#(reveal)

You hesitate. You haven't really been keeping in touch with anyone lately, swallowed whole by the emotional fallout of the past few weeks. You know that this is a bad habit of yours — retreating, going quiet, disappearing all of a sudden when things go wrong. Still… you miss them. Miss being around people who you don't have to put a front with, who have seen you at your worst and still choose to stick around.

"How many people?" you find yourself asking.

"Just them and a few of my old uni friends," he says easily. "The twins know them too, so it won't be awkward." He pauses, and you can almost picture him batting his lashes at the phone on the other end. "Please? Pretty, pretty please?"

You frown, catching the omission of a certain name immediately. "What about your girlfriend?"

"Well…" He coughs lightly. When he speaks again, his tone is still bright, casual — but there's a hint of something quieter running beneath it, a melancholy he doesn't quite let surface. "We're still, um, broken up."

"Oh." You hadn't realised. Hadn't known. Guilt pricks at you, and you scold yourself inwardly — Phainon had come over not too long ago, when you had fallen sick after wading into that river, and you hadn't asked. You should have. You'd promised yourself you'd do better after that incident had happened — to pay more attention, be more intentional with the people who loved you. It seems that you've not been doing a very good job of it. "I'm so sorry, Phai."

He laughs it off, a breezy sound. "Don't worry about it. It's not the first time, and it probably won't be the last." There's a practiced ease to his words — far too light for what he's actually saying — and it makes your chest ache a little. Before you can press, though, he forges ahead. "So, will you be coming?"

"Of course I'll be there," you say. "It's your birthday. I wouldn't miss it."

Phainon's answering laugh is warm. "I just had to make sure. I'll add you to the guest list, then." He blows a loud kiss into the receiver that has you shaking your head. "See you!"

And with that, the phone hangs up.

Friday night comes faster than you expect. Work runs late — too many last minute requests, too many things that just have to be completed before the weekend. By the time you finally manage to leave the Kremnos office, the sky outside has already darkened to a dark smear of indigo, a visual reminder of just how late you're running.

Gift clutched tightly in hand, you weave through the evening crowd and make your way to Phainon's apartment. By the time you reach his floor, you're slightly out of breath, hair mussed by the evening wind and your own haste. There are a few pairs of shoes scattered outside the door, and if you strain your ears, you can hear some muffled chatter and music leaking through the closed door. It seems like the party is already in full swing.

"Hey, Phai—" you say, as you fumble with your laces. "Sorry, I got caught up at work. Hope I'm not too—"

You glance up, and your words trail off. Because the person standing in the doorway isn't Phainon.

It's Mydei.

He stands frozen in the doorway, long fingers grasping a soda can loosely in one hand. He's still in his work clothes — he must have come straight from the office, like you — but he's missing his jacket and tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He looks… casual. Relaxed. Like a version of himself that you're not supposed to see anymore.

The expression on his face, however, is anything but relaxed. His eyes are wide as they dart from your face, down to your shoes and back up again, like he's trying to reconcile your presence here with— actually, wait. What is he doing at your cousin's birthday party?

You can't find it in you to ask, though. You can't bring yourself to do very much at all, actually. You clutch the gift bag between the two of you like a shield, thin paper standing in for all the things you don't know how to say. All kinds of alarm bells are going off in your head, your imagination flooding you with the worst scenarios you can think of. He's going to tell them. Who you are, and what you did. He's going to peel you apart in front of the people who still believe that you are good, that you are lovable, and—

"Hey! What's taking you so long?"

Phainon's voice cuts through the silence, his head popping out over Mydei's shoulder. He takes in the scene before him in a single glance — you, frozen on the doormat, Mydei, standing rigid in the doorway like a statue—

—and misinterprets the situation completely.

"You're finally here!" Phainon grins. He slings an arm around Mydei's shoulders, pulling him aside to make room, and Mydei follows robotically. "Mydei, this is my cousin, the one that I've been telling you about. And this grump here," he takes a moment to playfully jab his elbow into Mydei's side, "is Mydei, my best friend from college. I've been trying to get the two of you to meet for ages!"

You stare at Phainon, your mind reeling. So this whole time, the person you'd broken things off with in Carmitis had been your cousin's best friend.

Of course he was. Fate, it seems, really does have a cruel sense of humour.

Before you can even begin untangling the complicated emotions in your chest from that revelation, Mydei moves first. He steps forward, expression already smoothed back into one of careful neutrality. "Nice to meet you," he says mildly. "I've heard many things from Phainon."

Then, he extends his hand.

You stare at it. This is the hand you had once traced with your own fingers, until you had known every line and callus on it by heart — the same one that had steadied you on a surfboard, that had wiped away your tears despite its owner's heartbreak.

And now, it's offered to you in a polite gesture of greeting — as if it belongs to a stranger.

It takes you a few seconds too long to remember that a handshake requires a response. And that Phainon is still standing there, watching expectantly, waiting for you to return the greeting.

Tentatively, you reach out to take Mydei's hand — the movement awkward and uncertain, like you don't quite remember how to touch him anymore. Despite everything, you're still painfully aware of the warmth of his skin, the familiar way his long fingers curl around yours. Your throat tightens.

"Nice to meet you too," you manage, your voice barely audible. Then you drop his hand like it's burned you. Any longer, and you think you might cry.

Mydei's polite expression falters — just for the briefest fraction of a second — but he reins it back almost instantly. Phainon, blissfully oblivious to the tension in the air all around him, steps aside and ushers you inside.

"Come on, come in! Everyone's in the living room— oh, Dan Heng made this amazing Xianzhounese cocktail, you've got to try some—"

Everything is getting a little too overwhelming, so, after a quick round of perfunctory greetings, you latch onto the first excuse you can find and escape into the kitchen, mumbling something about needing to put the desserts you brought into the fridge.

Your mind spins as soon as you're out of sight. He pretended not to know you. Why? The question loops relentlessly in your head, biting at its own tail. Is this some kind of principled mercy? Or a careful calculation — done to keep the peace here, and not to cause an incident in the middle of his friend's party?

You swallow. Hopefully, it's the latter. You can count on Mydei's restraint, at least, and his unwillingness to ruin Phainon's night. If that's true, then maybe you can get through tonight without everything detonating spectacularly around you.

You're gripping the tiramisu you've bought in an attempt to steady your hands when suddenly you notice Phainon has followed you in. He's grinning.

"So? What do you think?" Your cousin leans against the counter, letting his voice drop and waggling an eyebrow knowingly at you. "He's handsome, isn't he? I've never seen you so tongue-tied around someone!" He nudges you playfully with his hip. "Told you I have good taste. You should trust me more!"

Oh, if only he knew. "Yeah," you say as you wedge your cake box in between rows of drink cans — does that label really say mung bean soda? — and cartons of soy milk. "You definitely have great taste…"

As much as you would like to stay hidden in the kitchen forever, Phainon refuses to allow it. He tugs (more like drags) you back out into the living room, and before you know it, you've been steered onto Phainon's lumpy couch, squeezed snugly between March and Stelle.

The introductions blur together. Phainon rattles off names — Castorice, Cipher, Hyacine — who apparently knows Dan Heng already from their overlapping work in the eco-sustainability sector. The atmosphere is warm and cosy, and a few drinks are cracked open. Dan Heng hands you a cucumber and kumquat cocktail he's been experimenting with, and you take too quick sips of it to cool yourself off, doing your best to ignore Mydei seated casually on the bean bag opposite you.

