he occupied feels conspicuously hollow.

“He stepped out,” Aglaea says without even looking up.

You linger near the fitting room for a second, phone still warm in your hand and heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with consequences finally catching up to you. You walk over to her. Then—without warning or dignity—you fold forward and bury your face into her shoulder.

“Agy,” you mumble, voice muffled by silk and pride you should’ve swallowed earlier. “I think I just did something really stupid.”

You feel her pause. Then she says, “Explain.”

“My mother called,” you say, cheeks pressed against her shoulder, words coming out slurred and pathetic. “And apparently, Elora told her I’d be coming to the wedding with Phainon.”

Aglaea hums. “And?“

“And,” you say weakly, arms sliding around her waist like you’re five years old again and clinging to the nearest safe adult, “she assumed Phainon and I are together.”

You feel it immediately—the way Aglaea’s body goes rigid under you. “What,” she says, voice flat.

“And I didn’t correct her,” you admit, guilty.

She doesn’t say anything at that. There’s only silence—the bad kind of silence that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and waiting to see if someone’s going to push you or save you. In this case, Aglaea is neither; she’s the kind that would watch you fall helplessly due to your own stupidity.

“She sounded so happy, Agy,” you say quickly, words tumbling out now, messy and emotional. “You know she knows about the crush I had on Phainon back in high school. She just—she was so excited and I couldn’t bring myself to say no. I couldn’t tell her he’s not my boyfriend. I couldn’t take it back once she said it.”

You sniffle before you can stop yourself, and that’s when Aglaea moves. She grips your shoulders and gently but decisively pushes you back so she can see your face. Before you can protest, she’s pressing a handkerchief into your hands—clean and expensive, held between perfectly manicured fingers.

“Agy…” you whine, voice wobbling as you take it. “What do I do?”

She studies you for a long moment, before sighing. “It’s very simple. You have two options,” she says. “Either you tell your mother the truth or you commit to your idiocy.”

You stare at her. “…That’s not comforting.”

“You did this to yourself.”

You press the handkerchief to your eyes, groaning. “You’re saying I need to break my mother’s heart or I’m going to end up fake dating my best friend.”

“I’m saying,” Aglaea says, slowly, “that this situation already exists. You merely need to decide whether you want it to exist honestly or deceptively. Either way, you should tell Phainon.”

“Tell him what?”

“All of it,” she says simply. “The call. Your mother. The assumption.”

Your heart sinks straight to your feet. “I can’t just drop that on him.”

“Why not?”

“Because it sounds insane!”

Aglaea arches an eyebrow. “Then say it clearly and directly.”

“I don’t know how to say it clearly and directly,” you whine. “I can barely even think clearly and directly.”

“That’s unfortunate,” she says mildly. “However, it’s necessary.”

Before you can spiral further, the studio door opens. You hear footsteps and a rustle of paper bag.

Then Phainon’s voice comes after, warm and familiar. “I got drinks. I wasn’t sure what Aglaea wanted, so I—” He stops.

You don’t need to look at him to know he’s noticed. You can just feel it—the shift in the air, the way his attention snaps fully onto you. And when you do glance up, he’s already moving closer, brows drawn together and concern written plainly across his face.

“Hey,” he says gently. “What’s wrong?”

You clutch the handkerchief in your hands, eyes still a little wet, heart pounding for reasons you absolutely cannot explain fast enough. And suddenly—terrifyingly—Phainon is right up there in your face, close, worried, and waiting for an answer you don’t know how to give.

Aglaea exhales, long and heavy, like she’s already tired of the situation despite having clocked it immediately.

“I’ll leave the two of you for now,” she says, stepping back. Then her gaze sharpens as it lands on you again. “Clearly and directly,” she adds pointedly.

Before you can respond, she turns on her heel and disappears into the back, heels clicking decisively against the floor. The door closes.

Now, it’s just you and Phainon.

The silence stretches—awkward, fragile, and filled with things you don’t know how to say. You’re still clutching the handkerchief, shoulders slightly hunched, when Phainon moves.

“You should sit first,” he says.

And before you can even argue, he guides you towards the nearest cushioned seat with a careful hand at your back, like he’s afraid you might tip over if he lets go too soon. You sink into the seat, still sniffling, still feeling embarrassingly raw.