Fortunately, March is there to distract you. She clings to your arm and whines about how she hasn't seen you in months (it has been two weeks), while Stelle threatens to break down your door with a baseball bat the next time you so much as think of ghosting them again. You snort despite yourself. The sound feels strange to your own ears, like it's been a while since you've last heard the sound of your own laughter.

Conversation flows around you — work gossip, exaggerated retelling of uni stories, awful landlords. And somewhere along the line, the topic drifts, as it inevitably does, toward relationships.

"—no, but that's exactly what I'm saying—"

"—kind of a dick move to get together with someone else less than three weeks after the breakup—"

Halfway through the conversation, Phainon's head perks up like he's just remembered something important. "Oh—oh, I almost forgot," he directs this at the three of you seated on the couch, turning suddenly towards Mydei. "Did I ever tell you about this guy's dating life? He's been completely hung up over a fling who ghosted him a year ago."

You try not to let the way your stomach drops show on your face.

"What?" March perks up immediately while Stelle raises her eyebrows. "Seriously?"

Your cousin completely ignores the dirty glare Mydei shoots in his direction. He grabs the other man's wrist, dragging his hand forward as if he's presenting evidence in a courtroom. "They got married on a beach, according to him. Nothing official, of course, but…"

Caelus blinks, taking a big gulp of his soda before leaning forward to stare at Mydei's hand more closely. He glances up at Phainon again. "And, er, what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?"

Phainon snorts. "That he still keeps the ring he got with her on until now—" The sentence dies halfway out of his mouth. "Huh?"

The room stills, as if someone has sucked all the air out at once. Hyacine gasps softly, both hands flying up to cover her mouth, while Cipher nearly bowls Castorice over in her rush to get a better look.

"No way," she breathes. You press back into the cushions as March and Stelle lean forward to take a look, gripping your drink tightly in your hands.

You don't need to look to know that his ring finger is empty.

Dan Heng slowly takes in the exclamations of surprise from where he's seated on the floor. "Is this seriously that shocking?"

"Yes!" Phainon cries incredulously, still gripping Mydei's forearm in a vice grip. He waves it around like it's some sort of trophy. "Why didn't you tell us? You never said anything— I mean, you usually never say anything — but I'm proud of you, seriously! You're finally moving on!" His brows pinch just slightly. "But why now, though?"

You stare down at the cocktail in your hands. The answer to Phainon's question lies in the reflection on its surface.

For a moment, Mydei doesn't reply. The silence in the room stretches, heavy and stifling. Despite your determination not to look up, you can still feel it — his gaze, hot and piercing, like it's burning a hole straight into the side of your face.

"Because," he says at last, voice surprisingly even, "I realised that everything between us wasn't real."

You'd braced yourself for his response, but the words sting regardless. You lift your glass to your lips and swallow, to distract yourself with something to do. The sweet loquat syrup suddenly tastes bitter on your tongue as it goes down.

March, predictably starving for gossip, jostles your shoulder as she leans forward with comically large eyes. "Okay, no, wait— what happened? You can't just say that and stop…" She falters mid-sentence when she locks eyes with Mydei. "I mean… if you're alright with it, of course…" she adds on, meekly.

Mydei only arches a brow at his best friend, a silent you brought this up — now you explain, before returning his attention to his drink. Phainon looks momentarily caught off guard by that — probably by the fact that Mydei is even allowing this story to be told at all, least of all by him — before he clears his throat and gives all of you a quick rundown.

It's strange, listening to all of this — the whirlwind romance, the impulse marriage and your subsequent ghosting of him in Okhema — from your own cousin's mouth. March gasps at all the right places and Caelus mutters something that sounds like that's messed up.

Dan Heng, ever the pragmatist, frowns. "Didn't you think something was off when she didn't have a phone?"

Mydei just shrugs. "Wasn't thinking straight at the time," is all he says, tone level. Stelle makes a sympathetic noise in response.

"It's not worth getting hung up over someone like that," she tells Mydei, and Cipher nods vigorously in agreement from where she's perched on an armrest.

"Yeah— that's what we've been telling him all year." She squints suspiciously at Mydei. "Seems like the message's just only sinking in, though… must be that thick skull of his." Castorice swats at her arm chidingly. "What? I'm just saying it like it is."

You remain seated, shoulders tight, wondering distantly whether Mydei is getting something out of this — some grim sense of justice, or cruel satisfaction— from watching you squirm as your closest friends unknowingly dissect what you did to him over a year ago. You drop your eyes to your lap, fingers itching towards your phone when—

"What about you?"

The question cuts through the muted chatter of the room. You lift your head, slowly, reluctantly, only to find Mydei looking straight at you. Your stomach twists. "Me?"

"Yeah, you." His expression is inscrutable, and it gives away nothing as to what might be on his mind. "What do you think?"

You hesitate. The pause stretches just long enough to be noticeable, and the others slowly turn around to look at you, waiting for your answer. The weight of their eyes makes you desperately wish you could simply become one with the couch cushions, or better yet, disappear entirely.

You draw in a breath and keep your voice as steady as you can. "I think it's very… unfortunate that such a thing happened to you," you say, choosing your words carefully. "And I think it's good that you're moving on."

Do you? A tiny voice in the back of your mind supplies, unhelpfully. Do you really want him to move on?

Before you can properly address that train of thought, Phainon cuts in. "Unfortunate? That's putting it lightly." He takes another mouthful of his beer and then pauses, cheeks flushed a little too pink. Ah. He must be tipsy — your cousin has always had an abysmal tolerance for alcohol. You're just about to excuse yourself to grab him another glass of water when he speaks again. "The only other person I know who's that unlucky with love is—"

He cuts himself off just before he can complete that sentence, blue eyes darting nervously over to you with that look that you've grown so used to before he quickly continues. "I mean, I really wanted to introduce you to Mydei after you came back from your, uh, vacation. But I was suspecting you might have found another guy already, so I didn't, aha!"

You choke on your drink. It goes down the wrong way, burning a path of liquid fire down your throat, and you have to cough to keep from spluttering outright.

Mydei's eyes narrow, like a predator catching on to prey scent.

Hyacine shoves an entire box of tissues into your lap, while the rest of your childhood friends whirl around to stare at you all at once. Heat rushes to your face in seconds.

"What other guy," you mumble, throat suddenly very dry.

You'd meant it as a way out — something vague, neither acknowledgement nor denial, something that might let the conversation drift elsewhere. Instead, your cousin — damn him, by the way — simply doubles down, his grin widening.

"Don't try to lie to me! I've seen that ring you wear around your neck." He laughs, completely oblivious to the way Mydei's expression is darkening with each word he speaks. The rings tucked under your shirt collar suddenly feel too heavy, cool metal burning hot against your skin. "Which lucky guy managed to catch your eye, hm? Some secret beau you're not willing to share with the rest of us?"

Somehow, you manage to dodge the torrent of questions that Phainon's observation has unlocked — why couldn't he have picked any other time to let it slip, huh? — deflecting, laughing weakly, letting the noise of the room swallow your non-answers until you can slip away with the excuse of needing to use the washroom.

You lock the door behind you with hurried fingers. Splashing cold water on your face, you grip the edge of the sink and force yourself to breathe through the tightness in your chest. Get it together. You stare at the miserable looking person in the mirror, the bruise-grey shadows under her eyes, and force yourself to give her a silent pep talk.

All you have to do is get through tonight, you remind yourself. Just tonight, and then you can never see Mydei ever again. Just tonight.

With that fragile resolve, you take a deep breath and open the door, ready to return to the living room, when you suddenly stop short in your tracks.

Mydei is waiting outside.

He's leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes him appear almost casual. But the tight set of jaw gives him away, as does the way his eyes — a piercing, molten gold — shift to pin you in place. Your throat tightens.

He must have followed you here. And you have a sinking feeling as to why.

He says nothing at first. Just looks at you, the silence settling thick over the two of you like an acrid smog, stifling the air between the two of you. And your composure — the one that you'd painstakingly cobbled together in the bathroom, just minutes ago — feels like it's slowly being taken apart at the seams by his gaze alone. You grip the handle of the bathroom door like it's the only thing keeping you upright.

After a few more seconds of agonising silence, Mydei speaks at last.

"So," he says, almost conversationally. "Another guy, huh?"

You bite your lower lip, grasping desperately for a reasonable explanation in your mind — it's just jewelry, it's my wedding ring with you, it's none of your business — but each and every thought seems to fracture under the weight of his stare before you can give voice to them.

He pushes off the counter and steps closer. For a split second, second raw flashes in his eyes — hurt, flickering like an exposed wire — before it hardens. "Was it that easy? To find someone after your little holiday fling with me ended?"

You take a step back on instinct, but there's not much room in Phainon's tiny kitchen. Your back bumps against the wall — nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Mydei closes the distance, leaning in until you can feel his breath brushing along your cheek, the heat radiating off his body. Too close, too intimate in a way that just feels cruel now.

He's enjoying this, you realise numbly. Making you feel a fraction of what you did to him. In its own convoluted, twisted way — this is his form of justice.

"Or was he already waiting in the wings?" Mydei continues, his expression darkening. "Did you make him the same promises? Tell him you loved him too?" A harsh laugh escapes him, his gaze dropping to the neckline of your shirt as though sheer will might let him see the ring hidden beneath. "Did you tell him about me? Or am I just a crazy summer fling you'd rather forget?"

You press your lips together. When he gets no answer again, Mydei just stares at you for a moment longer, before he takes a step back.

"I always thought that Helena was the bravest and most genuine person I'd ever met," he says lowly. "I didn't expect you to turn out like… this."

He glances at you again, as if trying to reconcile the person before him with the girl he'd met on the beach, and simply ends up shaking his head. And for some reason, his disappointment cuts you deeper than any anger or accusation could.

Mydei tries not to look at you, but he can't. His words are cruel, deliberately so, he knows, but he can't help the iron grip of resentment closing its fist around his heart — that he's been replaced just as easily as he'd feared. But before he can rationalise why it still matters to him, what he gets from you instead is a quiet, choked noise.

For a moment, Mydei falters. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this.

"I'm sorry." It sounds almost like a sob. Mydei's gaze darts back up to your eyes.

He's shocked to find them wet.

"I'm sorry," you repeat, your voice trembling in a way he's never heard before, "that I'm not Helena."

Before he can say anything — before he can so much as begin to process anything — you're shoving past him. Your shoulder clips his arm as you rush by, and then you're gone, footsteps retreating fast like you can't stand his presence a second longer.

Mydei doesn't give chase. He stands, rooted to the floor in the kitchen, unable to move. He should feel vindicated. Satisfied. He got his answers, didn't he? Said the things that he'd been holding in for weeks, made you feel his pain. He'd wanted to hurt you, but now that he has, the victory tastes like ash in his mouth.

I'm sorry.

The image of your face won't leave him. The way your mouth had trembled, how your apology had sounded less like guilt and more like… something else. Hurt, if he dared to presume. Regardless, the knowledge settles like a heavy stone in his chest: I made her cry.

When Mydei finally makes it back to the living room, something seems to have shifted. He scans the room for you, searching.

Phainon catches his eye almost immediately and shrugs. "Oh— hey, my cousin left," he says, looking slightly put out. "Said she got a call from her manager and had to go. Some late-night work emergency, or something like that."

Mydei just nods, the action feeling a little stiff and wooden even to him. But he knows the truth — knows that you didn't leave because of work. You left because you couldn't stand his presence any longer.

The thought lodges itself somewhere deep in his chest, like a barbed arrow he can't pull out. He wonders, suddenly, if you hate him now.

And for some reason, the idea of that hurts more than it should.

I'm sorry plays in Mydei's head on repeat over the next few days.

It's there when he wakes up, when he's poring over emails, when he's sitting through meetings, when he's lifting weights at the gym, music on full blast through his headphones. Every minute, every second, those two words haunt him like a vengeful ghost. And along with, your face follows close behind — those wet eyes, that shaking voice — lingering in the back of his mind.

He tries his best not to think about it, about you. About the fact that the two of you exist, more often than not, in the same building. You are so close, and yet, you have never felt so far.

So, Mydei turns his focus to other things. He forces his attention back to his spreadsheets, the contracts and KPIs and negotiations, buries himself in work the way he always does when something undesirable threatens to surface. And by sheer discipline and force of will, it works.

Well, mostly.

A week later, he closes a deal with a partner firm despite his recent bout of poor sleep and wandering thoughts. They shake hands, exchange the obligatory congratulations. Mydei keeps his polite smile in place even as it wears thin at the edges.

The firm's representative — a shrewd, smooth talking man by the name of Ian — excuses himself to use the restroom. Mydei takes the opportunity to reorganise his mind as he waits outside in the corridor, shifting gears to focus on the next meeting, the next obligation, the next problem that he can actually solve.

The elevator doors slide open.

"Hey." Phainon throws a grin that's just a little bit shit eating in Mydei's direction as he steps out, waving a platinum wristwatch in one hand. It looks familiar. "You left this at my place, Mr. Wealthy Man. I appreciate the surprise birthday gift, but something tells me that it wasn't an intentional one."

It's the middle of a work day, in the middle of the work week. Mydei feels as though he should be surprised to see Phainon here, but he finds that he's not — sometimes, it's like Phainon isn't even employed. He just sighs, even refrains from rolling his eyes, as he steps towards his friend. "I really need to remind my secretary to stop letting you come up to my floor."

Phainon only laughs at that. Both of them know that isn't going to stop him. "I'm just naturally charismatic, what can I say?" He slaps the watch into Mydei's upturned palm, a teasing look in his summer sky eyes. "You'd understand, if you would just learn how to smile on occasion—"

"I smile plenty enough—"

The firm's representative steps out of the restroom then, straightening his tie. Mydei is about to excuse himself to return to his corporate duties when he catches Phainon's grin falter.

A whole myriad of expressions plays out of Phainon's face in an instant — stunned recognition, disbelief, shock — before all of it coalesces into one single emotion: fury. Before Mydei can ask him what's wrong, his friend is already surging forward, vicious anger bleeding from every sharp line of his body.

The second he gets within range of Ian, Phainon swings.

The sound of Phainon's knuckles colliding with Ian's face is oddly loud in the quiet office corridor. His punch lands, and from the way Ian's head snaps to the side, Mydei knows that Phainon isn't pulling any punches — he's serious about hurting the man. Ian's hand flies to his cheek as he staggers back a step with gritted teeth.

Only then does Mydei's brain catch up.

"What the hell—!" Mydei snaps, grabbing Phainon by the shoulders and attempting to haul him back despite his own confusion. "Phainon, stop!"

But Phainon seems deaf to his words. He struggles against his grip, chest heaving, eyes burning with something wild and ferocious. Mydei has never seen such a look on his best friend's face before. "You piece of shit—" he spits, trying to lunge again.