He crouches briefly in front of the paper bag he brought and pulls out a cup of milktea. He peels the plastic off the straw and punctures the lid with a soft pop, though he doesn’t hand it to you. Instead, he judges it closer, turning the cup slightly so the straw is facing you, adjusting it just enough that you won’t have to lean forward much.

The gesture is so instinctive—so him—that it makes your chest flutter.

You take a sip. The sweetness helps a little, you think. It’s not much, but at least it’s enough to ground you.

“What happened?” he asks after a moment.

You hesitate, then sigh. “You remember my mother, right?”

He nods immediately. “I do. I haven’t seen her since we went to college, though.” His brow furrows. “Why? Did something happen to her? Is that why you’re crying?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no—she’s fine.”

Relief flashes across his face before concern settles back in. You sniffle again, and before you can lift the handkerchief, Phainon gently takes it from your hand and dabs at the corner of your eye. His touch is light and practiced, like he’s done this before.

And he has, when you think back on it.

“She called me while you were gone,” you say quietly. “Apparently my cousin—the one who’s getting married—told her I’d be coming to the wedding with you.”

“Yeah?”

“And she just… assumed,” you continue, staring at the milktea like it might have answers for you, “that we’re together.”

You take another sip.

You don’t notice the way Phainon freezes entirely—how his shoulders tense, how his grip on the handkerchief pauses mid-motion.

“Together?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say, voice small. “She thought you were my boyfriend.”

“And then?” he prods gently.

You inhale, then exhale. “I couldn’t tell her we weren’t like that. I just—couldn’t. So now she thinks we’re actually dating.” You laugh weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “And since she’s also going to the wedding, she’s definitely going to be… very involved. I don’t want to put you in an awkward situation because of me.”

You rush on, words tumbling out faster, “You don’t have to do anything, by the way. I’ll fix it. I’ll call her again and tell her the truth. It’s my mess, so I’ll deal with it. I shouldn’t have dragged you into— I’m so sorry, Phainon—”

“I don’t really see the issue.”

You stop short and look at him. “What?”

He meets your gaze calmly. “We can just pretend. For her sake.”

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

“You’re not—” You falter. “You’re not repulsed by the idea that she thought we were dating?”

He blinks, confused. “Why would I be?”

“Well—” You gesture helplessly between the two of you. “It’s me.”

He smiles, soft and immediate. “Exactly.”

Your heart stutters.

“It’s just you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Your throat tightens again, the feeling catching you completely off guard. You blink hard, but it’s useless because emotion spills anyway—hot and sudden—and you hate how fast it gets to you. You barely manage a sniffle before Phainon’s hand is there again, the handkerchief lifted carefully as he dabs at the tear you didn’t even feel fall.

It makes your heart race, loud enough that you’re sure he must hear it—that he must feel it, too, with how close he is and how gentle his touch is—like he knows exactly how close you are to coming undone.

You’re flustered in a way that’s almost embarrasing. His words won’t stop echoing, and suddenly you’re not here anymore. You’re four days ago, sitting in his car, your fingers already on your bag because you were certain he was about to say almost the same thing then. That he’d finally say something more—something you were bracing yourself for.

But he hadn’t, and now he’s saying it like this—so casually, so softly—like it hasn’t lodged itself straight into your ribcage and made your pulse go haywire.

You laugh weakly because you don’t know what else to do when your heart is beating this fast and he’s still so close, still looking at you like this means something, and you don’t trust yourself to ask whether it does.

“I promise I’ll be a good boyfriend,” he says, grinning. “I’ll make your mother believe we’re really a couple. I have excellent acting skills.”

You let out another laugh, small and watery. “Your only acting experience was being a tree in high school, idiot.”

He laughs too, unbothered. “Experience is still experience, isn’t it?” He nudges the milktea closer again. “We’ll convince everyone, I promise. So don’t cry anymore, okay? I don’t like seeing you sad.”

You take another sip, steadying yourself. “Still,” you murmur, “I’m sorry for dragging you into this, Phainon. It was just supposed to be you as my plus one. Now you have to pretend to be my boyfriend, too.”

“Better me than Mydei, right?” he says easily. “He’s way worse at acting than I am.”

That gets a real laugh out of you this time.

“I’m really grateful to have you as a friend,” you say softly.