Ian only straightens slowly, jaw tightening as he rolls it once, testing its movement. When he looks up, however, there's no surprise — only recognition.

"Well," he says mildly as he wipes a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Nice to see you still haven't changed, Phainon."

Phainon lets out a string of expletives, each one uglier than the last, as Mydei tries to process how the two of them could possibly know each other at all — tries to make sense of the way Ian had taken that punch without any surprise, like he'd been expecting it for years.

Still, despite his friendship with Phainon, this is a company corridor, and right now, Mydei is a representative of Kremnos Engineering.

"Phainon," he says sharply, raising his voice to cut through the chaos. "I'm being serious. If you don't calm down, I'm going to have to ask security to—"

"Do you have no shame showing your face here, you fucking bastard?" Phainon roars, finally wrenching one arm from Mydei's grip. His voice echoes down the corridor. "After what you did to my cousin?"

That sentence alone causes Mydei to go still. Cousin. The words land like individual gunshots, one after the other. His grip on Phainon's arm tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening even as he scrambles to catch up. Your face flashes in his mind again.

I'm sorry.

"What—" Mydei starts, then stops.

Phainon barrels on, eyes blazing. It's a far cry from his usual easygoing nature. "Do you even know what you did to her? Do you even know how worried all of us got when she disappeared off the face of the earth for a year?" His voice cracks on the last few words, fury curdling into something sharper, more desperate. "No calls. No messages. Nothing! We didn't even know whether she was dead or alive!"

Ian rolls his eyes, biting back a scoff. "She always had the flair for the dramatic—"

"You are the last person who gets to say that," Phainon snaps, lips practically drawn back in a snarl. "When you're the one—"

"I didn't make her do any of those things," Ian retorts coolly. He does inch backwards, though, when Phainon manages to yank Mydei forward with him half a step. "She's the one who dropped the wedding and disappeared without a word. You don't get to pin that on me."

The laugh that Phainon lets out is sharp and ugly. "Oh? You mean after she came home and found you in bed with someone else?"

Something ugly twists in Mydei's chest. What?

"And what did you do when she went missing?" Phainon's voice escalates in volume, echoing sharply down the corridor. "Posting anniversary pictures with your side piece on social media, celebrating Valentine's like nothing happened—"

"Phainon," Mydei cuts in sharply, stepping in before his best friend can throw another swing. Part of him understands the urge — hell, part of him is starting to call for blood, too — but this is still a workplace, and lawsuits are expensive and often don’t care about moral justification "Enough."

Ian exhales slowly through his nose. He looks between them, then lets out a short, humourless laugh. "My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Mydeimos," he says coolly, straightening his suit jacket. "Just working out some… personal matters."

Personal matters. The words echo unpleasantly in Mydei's mind. He thinks of the sound of your laughter on the beach, the quiet melancholy that would come into your eyes when you thought he wouldn't notice, the way your voice had broken in Phainon's kitchen. Whatever this man did to you had been enough to drive you to take refuge in Carmitis for a year… and now, he's dismissing it as nothing more than a personal inconvenience.

For a treacherous, dangerous second, Mydei feels the urge to punch him too.

But he forces it down. "The deal is off," Mydei says, instead. The words come out more calmly than he feels.

Ian blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Kremnos will not do business with a representative who brings his personal misconduct into business affairs," Mydei continues evenly. "The deal is off unless your firm proceeds with another liaison. You will leave now."

Ian's eyes flicker, a brief look of uncertainty passing across his face. "You're making a mistake."

"Whether it is a mistake is no longer your concern," Mydei answers coolly. He nods towards the elevator. "Now leave, or I will call security to have you removed."

For a moment, it looks as if Ian might argue. Then his mouth tightens, and he lets out a short, derisive huff.

"If you insist," he responds, his voice dripping with thinly veiled sarcasm as he adjusts his jacket. His gaze slides to Phainon, sharp and unapologetic. His expression almost resembles a sneer as he says, "tell your cousin I said hello."

Phainon lunges again with a furious shout, but Mydei is ready this time, hauling him back with a grunt as Ian stalks off toward the elevators without another word. The doors slide shut behind him.

Silence settles over the corridor.

Phainon is still breathing hard when Mydei finally releases his arm. For a moment, they just stand there, slumped side by side against the wall, the aftermath of whatever just happened hanging thick between them.

"You should've let me hit him," Phainon mutters, at last.

"You're crazy," Mydei answers without missing a beat. He grabs hold of Phainon's upper arm again and steers him towards an empty meeting room. "Come on. You've got some explaining to do."

Phainon hesitates. "I don't know if I should—"

This might be considered an invasion of your privacy, but after what happened today, after all the hurt you've caused him, Mydei can't help but feel like he has some right to know. And even if he didn't, he needs to — it'll eat him away from the inside otherwise. "You might've just lost my company a very important client," he warns his friend, although there's no heat to his accusation. "The least you could do is tell me why you went completely nuclear on him."

Phainon drops onto one of the couches, elbows braced on his knees and hands still clenched loosely into fists. The anger hasn't left his face completely, but something else bleeds through now — something troubled, almost pained.

"I don't even know where to start," he says, lamely.

Mydei remains standing, arms crossed over his chest. "The beginning would be good."

"Right. The beginning. Right." Phainon blows out a breath, before he rubs a hand over his face, as if to brace himself. "You've, um, met my cousin, right?" That's putting it lightly, but Mydei nods, gestures for him to continue. "The guy earlier, he was her fiance— well, ex-fiance. The two of them got together in high school, long before I moved to Okhema. They were together for almost a decade." He purses his lips. "I didn't like him much, but she seemed… content with him. Enough to get engaged to him, at least."

Engaged. Mydei presses down on his ring finger, where the weight of his ring once rested. You were engaged to someone else before him.

"She was always a hard worker. Poured all of herself into work, doing overtime and working on the weekends so she could become financially independent and move out. My extended family is… difficult. It's kinda complicated to explain." Phainon waves it off with a huff, before he continues. "She came home late one day about a month before the wedding — and found him in bed with another woman."

Mydei's hands involuntarily clench into fists at his sides. His mind flashes with the images you must have seen: coming home late at night, tired and stressed, to the one person who should have been your safe harbour — only to be betrayed in the worst way possible. "And? What happened?"

Phainon's expression twists into something unpleasant at the memory. "He called her boring," he mutters. "Said she was always working late, wasn't as fun as she was back in their younger days, never paid him enough attention. So… of course he found someone else."

Boring? A hot surge of anger spikes through Mydei. He swallows hard at the image of you, doing late nights and working yourself to the bone just to stand on your own two feet. The thought that anyone could have belittled you for that makes something in his chest ache.

"She quit her job right after. Only called us once — to tell us that the wedding was off. No explanation, no nothing." Phainon shakes his head, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. "Then, she just disappeared. Said she would be travelling, not to worry about her. Didn't tell us where, or for how long, wouldn't answer her phone... March was inconsolable. Dan Heng had to stop Stelle from committing arson." He lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. "I confronted him. That's how I found out that he'd cheated. But by then… it was too late."

The words sink in slowly. It is like the puzzle pieces of the last few years have rearranged themselves into a picture that he can finally see clearly. The reason you'd turned up in Carmitis. The reason you'd had no phone back then. The reason you'd vanished on him without a word.

Suddenly, everything falls into place.

Every memory Mydei thought he'd understood twists in on itself, refracted through new lenses. Every kiss he'd shared with you, every smile you'd given him, every embrace — the person he'd loved, the one he'd thought he knew better than anyone else in the world… hadn't really been you at all.

A hollow ache settles quietly behind Mydei's ribs as he comes to this realisation:

All this time, he's loved someone he barely even knew.

Ian ends up not pressing any charges.

The days that follow blur together for Mydei. Meetings bleed into negotiations, numbers into contracts — everything demands his full attention, yet never quite manages to hold it. His thoughts keep circling back to that moment in the office corridor, replaying it from different angles, turning it over and over until something new, and unwelcome, begins to take shape.

Perhaps you hadn't meant to hurt him. Not deliberately, at least. Maybe he was just a rebound, an easy distraction, a way to feel wanted again after being made to feel worthless and disposable. And the worst part is that Mydei sympathises. It's understandable. Human. Logical, even.

But that doesn't stop it from hurting any less.

The sky is a reflection of his mood as he's leaving the office: dark, heavy clouds hanging over the entire city skyline like a shadow, rain hammering down in relentless sheets and leaving long, liquid streaks on the glass windows. Mydei is headed towards the underground carpark, already dreading the slow crawl of home bound traffic when suddenly, he spots you.

You're standing just outside, taking shelter under the narrow ledge above the building's main entrance as rain lashes down on the pavement. Even through the glass doors, he can make out the frustration etched onto your face as you root through your bag, looking for an umbrella that he knows you won't find.

For a moment, he simply watches you from behind the barrier of the glass, the safe distance. The rational part of his mind tells him to leave — to maintain the professional neutrality he'd committed to ever since he'd thrown his ring into the river. But the memory of that confrontation with your ex-fiance and the thoughts that have plagued him since refuse to let him look away.

And before he knows it, his feet are already moving, bringing him to you.

You very nearly jump when he steps next to you, and then you jump for real when you realise that it's Mydei standing next to you. Your bag comes up instinctively, clutched to your chest like its a shield, and despite everything, Mydei finds himself biting back a snort.

Regardless of everything that's happened, some things, it seems, really never change.

"Follow me," is what he says, instead. He nods towards the parking garage.

You understand what he's offering immediately. A whole host of emotions tumble through your chest — confusion, shock, nervousness, suspicion — before you manage to school your expression into one of cautious politeness. "It's, um, fine," you reply, still gripping at your bag like it's a lifeline. "I can just make a run for it."

Your eyes dart towards the torrential downpour just a few steps away. Realistically speaking, you'd be soaked to the bone in three seconds flat and swept into a gutter before you even catch sight of the bus stop.

Mydei doesn't bother arguing with you. He simply glances at the rain before he looks back at you, a single eyebrow raised.

"Come on," he says. Before you can say anything else, he's already turning away, heading for the carpark. You hesitate, rational thought and fear alike warring in your head for half a heartbeat — and then follow.

No words are exchanged as you trail after him into the carpark. He stops beside a sleek, unassuming black sedan — the same one he'd driven off in after throwing his ring into the river, you realise — and unlocks it with a soft chirp. Without comment, he holds the passenger door open for you.

You pause, hovering awkwardly next to the car before sliding into the seat. The door closes with a solid thud, and a familiar scent envelopes you almost instantly — heady amberwood with a subtle undertone of sweet pomegranate. Your chest tightens before you can stop it.

Of course it smells like him in here.

Mydei circles to the driver's side and gets in. The engine hums to life. "Seatbelt," he reminds you, calmly.

You fumble to comply as he adjusts the heating and turns on the radio. The soulful croon of an old jazz classic fills the interior of the car, and then he glances over at you expectantly with both hands resting on the steering wheel.

A thousand thoughts crowd your mind at once. What is he doing? Why is he doing this? What does he want? Is this some kind of test? Some kind of trap?

"What?" you blurt, your nerves getting the better of you.

"Your address," he says, patiently. "I need it to send you home."

"Oh." You fiddle with the strap of your bag, suddenly feeling silly when a second realisation hits you. He'll know where you live now. What if he sends a hitman? Or someone to commit arson? Or—

"I'm not going to do anything, if that's what you're wondering." He's still just… looking at you with that same calm expression, although there's a hint of something almost resembling amusement in those golden eyes — and it makes your skin prickle in confusion. You don't know what to say, or to do, or even to think. Eventually, you mumble the address meekly, and he keys it into the navigation system before pulling out of the carpark smoothly. "That hasn't changed, at least," he murmurs under his breath, more to himself than to you.

You bristle at that instinctively. "What do you—" you begin, indignant, before you stop yourself mid-sentence. The words die on your tongue. What does he mean by that? And, more pressingly — why is he even doing any of this?

You stew in silence for the rest of the drive. Traffic crawls by at a snail's pace because of the weather, and every red light feels like a personal punishment from god himself. At one point, you briefly entertain the idea of opening the door and throwing yourself onto the highway. Getting run over might be a less painful alternative than spending another second in this enclosed space with him.

Meanwhile, Mydei appears infuriatingly composed next to you. His hands are steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, posture relaxed. It's almost as if your presence doesn't affect him at all.

Eventually, mercifully, the car moves off the highway. The familiar streets of your neighbourhood start to slide past your window — shops and buildings that are now more like beacons, telling you that you're almost home. The anxious knot in your chest slowly begins to unravel.

The car takes a few more turns, before easing down a narrow side road. It slows gradually, then comes to a stop just outside your apartment building. For a moment, everything goes still — no words, just the soft sounds of your breathing and the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the windshield.

But Mydei doesn't move. Doesn't say anything. The silence stretches, strangely shaped and uncomfortable, until you can't take it anymore.

"That's me," you say quickly, the words coming out in a rush as you reach for the door handle. "Uh—thank you. For the, um, ride."

You tug. The door doesn't budge.

You try again, with more force this time. Nothing happens.

You whirl around. Mydei is simply watching you with that look again, the one that makes your heart clench and your stomach twist all at once, both hands clasped atop the steering wheel. Your throat tightens and you look away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. What is he doing?

"The door," you force the words out. "It's not opening."

"I know." There's something in his voice — soft, stripped bare. It's completely lacking in the harshness that had rendered you to tears back in Phainon's kitchen — and for some reason, that makes the urge to flee even stronger. But he doesn't look away, not even for a second. "Just… let me have this moment. Just for a while longer."

You grip your bag tighter against your chest. "I don't think that's a good idea—"

"I really loved you, back on that beach," he says, quiet enough that it cuts straight through the core of you like a razor blade. The words chase all the air from your lungs. "I just wanted you to know that."

Something in you shrinks in on itself. Shame, sharp and hot and familiar, curls itself tight around your ribs. And beneath it — fear. The kind that comes with being seen too clearly, that looms when you're close to doing something foolish, like letting yourself be vulnerable again.

"No," you say instantly. It's a denial that you need to say aloud, to hear with your own ears. "You didn't."

"I think I am aware of my own feelings—."

"You liked the person I was pretending to be in Carmitis—"

Mydei's mouth tightens. He looks like he wants to argue, but ends up just exhaling instead. "Helena, I—"

That name again. He seems to realise his mistake and snaps his mouth shut, but it's already too late.

"Do you remember?" you ask. Your voice is brittle now, small in a way that you hate. "That conversation we had back in your trailer, when I asked you what you liked about me?"

He hesitates. "No," he admits.

You don't fault him. There must have been a hundred conversations in a similar vein, and it'd be ridiculous if he could remember any of them, much less recall word for word what you'd said. It's almost funny, how insignificant it had seemed at the time — a throwaway conversation, light and teasing.