Phainon smiles, though it’s strained—like he’s holding something back. “Anything for you.”

Almost on cue, the door to the back opens. Aglaea steps out like she didn’t leave you two alone to unravel for a few minutes. Her eyes flick between the two of you, quick and assessing.

“Everything all right now?” she asks.

You straighten instinctively, standing up and smoothing a hand over your clothes like you’ve been caught doing something you’re not supposed to. Phainon, on the other hand, pulls his hand back away from you, as if getting caught holding the cup to your lips is somehow embarrassingly intimate.

“Yeah,” you say. “Everything is… sorted out.”

She hums, satisfied enough, and gestures toward the dress still hanging inside the fitting room. “Good. Then you can leave that here for now.” She approaches it, fingertips brushing the fabric. “I’ll make a few minor adjustments—nothing you need to worry about. I’ll bring it myself on the day as well. Saves you the trouble of carrying it around.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” she replies simply. Then she turns back to you, and before you can react, she leans in and presses a quick peck to your cheek. It’s light and familiar and affectionate in a way that makes your shoulders relax.

“I’ll text you later,” she whispers, before stepping back. You nod once, understanding immediately.

Of course she wants details. And by details, you mean the conversation you had with Phainon.

Her gaze shifts to Phainon. “Make sure to return my cousin back in one piece.”

“Of course!” Phainon says, seemingly offended that she would say such a thing. “When have I ever let you down?”

Aglaea doesn’t miss a beat. “You have always let me down with your fashion sense, Phainon.”

“What— but it’s improved now!”

“Only because I’m here.”

Phainon clutches his chest dramatically. “Aglaea, you’re so mean to me.” Then he looks down at you, pouting. “Tell your cousin off for being mean.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“Don’t involve my cousin in your childish antics, Phainon,” Aglaea chides. Then, before he can argue further, she waves a hand. “Go on now. Drive safely.”

Your chest feels lighter as you smile at her. “Thank you for having us today, Agy.”

Her expression softens. “Anytime.”

With that, you and Phainon finally head out and go straight where his car is parked. Phainon unlocks the car and opens the door for you.

You mumble a thanks before sliding into the passenger seat. He hums in response, shuts the door, and circles around to the driver’s side. When he gets in, the car settles with a soft creak, then he starts the engine. He doesn’t drive away immediately; instead, he reaches forward to turn the air conditioning on.

Cool air spills from the vents, chasing out the heat that’s built up inside the car. You sit there quietly, letting it wash over your skin.

You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, gaze fixed straight ahead, staring through the windshield at the street in front of you.

It’s ironic, you think, that a situation like this where you fake date your best friend—something you always thought could only happen in movies—is actually real and happening to you.

Fake. Pretend. Boyfriend. The words lodge itself uncomfortably in your chest, heavier now that they mean something. It’s no longer a harmless plus one you can wave off; this has shape and weight to it. Something that people will look at and comment on and believe.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because pretending means consistency. It means keeping stories straight. It means expectations—his hand at your waist, his arm around your shoulders—the casual intimacy people won’t think twice about but will absolutely notice if it’s missing. It means lying convincingly enough that no one sees the seams.

But what happens if there are no seams to see?

What happens when the gestures come too easily? When his arm settles at your back without you thinking about it? When you forget, for just a moment, that you’re supposed to be acting? When the line between what’s practiced and what’s felt thins so much it becomes impossible to tell which side you’re standing on?

If pretending starts to feel natural—if it starts to feel real—then where does that leave you when the act is over? When the week ends, when the wedding is done, when everyone goes home and you’re expected to slip back into “just friends” like nothing happened?

Your stomach twists. That’s not a question you’re ready to answer.

You tell yourself it’s normal to be worried. Anyone would be nervous about keeping an act for an entire week, especially in front of family that loves to pry. Anyone would be anxious about dragging their best friend into something this messy.

You aren’t worried about how your pulse jumped when he said he’d pretend without hesitation. You aren’t worried about the butterflies in your stomach when he smiled and called himself your “boyfriend” like it was nothing. And you’re certainly not worried about the quiet, traitorous part of you that wondered—stupidly—how much pretending it would really take.

You shake that thought away immediately. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re just overthinking logistics—about boundaries and the fact that lines are easier to blur when you’re not supposed to cross them at all.