But it had been enough to shatter the illusion that you'd spent months building for yourself.

"I asked if you would still like me, if I didn't have the same hair I had back then. If I didn't wear the same clothes, if I had a different name." You swallow hard around the lump in your throat, but you force yourself to continue. "If I wasn't brazen and bold and laughed at silly things no one found funny."

Mydei remains silent. He must already know where this is going.

"And you said, 'then, that wouldn't be you.'"

He exhales, slowly and quietly.

You turn away, fixing your eyes on the rain-streaked windshield — anywhere but him. "And you're right. That isn't me, Mydei. I'm boring. I'm tired. I'm anxious all the time." Your fingers curl over the strap of your bag until it digs into your palm, the only thing left to ground you in this messy tangle of emotions. "I'm not the exciting, vibrant girl you fell in love with on the beach. She was just… a lie that I made up to escape reality."

You wait for reality to sink in, for that stubborn perseverance to finally give. Instead, Mydei shakes his head slowly.

"You're not boring," is what he says, eventually. Carefully, like he's testing the ground beneath him with every word. "And I don't think that the person you were back then was completely a lie. Everyone has—"

There it is again. That insistence. That refusal to let her go — the woman he loved, probably still loves, despite everything — lodged somewhere in chest like a bullet that he refuses to remove. The belief that if he just looks hard enough, peels back all of your layers, that he'll find the real treasure — her — hidden somewhere beneath.

And it hurts. God, it hurts more than you'd thought it would. You've never been so jealous of a woman that has never existed in your life.

"I'll only say this one more time: the person that you fell in love with wasn't real," you say flatly. You reach for the door again. "And she isn't me. Now let me out before I call the police."

Mydei holds your stare for a few more moments, before he finally reaches out and slowly presses the button that releases the lock on your door. The second there's a soft click, you don't hesitate. You shove the door open and step out into the rain, the cold water biting instantly through your clothes.

You don't look back.

Instead, you take the steps to your apartment entrance two at a time, breath coming out fast as you try to convince yourself that you are not running away from him — and that you don't wish that you could simply run back into his arms, just like you did back then.

The next few weeks are spent attempting to banish Mydei completely from your mind.

You bury yourself in Excel formulas and drown out every thought of him with loud music. You don't buy the pomegranates you see in the grocery store despite the fact that they're half-off. When that doesn't work, you replay every terrible thing you've done to him in your head, reminding yourself why you have no right to think of him at all.

It doesn't help. And as if you haven't been through the emotional wringer enough, the universe decides to throw yet another curveball your way.

"There's a report that needs Mydeimos's signature." Aglaea appears at your desk just about an hour before the end of the work day, setting a bound stack of papers down in front of you. She's typing on her phone with one hand, golden nails clicking furiously across the screen — you feel bad for whoever's on the receiving end of those messages. "Just give it a quick look over, make sure the numbers line up. You can send it up to his office once you're done."

Your stomach plummets like it's just stepped off the edge of a stair. "Me? I, um—"

But Aglaea doesn't let you finish. She's already walking away, phone now pressed to her ear and speaking in sharp, clipped tones — and the conversation is over before it even began.

For the next hour, the report sits on your desk, silent and unassuming. You avoid it like it's something straight out of Chernobyl. In the meantime, the desks around you slowly begin to empty out, one by one.

You continue to tinker uselessly — adjusting fonts, rereading figures you already know are correct. Outside the windows, the dusk fades gradually until it's nothing more than a thin strip of orange behind the skyscrapers and buildings. When even that disappears, you stare at the report for a long moment before you let out a slow exhale.

You can't put it off forever.

Reluctantly, you gather the papers in a binder and make your way upstairs. When you reach the executive floor, you pause at the secretary's desk, forcing your voice to remain steady as you ask whether the CTO is still in.

She smiles politely at you, gesturing over to a heavy, hardwood door. "Yes, he is. Head right in, he won't mind."

So much for slipping the report onto his desk and fleeing. The last of your hope flickers like a guttering candle before it extinguishes completely.

You stop just outside his door for a moment to take a deep breath and steel yourself. It'll be quick, you say, trying to reassure yourself. All you need to do is to put down the report and leave.

Your fingers drift instinctively to the necklace at your throat, tugging restlessly at the chain. It catches on the top button of your blouse when you try to adjust it. You tug once in an attempt to free it, then another, before you give up and knock on the door instead.

"Come in."

Mydei's office is… less imposing than you expect it to be. Mostly clean lines, furniture pieces that blend minimalism and mid-century modern. Mydei is seated at his desk, attention fixed on the tablet in his hand. When you step inside, he glances up and for a second, unguarded surprise flickers through his eyes, before it's replaced with a calm, professional neutrality.

"Aglaea sent me," you mutter, keeping your gaze firmly on the floor as you cross the room. You hold up the folder. The faster you get this over with, the faster you can escape. "The, uh, Dolos Highway report. For your signature."

He clears his throat. "Of course." He gestures towards an empty space on the far end of his desk. "You can just leave it there."

You lean toward the far end of his desk to set the report down, already counting the smallest number of steps you can take back to the door without outright running — when your gaze catches on a photograph resting near the edge of the table. Before you can help it, you crane your head to take a closer look.

It's a wave caught mid-crest, so blue it looks like it could drown you if you stared at it long enough. Suddenly, you remember the moment behind the camera that had taken it — your delighted laugh as you'd 'borrowed' his expensive camera, Mydei play-chasing you down the sand, how you'd taken photos of everything that had made that moment so perfect — the sky, the sand, the waves, him.

Suddenly, there's a quiet ping.

You freeze, report half-resting on the desk. Your eyes drop, and your heart leaps into your throat when you see two shiny, silver rings, lying there on the polished wooden surface.

Your free hand flies to your neck on instinct, only to find it bare. Shit.

You practically drop the report and scramble to pick up the rings before he can see them, but your initial hesitation was more than enough. His golden eyes are wide now as he rises to his feet, fixed on where your hand is still covering the two rings — get off the table, god damn you — from his sight.

His voice is low, almost cautious. "What was that?"

"Nothing," you answer, a little too quickly.

Mydei swallows. "Those rings," he says. "Those are our rings, aren't they?"

You manage to curl your fingers around them, sliding your fist off the desk just as he rounds it in three swift strides — effectively cutting off your path to your only escape route, the door. He takes a step closer, and you grip the rings so tightly that the metal digs into your palms.

"No, they're not."

"Let me see them, then."

"No."

He crowds you back against his desk, and you nearly squeak in surprise when your lower back bumps into its wooden edge. He's suddenly in your personal space, the distance between the two of you collapsing too fast, too suddenly.

Your thoughts misfire all at once. Every nerve lights up in alarm before they short out entirely. He's too close.

"W—Wait." Your other hand comes up on instinct to push him back, to maintain even a sliver of space between the two of you. But it falters midair, fingers curling back before you can make contact with his chest. Before you can make up your mind whether to fight or flee, he's already leaning over you, his presence closing in from every side.

You try to speak, scattered words tripping over each other — something about professionalism, how this is wildly inappropriate workplace behaviour — but Mydei isn't listening. Instead, his attention is fixed entirely on you.

Or rather, the fist that you have clenched tight against your side.

His hand closes over your wrist and lifts it. You tense, trying to pull away, to yank it back, but his grip is firm — immovable, but careful not to hurt. Slowly, he pries your fingers open one by one, pulling them back until what you've been hiding from him spills into his outstretched hand instead.