Your gaze flicks toward Phainon.

He’s busy scrolling through his phone. He looks unbothered, like agreeing to pretend hasn’t shifted the ground beneath his feet at all.

That settles it, you tell yourself firmly. Whatever unease is twisting in your chest isn’t about him—it’s about the situation. About expectations and misunderstandings and the very real possibility of making a fool of yourself if you let your imagination run wild.

You’re not nervous because it’s Phainon. You’re nervous because it’s complicated. That’s all.

Phainon puts his phone back inside his jean pocket, hand shifting on the wheel. The car rolls forward just as you speak.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet. “We should… probably establish some rules. Or something.”

The tires whisper against the pavement as he pulls away from the curb. He doesn’t look at you right away, eyes focused on the road ahead.

“Rules?” he says after a beat.

“You know… for the pretending.” The streetlights start lighting up, blurring past the window now, their reflections sliding across the glass. “If we’re going to convince my family, we should probably agree on stuff in advance.”

He only hums, thoughtful.

“Like,” you continue, words spilling faster now, “how long we’ve supposedly been together, how we met—well, my parents already know how we met, so that part’s easy—but things like PDA, what we call each other, and whether we live together—”

“Hey,” Phainon interrupts, gentle.

You stop mid-sentence, glancing over him.

He flicks a quick look your way before returning his attention to the road. “We don’t have to figure all that out right now.”

Oh.

“We can talk about it later,” he adds. “Once we’re back at the cafe.”

You nod, fingers tightening briefly in your lap before you force them to relax. “Yeah. Okay. That works.”

He hums again. Then he reaches forward to turn the radio on and music spills inside the car. You don’t recognize the song, but at least it gives you something else to listen to beside your own thoughts.

For now, you let the conversation drift behind you—swallowed by motion, streetlights, and the lie that none of this has anything to do with how you feel.

© 2026 kominigiru.

You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner. 

Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?

You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here. 

It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.

Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide. 

Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”

Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light. 

From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones. 

The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.

When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine. 

It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure. 

“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.

That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders. 

You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.

You tried. You really did.

Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come. 

But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.

Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity. 

Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols. 

You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind. 

You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.

You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times. 

Then, light emerged from below you.

A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred. 

You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.

The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.

There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.

You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.

That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats. 

Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”

You weren’t sure if you believed it.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.

When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.

The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.

The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.

“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.” 

You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here. 

You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.

You even tried to make yourself look pretty.

You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?

Right?

You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?

You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?

You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.

Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.

Minutes passed.

Then hours,

The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.

Still, he did not come.

You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you. 

When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.

Was it supposed to be like this?

You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.

But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest. 

Were you not worthy of his presence?

Had you done something wrong?

A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.

Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?

Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.

After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.

The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”

That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”

You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice. 

The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.

You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.

Hesitantly, you spoke.

“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued. 

“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.

“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”

You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.

Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.

Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less. 

Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.

You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls. 

Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.

Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside. 

The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.

It had been a long time since you’d last visited.

You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.

You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.

But it wasn’t the same.

The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.

You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.

You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.

You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?

You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.

You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.

You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night. 

You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom. 

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.

Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.

Has he… abandoned me?

You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.

CHAPTER II

You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze. 

The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.

You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now. 

So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.

“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…” 

The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.

The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.

As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.

As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.

“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”

Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea. 

Your footsteps slowed to a halt.

You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air. 

You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.

But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.

For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.

What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?

Your heart skipped.

Could you even do that? 

It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore. 

You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.

Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take. 

With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This temple was built like a damn fortress!

Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest. 

Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple. 

You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. 

When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.

They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed. 

After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching. 

But then you saw it.

Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned. 

It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something. 

Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.

If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.

You would need luck. Even divine intervention.

The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?

You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?

You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god. 

You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.

But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.

Or straight into a trap.

You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face. 

Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.

You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.

It was almost suspicious, even.

You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.

With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.

Now.

You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.

You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.

For the first time in months, you felt free.

The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded. 

Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration. 

You were finally here.

You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.

Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.

“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”

Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”

You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”

She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”

“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.

Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”

“Of course,” you said with a grin.

Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.

The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.

He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.

“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.

“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.

You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.

“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.

He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”

“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.

His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.

Your bag. A rustle.

You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.

“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.

You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.

A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.

“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”

He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.

The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.

You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.

He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.

Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”

You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…

You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.

You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”

He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”

“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.

He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”

The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.

You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.

Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.

“Thank you, pretty lady.”

You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.

The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.

Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.

You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”

He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”

You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”

You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.

Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”

Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”

Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.

You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”

Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”

You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”

She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”

You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.

“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”

She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”

You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind. 

“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”

You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”

He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”

Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.

“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.

You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”

“...Alright.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face. 

Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.

You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”

An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.

“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”

“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.

“I never told you my name, did I—?”

But he was gone.

The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.

Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.

Maybe you would see him again.

CHAPTER III

Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.

You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.

That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.

…Were those snores?

Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?

But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through. 

There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.

Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it? 

You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.

They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.

You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.

The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps. 

Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!

For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber. 

You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.

Sleep came quickly that night.

The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.

You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder. 

“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced. 

You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed. 

You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.

The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”

Your breath caught. Then you blinked. 

What.

“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”

You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.

“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”

The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”

You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”

“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”

Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.

“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”

You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.

“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked. 

You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.

“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.

Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!

“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied. 

He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”

You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.

You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”

“Yes?”

You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”

He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”

The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”

You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…

Why won’t he speak to me?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it. 

You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue. 

Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.

You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.

“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile. 

He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades. 

The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled. 

And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.

You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.

“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”

Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.

“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”

You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.

Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.

“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.

You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.

Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.

You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.

Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.

You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.” 

Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”

You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.

Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it. 

You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.

And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…

But guilt. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.

The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.

Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.

Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.

Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.

Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.

If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned. 

Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.

When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf. 

You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—

“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”

You froze.

“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.

“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”

“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”

Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others. 

Just… before you came.

You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”

“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.

He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”

The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”

You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more. 

You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.

Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.

You ran.

You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.

You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.

Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs. 

You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone. 

The months of hoping for something — anything. 

“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”

She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”

Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”

You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”

“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”

“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”

You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you. 

“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.

Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar. 

But eventually, the moment had to end. 

You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.

“I love you, too, mother.”

You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now. 

You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.

“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance. 

You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.

You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.

CHAPTER IV

The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.

The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his. 

Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened. 

With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.

Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.

His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.

“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began. 

The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.

“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”

Ah. That exchange..

“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.

“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”

Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered. 

“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”

The Archbishop remained silent.

“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”

“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.

“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The wedding day arrived. 

Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.

You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.

And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.

Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.

He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon. 

As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed. 

As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.

His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?

He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?

That was his first mistake.

“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”

Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”

A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”

Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.

And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed. 

That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below. 

On you.

There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.

Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious. 

Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.

Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.

He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves. 

“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.

“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.

Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”

He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”

His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea. 

“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”

Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”

He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps. 

He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone. 

He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.

He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.

You were… fragile.

He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?

He withdrew.

Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.

He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised. 

And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.

He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.

It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection. 

You began to whisper your loneliness. 

At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.

But then, he noticed something… odd.

Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.

Suspicious. Curious. Restless.

Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.

And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost. 

Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.

Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.

Then came the night of your escape.

Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.

With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.

There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.

But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.

Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.

He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.

“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.

Then you looked at him expectantly.

Oh. You were waiting for a name.

He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.

Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.

He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—

“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”

He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”

“Then I'll insist.”

There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?

So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.

His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.

Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.

“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.

Your cheeks turned crimson.

Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.

He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.

He wanted more of that. 

But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family. 

After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.

But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks. 

“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”

His brows knit together. Him? Strict?

“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.

You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”

Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.

“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.

“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

The words landed like a stone in his stomach.

When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.

The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.

He owed you that much, at the very least.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.

You had begun to bloom. 

Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar. 

You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.

It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.

Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.

Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.

What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?

But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.

He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.

You still remembered him.

Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.

After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.

It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.

Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.

He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.

And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.

You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.

You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.

You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared. 

He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain. 

To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.

But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.

A stranger.

That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?

No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.

When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.

When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.

He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.

The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.

Until he heard your sobs.

At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.

Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.

It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable. 

Then, loud sobbing.

Phainon stilled.

His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.

“What's the matter—?”

But Phainon was already gone.

He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.

“I hate him!”

He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.