The two rings sit side by side. Yours, and his — the same ring that he had thrown into the river all those nights ago.

Mydei goes completely still. You feel it in the way his body goes rigid in front of you, the quiet breath catches in his chest. He stares down at the rings like they're the answer to a question that he cannot solve, that he cannot quite understand.

"You went back for it," he says at last.

You fix your gaze somewhere over his shoulder, jaw tight, lips pressed together so hard you're sure they've gone pale. You can feel his eyes on you — searching, dissecting, relentless — and you refuse to let yourself meet them. You don't know what will spill out if you do.

"And you kept your ring." Mydei continues. His voice is low, almost breathless now, words coming out too quickly, like he needs to get the truth out before it can run away from him again. "The ring that Phainon said that he saw you wearing — it was our wedding ring, isn't it? You didn't throw it away."

"I don't know what you're talking about." You drop your gaze, twisting as you try to pull yourself free again. But he doesn't let you. Instead, Mydei leans in closer, caging you against the desk with his own body, his large hand pinning yours flat against the tabletop. He shifts until you're looking at him right in the eye, until there's nothing else you can see but him.

"Talk to me," he demands, almost begs, his voice rough with emotion. His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you there in case you decide to run again. "Stop running. Tell me the truth."

"I have nothing to—"

He looks at you, a slow realisation steadying his voice now. "You still love—"

"There must be a reason you kept your ring. Why you went back to look for mine after I threw it away." There's something pleading in his eyes that flays you open, and it strips your soul bare in a way that makes you feel more exposed than if you were naked. His voice trembles, just slightly. "I've asked— I realise I've asked all sorts of questions, but I forgot the most important one, didn't I?"

You swallow, heart beating a frantic pace against your ribs, the wings of a bird desperately trying to escape its cage. What?

You drag him down by the tie and kiss him.

You don't know why you do it. Maybe it's the look on his face. Maybe it's the words that you aren't ready to hear just yet. Panic, longing, desperation — everything crashes together, a hurricane of emotions you don't know how to process, and this is the only way you know how to stop it.

It's messy, uncontrolled — too much feeling and hurt and words unsaid packed into that single point of contact between the two of you. But it's also familiar, the heat of his body, the way his lips move against yours like it's his last day on earth. His arm slides around your waist, crushing you against his chest as if he's been starved for years and you're his first meal — gluttonous, ravenous. And then he kisses you, again and again and again, until the world narrows to heat and breath and your lips are bruised with the shape of his.

When you finally break apart, gasping and breathless — your thoughts come rushing back in all at once.

Oh my god, you think faintly, deliriously. The realisation hits you like cold water. You've just kissed your boss. Your boss, who you had a two month fling with and then disappeared on for a year. Oh my god, what are you doing?

You drop his tie like you've been burned, a small, panicked sound escaping you. Your hands move uselessly between you as you try to scramble back. "Wait— I—"

Mydei doesn't let you finish. In one swift, effortless motion, he wraps an arm around your waist and lifts you — and all your protests dissolve into a startled gasp as he sets you down on his desk. The edge presses into the backs of your thighs. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your ribs, your palms flying up to brace against the solid wall of his chest. "Hey—"

He kisses you again, cutting the word short before it can take shape.

"You still love me," he murmurs against your lips. It's not a question.

You shake your head reflexively, breathless. "Mydei, I—"

He kisses you again, deeper this time. The words that make up your denial are stolen right out of your mouth, every protest taken apart until they come out half formed. The office, the desk, the report — all of it blurs until there is only the heat of his mouth against yours, the feel of him, the taste of him. And your body betrays you, instinctively pressing against him — Mydei, the man who had married you on that beach, who had that feel more like home than any place you'd been.

His breath scrapes across a shaky inhale. "You still love me." He sounds surer this time.

You try to speak — you don't know what, just something, anything, to keep yourself from slipping. But Mydei kisses you again, like it's all the answer he needs to hear. Your hands curl in the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to. His mouth moves against yours until you forget everything — the hurt, the doubt, your own name — leaving only one truth behind.

He rests his forehead against yours. "You still love me," he repeats.

Something in you finally gives.

The fight drains out of you all at once. You sag forward, your forehead pressing into his chest as your fingers clutch at his shirt, gripping tight just to keep yourself upright. You can't bring yourself to look at him.

But his heartbeat is loud beneath your ear — fast, almost frantic. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Just like your own, a rabbit-step in your chest. It fills your head, swelling until it drowns out everything else.

And then you nod.

It's small, barely there. Because you are terrified — terrified that you've given someone else the power to destroy you all over again.

He drives you home again.

The ride back to your apartment is no less awkward than the first, depite whatever it was that just happened in his office an hour ago. The silence stretches between the two of you, broken only by the hum on the engine and the sounds of the city sliding past the windows. You put both of your hands in your lap, gripping the rings — that he'd eventually returned to you, at your insistence — and do your best not to fidget too much.

This time, though, when the car pulls over, Mydei gets out with you. He falls into step beside you without comment. You swallow, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag, but you let him walk you to your building anyway.

You're just about to thank him — about to retreat into the safety of the stairwell and finally escape this mess of a night — when he speaks.

"Can I come up?" Mydei's gaze darts to the wall, the flickering lighting overhead, before it drops back down to look at you. He exhales a little. "We should talk. About… whatever happened back in the office. About us."

Every instinct screams no. It's a terrible idea — letting him into your safe space, the first thing you've really been able to call your own since returning to Okhema — especially when you're so painfully aware of how little rationality you seem to have around him, how emotionally drained you already are by today.

And yet, you hear yourself answer anyway. "Okay."

Mydei follows you up to your apartment, his presence filling the narrow stairwell behind you. At the door, you fumble with your key, hands uncooperatively clumsy, until it finally turns in the lock.

He steps inside and stops, just a little over the threshold, before glancing at you, almost as if silently asking for permission. You glance away, fumbling for the light switch by your kitchenette instead. The bulbs slowly flicker on one by one — and immediately, you wish you hadn't.

The second the light spills across the room, Mydei's eyes instinctively sweep over it. He takes in the small, ordinary apartment, the lumpy couch that Phainon helped you carry up three flights of stairs, your pile of unfolded clothes left on the kitchen counter… until his eyes come to a stop at your fridge. It's empty except for a hastily scribbled grocery list — a reminder to buy more eggs, if he's reading it right. But what captures his attention is the magnet that holds it up.

It's in the shape of a surfboard — touristy, something that you'd fight in a souvenir stall — but Mydei steps over to it as if in a trance, lets his fingers brush gently over the air-dried clay. "A reminder that you can ride a real one now," he'd told you, after the first time you'd manage to stay upright on a board. He'd called you brave, he'd made you feel loved, and you'd thrown your arms around him, knocked him over and kissed him in the sand until that taciturn line of his mouth had become a laugh.

He stares at the magnet for a long time, lips slightly parted, and you know that he's remembering that day too. "You kept it."

You fold your arms over your chest instinctively. "I didn't… I don't like to throw things away," you mutter, already wishing that the floor would swallow you whole. "It's wasteful."

Mydei doesn't respond to that.

You bite your lip, suddenly overcome with the need to explain. "They're just things."

"No, they're not," he replies, just as quietly. He looks down at the little surfboard one last time, before he finally tears his eyes away. "Do you remember the first time I taught you how to surf?" You hesitate, but he continues anyway. "You told me you were scared of the waves, that you hated the loss of control." A faint smile ghosts his mouth. "But when you finally managed to stand, to ride a wave all the way in, you said that it made everything — the fear, the bruises — worth it."