“I hate him.”

No.

No, no, that can’t be right.

He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.

Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”

The air around him cracked. 

“I hate him!”

His heart stuttered.

“I hate him!”

Stop... please—

“He left me!”

No. No. I’m right here–!

“I don’t want to go back!”

That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.

I hate him. He left me. I don’t want to go back.

He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.

The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.

Why?

Why did you feel this way?

He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.

So why did you hate him?

He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.

Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.

The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.

It was all because of him.

Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.

And he didn’t understand.

Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.

This... this was heartbreak.

Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.

“You hate… me…” he whispered.

You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.

He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.

Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations. 

High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.

But this one had become… excessive. 

Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge. 

A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.

Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.

She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?” 

Without another word, she vanished from her realm. 

In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way. 

And there he was. 

At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.

Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.

No response. 

She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”

Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.

Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”

Still silence.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.

“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”

At last, his jaw shifted.

“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.

“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”

She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below. 

“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”

Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She said she hated me.”

Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”

“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”

“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”

His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”

“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”

“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.

Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.

“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”

Khaslana looked away.

“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”

Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”

The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling. 

“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.

“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”

“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”

“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”

Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”

Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”

He was quiet. Then, softly:

“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”

His claws curled against his palm.

“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”

Aglaea was silent for a long breath.

Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”

Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.

“She hates me.”

“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.

He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”

But Aglaea only stepped closer.

“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”

She stepped back.

“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”

And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed. 

For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day. 

You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal. 

Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening. 

Then came a knock at your door. 

You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed. 

“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.

You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.

“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him. 

He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence. 

He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled. 

“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”

Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders. 

“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.

The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”

You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.

“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”

His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”

You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”

The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his. 

“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it. 

You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”

He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said. 

Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.

You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him? 

You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger. 

You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was useless.

No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.

How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!

You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach. 

You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates. 

The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you. 

Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky.  The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step. 

But you pushed through it anyway.

Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.

By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier. 

“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came. 

The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.

“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.

“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.

“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.

“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster. 

A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.

A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.

He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.

Radiant and terrifying.

Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.

His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.

You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.

You dared a glance upward.

He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.

With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.

“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”

Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.

“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,

The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out. 

“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”

Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”

“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”

“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”

And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.

Phainon stood before you.

You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”

He frowned, looking away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”

“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”

“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”

“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”

“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.

“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”

His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”

Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.

You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”

You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”

Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.

“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”

Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.

It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.

Then another fell. And another.

You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.

His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. 

Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared. 

You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything. 

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke. 

“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”

A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.

His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield. 

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”

“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go. 

“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours. 

“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”

His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”

Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”

“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”

You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.

“I see…” You murmured.

Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”

Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.

Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”

Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.

He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake? 

But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.

You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”

His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.

When he looked up, he smiled.

“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.

You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”

CHAPTER V

When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.

You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.

“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”

And with that, he vanished.

Just like that.

You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.

No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.

Still…

You sneezed again—sharper this time.

You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers. 

Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.

Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.

You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.

Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.

After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed. 

“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”

Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”

And so you talked. For hours.

The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.

Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then. 

You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.

In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.

Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun. 

He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.

He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.

Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”

There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.

Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.

Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual. 

Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”

His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.

You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.

You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.

“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.

Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.

“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”

“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”

Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest. 

You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”

You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”

He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.

He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.

“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.

“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”

He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.

Phainon froze.

He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”

He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.

“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.

Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.

“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.

So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter. 

You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.

He chuckled.

You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.

“My turn.”

In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.

You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.

His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again. 

You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you. 

It was different now.

Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.

Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear. 

He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.

Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.

And then, he bites.

It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended. 

But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.

“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.

“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.

He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, It’s—”

“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.

“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”

For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.

“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”

In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.

Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath. 

There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.

“Better?” he asked softly.

Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.

Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.

He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.

You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.

Phainon noticed. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.

You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”

Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.

“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained. 

Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. 

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.

He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you. 

“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.

“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.

You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…” “More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer. 

“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.

Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you. 

“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.

“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.

“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions. 

He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head. 

“Okay… you can go a little faster.”

With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.

You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.

But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure. 

With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed. 

As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.

“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.

You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.

He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.

Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.

Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before. 

As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.

Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.

You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”

His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe. 

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. 

With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you. 

His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.

But not this morning.

This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.

You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.

Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.

And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.

His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.

Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.

“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation. 

The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen. 

You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.

You had found him, and he had stayed.

For now, that was enough.

there are moments when not even the usually calm and composed zhongli can keep his hands off of you, having a burning desire in him to ravage you anytime he can.

one of his favourite sights during these intimate moments is to see you on top riding him, your expression making it clear not only to him but to anyone that he's very much capable of fucking you silly, even when not directly on top - but after all, it is quite the struggle to handle both of his cocks at once.

a faint growl falls from his lips when you get ahold of his horns in hopes of earning even the smallest bit of leverage, a light blush spreading across his face because zhongli didn't know his horns were so sensitive.

the more he felt them being pulled on and tugged at, the more he felt himself losing every last bit of composure he had. the way you were clenching around him so desperately, the way your mewls and moans were music to his ears and now the way you were holding onto him for dear life.. he just couldn't hold back.

the grip zhongli has on your hips suddenly tightens tenfold, the stinging sensation only serving to add to the pleasure. while keeping you still his hips ram up fast enough into your hole to turn your mind into mush, the wet noises and loud moans growing more frequent.

inhaling through his gritted teeth, zhongli could only feel his climax approaching rapidly - but he had one goal tonight - to not stop until he was sure that his breeding attempts worked.

zhongli

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his favorite body part of his is his hands, because he uses them to keep you safe

that, and he gets to hold your hand too

and other parts of your body

his favorite body part of his partners is probably your eyes, because he can see all the emotion behind them and tell when you’re being sincere

just one glance into those beautiful [e/c] orbs and he’s mesmerized

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he is very serious when it comes to intimacy

he makes sure to prioritize your pleasure over his own

the amount of detail he pays attention to is insane

he knows exactly where to touch you and how to touch you as well

i like to think he’s a soft dom in the bedroom, and he doesn’t get nasty unless it’s called for

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he doesn’t own any toys

he’s a god bby he doesn’t need them

on a serious note, he thinks he’s more than enough to pleasure you, but if you were interested in using toys in the bedroom, he’ll try them out with you

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he definitely knows what he’s doing

when you’ve been alive for as long as he has, you definitely pick up some tricks here and there

this doesn’t mean that he just goes around and sleeping with people tho

i genuinely believe he knows what he’s doing, but has only had a few amount of partners in his lifetime 

he’s a gentleman, his lady is more than enough for him 

tartaglia

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

his favorite part of his body is probably his fingers, because whenever the two of you are holding hands you often play with them

it makes him happy -it makes him feel like everything’s going to be okay

his favorite body part of yours are your lips

they feel so good against his, he just can’t seem to get enough

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

depends on the mood tbh

tho most of the time, i imagine childe to be quite the tease

he’s not giving you what you want until you’re begging him for it

he has his days where he wants to take it slow too ofc

he’s very romantic and will just ravish every inch of your body

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

he’s the greatest toy maker out there

of course he has toys

he definitely uses them on himself, and also on his partner because he needs help testing them out

if you know what i mean

jokes aside, i do think he would keep a couple toys around in the bedroom 

he probably just has a couple vibrators, no dildos or things like that, because his dick is more than enough for you

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

this guy is an actual heart throb (i’m probably being biased tho) 

i’m pretty sure lots of women throw themselves at him

but i actually don’t think he’s one to just sleep around with women because he has a sister

that, and he’s just such a family man

his body count is surprisingly low, but still at a decent number -he only really sleeps with girls if he’s serious about them 

he’s just as good in bed as he is a fighter

“Z-Zhongli you ASS-!” your complaints, shakey as they were, fall upon deaf ears as the consultant growls low, right into your ear.

Had you bought it to mess with him? Yes.

Had you expected it to lead to him violently fucking you into his desk? Hell no. 

It was meant to be an innocent prank, halloween was approaching, and with it came the rather…interesting fashions of the season…including one top that had caught your eye.

The very same top your asshole of a husband was all but tearing apart with his damn talons; prick knew what he was doing, he knew what he was doing was wrong, but every time you attempted to open your mouth to scold him, he’d snap his hips in just the right angle, hitting your G-spot head on and having your complaints die on your tongue.