You let out a slow breath, leaning against the counter to steady yourself. You know where this is going, and you don't want to hear it.

"Mydei, stop— stop this." Your voice tightens. "I've told you already, I'm not the same person. I'm not Helena." You gesture to yourself, your plain work clothes, your boring hair, your ordinary apartment. "You don't know a single real thing about me. Not what my go-to drink is, or how my favourite colour isn't actually blue, and—"

"Perhaps you're right."

Mydei's interruption is so sudden that you simply stare, bewildered by his sudden agreement. He's looking at you, almost as if he's really looking at you now. "You're not Helena. And I might not know your favourite drink or colour, although I have a few guesses. You don't laugh as loudly as you did in Carmitis, and you don't argue with me anymore just to see how I'll react, though something tells me you still want to. But you still bite your lip when you're frustrated, and you still love me."

You realise you're biting your lip again and immediately let it go. "Mydei—"

He takes another step towards you. "Perhaps there are parts of you I don't know. You're definitely not the same person."

"Mydei—"

"I'm not the same guy from the beach either." he says quietly. "I've changed too… a lot, since Carmitis. As for this..." He hesitates, before he looks at you with the same solemn certainty he'd been wearing, the day he'd spoken his vows to you on that beach. "It'll take some time, but I'll fall in love with you again. I'll learn all the other parts, and I think I'll come to love them too."

"Mydei."

"Just give me permission," he says, his voice achingly soft. "Say you'll let me try."

You swallow, and the sound too loud in your tiny apartment. The question you’ve been holding back finally breaks free, small and shameful.

"Why?" you whisper. "Why can't you just let all of this go?" Your voice wavers. "I hurt you. I'm not a good person. And my cousin— he'll find out. He definitely will. I don't want him or… or any of my friends to know—to know what happened in Carmitis, or—”

Mydei just shakes his head. "Phainon won't blame you. In fact, I think that guy will be over the moon that you're opening up to him more. He loves you, you know?" You bite your lower lip to keep it from wobbling.

"Don't talk like you know him better than me."

He raises an eyebrow. "He calls himself my best friend."

"He's my cousin."

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Mydei's mouth.

The two of you linger there, silence slowly creeping in once more. This time, it's still a little awkward, but it doesn't feel heavy or pressing. Not anymore. Mydei watches you carefully, waiting for you to think, to decide. And his eyes are so, so patient.

Part of you is still screaming at you to run. Survival instinct, honed the last time you had trusted someone with your heart and paid dearly for it. You'd promised yourself that you'd never let the same thing happen again. But to keep running forever, to continue hiding from maybes and what-ifs…

And Mydei… Mydei has never given you reason to be afraid.

Still, the fear lingers, loitering like an unwelcome stranger. The mere thought of it is terrifying, like stepping straight off a cliff. But to surmount the waves, you have to face them head-on.

Slowly, tentatively, you lift your hand. Your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his shirt, right over his heart. You feel the hitch in his breath, the faint tremor that runs through him at your touch.

"I don't deserve you," you say quietly, and you see his expression falter for just a second before he schools it back. You swallow, eyes suddenly stinging, and press on. "I need a lot of work, I'm a mess, I'm a coward, and I'm sure I'm going to end up hurting you in some way or another…" Your voice trembles when you speak. "But I'm a selfish person, so I'm still going to ask: please, can you love me anyway?"

Mydei's breath catches. For a moment, he looks at you — really looks at you, you, not Helena — and then he lets out a quiet, breathless laugh, as if something inside him has finally unravelled at last. His hand reaches up gently to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek.

"Unfortunately for me," he murmurs, a fond, helpless note spilling into his words as his other hand joins the first, "I don't think I ever stopped."

And then he kisses you again.

It's not like the ones that you shared in the office, desperate and all-consuming like a forest fire. This one is slow and tender — he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. You rock against him as his hands cradle your face, and it feels so, so warm, like standing under a warm summer shower and laughing in the sun.

And for the first time in a long while, you don't feel like you need to run any longer.

You feel like coming home.

The two of you fall asleep tangled on your bed, your face pressed against the steady rise and fall of his chest, the familiar weight of his arm around your waist. It's warm — safe in a way you'd forgotten you could feel, could want. You sleep better than you've slept in months.

You wake up the next morning to unfamiliar sounds drifting in from beyond the bedroom. The quiet clink of dishes, the careful pad of feet moving through your apartment. For a moment, in the hazy morning light, you think you might be dreaming again — of the trailer and the ocean and the man who once loved you.

But your sheets smell faintly of pomegranate and oud, and the blankets beside you are rumpled, clinging on to his warmth.

(Warmth belonging to the man who still loves you.)

You push yourself out of bed and slip outside. There, you find him in your kitchen, standing at your battered stove with his back to you. He's wearing his trousers from last night and a white undershirt, his hair slightly mussed from sleep. His eyes are focused intently on the pan in front of him, eggs sizzling in hot oil — and everything about the sight in front of you disarms you from the inside out.

Mydei must sense your eyes on him, because his head lifts, before he glances over his shoulder to look at you. He smiles when your eyes meet.

"Good morning," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

You don't respond with words. Instead, you cross the small space between the two of you and stop right behind him. Your arms slide around his waist, pressing yourself so close that there is no distance left between you.

"Say my name," you whisper into his shoulder blade. "So I know this isn't a dream."

He stills for a single breath, like he understands exactly what you're asking for. And then he says it, his voice caressing your real name the way you've been longing for all this time.

Not Helena. You.

"You can take a seat first." He tilts his head back just enough for his lips to graze the top of your head. "I made eggs the same way I used to in Carmitis — do you still like them like that?"

You hop onto the kitchen counter to watch him, letting your legs swing down so that your heels brush the drawers and smile. "I like anything Mydei makes for me."

Mydei snorts a little and shakes his head as he lifts the pan off the stove. "Alright, then. What else do you like? So I can start to remember them."

"Hmm." You pretend to consider this very carefully, even as your smile betrays you. You tick the items off your fingers. "I like sunshine. The beach, pretty shells and the ocean. Oh! And I'd like to go back to Carmitis in summer and try surfing again."

He hums. The sound of it is low and indulgent. "What else?"

"Lazy days. Sweet desserts. Being indoors when it rains." The words spill out of you all of a sudden now, overflowing just like your love for the man who chased after you for a year, and never let you go. "And…"

"And?" Mydei prompts you, brows arched with curiosity. You smile and beckon him closer.

He does, brows knitting slightly, wearing that familiar look of tentative concern mixed with amusement. You hold out your hand, palm up. He hesitates only for a second before placing his hand in yours.

"And Mydei," you confess softly, suddenly feeling more nervous than you thought you would. "I like Mydei more than anything else in the world."

Your fingers curl around his. And then, you reach into your pocket and draw out a metal band — the ring he'd worn for a year after you'd run away from him, the ring he'd thrown into the river the night he'd learned the truth, and the ring you'd gone back to find and worn against your skin. Your hand trembles just a little as you slide it back onto his finger, where it fits perfectly — just as it always has. He glances up at you, eyes wide.

For a moment, neither of you breathe.

Then Mydei smiles. He leans in, close enough that you can feel his warmth, and takes your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your hand, lingering on where the matching ring rests on your finger.

"Sweet things, being indoors when it rains, and Mydei," he repeats after you. "Yeah, I think I can remember that."