Honestly? You thought the octopus shirt was funny, plus the little hanging panels of fabric meant to resemble tentacles were fun to twirl around in. Judging by the way Zhongli’s eyes, usually warm and sweet as honey, had darkened to an almost deadly magma? 

Yeah, he didn’t think it was funny at all.

Apparently, wearing anything that could have possibly made you resemble a cephalopod in any way, shape or form, was a one way ticket to tapping into that long dormant god that remained hidden away, leaving behind your warm, loving husband. 

In the midst of what had to be your third orgasm since walking in the front door, you feel the archon above you growl low, and you feel his seed, hot and heavy in your belly, you watch as he clenches onto the edge of his desk in an iron grip, dark arms tipped gold flexing against the wood as he presses his weight into you, ensuring no drop escapes.

Right as the adrenaline high begins to fade, you hear it.

CRACK 

Thankfully, Zhongli hears it too, and he’s quick to wrap his arms around you and turn, taking the brunt of the fall as his desk cleaves nearly in two at the centre, where you’d been sprawled just moments ago, landing on his chest with a quiet ‘oof’ and an owlish stare.

Your husband blinks at you, just as dumbfounded as the gravity of the situation sinks in. which is when you can finally take a moment to reach up and swat the god on the nose.

“You owe me forty dollars for that top!”

“Forty dollars!?”

of course that's what upsets him.

Thanks for wishing on the strange arcade machine~ <3

"please..." you mumble, voice already hoarse "N'more..."

Professor Zhongli simply tilts his head at you, god even when he was smirking at you it was so violently pretty.

"No more? but we have an agreement, miss (l/n). You were the one who wanted these private tutoring sessions after all."

you were, you did want them...you'd just...never expected them to take this kind of turn.

It had started with a mock exam, one he's designed specifically for you, covering all the bases, things you knew well, things you didnt; and every question you got wrong would incur a punishment. You'd suspected something of this nature, hell he'd made it clear that this was mutually benificial...

but you hadn't expected to get fifteen whole questions wrong.

"I cant...I-it's too much-" you whine, leaning your face into his hand as it gently strokes across your cheek.

"You can, and you will." He rumbles above you "Fifteen questions, fifteen orgasms." his words make you want to cry again, your response only morphing into a choked, strangled cry as his fingers thrust right back into you.

"Come now, darling, where's the spunk from earlier? Don't tell me you're tired already? This is only number five." His words are tinged with amusement as he leans over you, he's not gentle, having already memorized exactly where your G-spot was, and had done nothing but violently abuse it since.

With each orgasm he drew from you, it became longer, and more drawn out for the next, somewhere along the line, he finally switched from his fingers to his mouth, a slightly welcome respite, if not for a new sensation. His slim fingers had done nothing but bully your insides, so his tongue felt far gentler in comparison, even with one hand pressing your thigh as far away as it can while the other rests on your stomach, keeping you pressed against his desk.

however you also come to hate that sinful tongue as instead of your G-spot, it was now your poor clit's turn to be bullied.

at some point you hear your professor mutter something about the 'main course' and how beautiful you looked crying, but you're already so far gone that it barely registers. When he finally does decide to fuck you properly, your already so wet it's nothing but an obscene, wet slide. lips press against your cheeks, kissing away your overstimulated, pleasured tears, he's saying things but you're too far gone to even register words, it's just sounds, the only difference between your own and his was his warmth, this was meant to be punishment, but even without properly hearing you could tell he was murmuring reassurance and praise, all of it lost on you for the time being, your brain might as well have been mush.

Even still, you cling to him, trusting that if his punishments tore you apart, he'd still be there to put you back together.

----

you vaugely feel a bottle pressed to your lips and take in the cool liquid, soothing your dry throat, you can feel your body absorbing the water like a sponge as your head is gently cradled against a warm chest.

"Still with me, darling?"

The noise you make in response is unintelligable, but it's there nontheless, which is enough for him.

"I'm sorry if I pushed you too far...but you did so very well for me.." and the praise is back, this time you can atleast hear what he's saying as you slowly worm your way out of the gauzy, floaty space your deep-fried brain was in.

"S'ok...s'my faut f'r getting so many wrong..." you mumble, enjoying the feeling of him slowly wiping down your poor, shaking thighs with a cool damp cloth. somewhere above you, he snorts.