#phainon fluff

you squint against the sudden sunlight. the rhythmic clang of metal against metal reaches your ears as dozens of knights spar in duels, while others run drills under the barked commands of their captains, sweat darkening the collars of their tunics.

somewhere in your chest, a distant ache stirs.

your parents had only your best interests at heart. they wanted you somewhere safe especially after the assassination attempt that left you with only half your memory intact.

the neighboring kingdom, castrum kremnos, was the obvious choice; home to the finest warriors in the land, and close enough to your homeland that you wouldn’t feel entirely adrift.

and so, here you are now, a year after your coming of age ceremony, standing on foreign soil under the protection of another kingdom.

they hoped a change of scenery might help you heal after all these years. 

“i was told,” you say, “that i’m to choose a knight.”

mydei nods, “it’s customary. you’ll remain under kremnos’ protection regardless, but a personal escort will ease the council’s worries. and your parents’.”

you don’t suppose you like the idea of having a glorified babysitter in metal armor, but alas, you understand why it’s necessary. 

finally, you come to a stop at the edge of the training grounds. “choose carefully. these men and women will lay down their lives for you, should the need arise.”

your eyes sweep over the crowd, scanning the lines of soldiers before you—until they catch on a certain figure and don’t move again.

he kneels like the rest, yet something about him sets him apart.

snow-white hair falls loosely over his face, obscuring most of it, catching the sunlight like spun silver. with his head bowed, you can’t see much, only the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth curve of his cheek. 

but what little you can glimpse is almost ethereal; the kind you might even call beautiful. 

mydeimos’ voice rings out, taking you out of your trance and dismissing the knights back to their training. boots scuff against stone at the command as they stand and begin to disperse across the grounds.

as they return to their drills, you sense more than a few lingering looks subtly aimed your way—brief, curious flickers of the eye; some seem eager to catch your attention, others simply taking in the sight of the visiting princess. 

where the others can’t help but sneak a glimpse, you notice he doesn’t so much as lift his head. 

his focus locked somewhere far from you. not once does he look at you; in fact, he’s the only one who doesn’t.

you glance back toward the field just as a commotion starts to stir.

from your vantage point, it’s easy to spot a few older knights surrounding a younger recruit, likely an inexperienced junior, judging by his awkwardness and stiff movements. 

the knights goad him with swings he clearly struggles to deflect, one even slips in a low sweep that knocks him off balance, and when he stumbles back, barely managing to stay upright, the laughter that follows is nothing short of mean-spirited.

in the midst of everything, one of them even glances toward you.

ah. so that’s what this is. show-offs, the lot of them. 

your brows furrow slightly at the sight in front of you. the hits aren’t hard enough to injure, but still, that’s no way to treat your comrades! you’re just about to lean toward mydei to ask if this kind of thing happens often when—

the white-haired knight approaches with a calm, unhurried gait, tilting his head slightly in a casual nod.

“three on one?” you hear him say, voice clear even from a distance. "doesn’t seem very fair to me."

“captain,” one of the older knights replies, straightening slightly, though there’s still a trace of a smirk on his face. "we’re just testing the rookie’s reflexes. builds character, you know."

“oh? then let me help.” he draws his training sword in one smooth motion, the blade gleaming under the sun. “how about i take his place? i could use a little discipline myself.”

a short silence follows; the knights glance at one another. 

then, with a begrudging scoff, one of them steps forward, rolling his shoulders as he raises his blade.

“don’t go easy on me, captain.”

“wouldn’t dream of it. though if this is your way of impressing her highness…” he briefly flicks his gaze up toward you, the look on his face is hard to pin down—

“you’re doing a terrible job.”

ACT I: WHY HIS LOYALTY WAS MINE ALONE

the spar that follows isn’t violent, but it’s unmistakably a lesson (one the egoistical bunch sorely needs).

the white-haired knight meets every blow with ease, and effectively disarms his opponents. the difference is immediate. 

by the time the bout ends, the three knights lower their blades, avoiding his gaze as they shamefully retreat with stiff bows. the white-haired knight gives the junior still watching from the sidelines a quick, reassuring pat on the shoulder, and murmurs something you can’t quite hear.

you blink.

that was… unexpectedly gentle.

and very impressive.

“you’ve got a sharp eye. that’s phainon, the captain of the royal knights,” mydei adds with a touch of reluctance, “the only one here who can rival me in a spar, unfortunately.”

you stifle a laugh. the image of the oh-so-mighty mydeimos getting knocked flat in training is too good to resist. must be frustrating, being shown up by your own subordinate.

he shoots you a sideways glance. “you look like you’re thinking something rude.”

urk… nevermind! 

anyway, you feel a bit guilty; you’d meant to observe everyone objectively, to judge them fairly by their skill. but admittedly, you’d been staring more at his face than anything else on the field here.

still, as that little display just now proved, he also happens to be the most capable one out there (given that he’s the captain and all).

so really, it’s a win-win isn’t it?

your eyes naturally drift back to him across the courtyard, and when his gaze unexpectedly meets yours, you offer a small, pleasant smile. 

for a moment, something in his expression falters. his pupils seem to dilate ever so slightly like he’s been caught off guard, before he quickly averts his gaze as though he hadn’t seen you at all.

“do you know him?” mydei asks, curiosity evident in his tone.

“no,” you reply without hesitation.

his hair—snow-white, so striking in a way that feels impossible to forget. you’re almost certain you would remember it if you had seen him before, somewhere in passing, though where or when eludes you.

you brush the thought aside. probably just a trick of the eye.

while you’re busy conversing with mydei, you miss the way his gaze keeps drifting to you whenever you aren’t looking; and how, earlier, when your eyes passed over him without a trace of recognition, he turned away just as fast.

mydei gestures him over; he approaches and comes to a stop before you both, offering a courteous bow.

when phainon lifts his head, his eyes find yours—and for the first time, he doesn’t look away. they’re warmer than you expect, startlingly soft, and the way he holds your gaze makes your breath catch a little. 

you blink, unsure what to make of the sudden attention, and even more unsure why it leaves your heart skipping a beat.

but before you can dwell on it, he drops to one knee. “thank you for choosing me, my lady,” he says, voice steady. “i’ll protect you with my life.”

ACT II: WHY I FELT SOMETHING AKIN TO WARMTH

you don’t remember much of your childhood, not after that day. your memory fractures like shattered glass around the moment you were attacked, during the afternoon you snuck out.

your parents told you it was a group of mercenaries that vanished without a trace after the failed assassination and that you were lucky someone nearby had saved you in time.

whoever it was carried you back, left you somewhere safe enough for the guards to find you in a bloodied and unconscious state, before disappearing without any indications of their identity. 

the search that followed led nowhere. there were no witnesses, and your testimony was of no help either, you couldn’t recall a thing about the attack. even now, it’s all a blur, likely a side effect of the trauma caused by this incident and the coma that followed. 

and though you tried, again and again, to recall the face of your savior… there was nothing. 

still, some part of you is convinced it wasn’t just a stranger. deep down, you’ve always believed it must have been someone dear to you—and the only person that comes to mind is a boy your age who you’d often sneak off to play with when you were young. 

but you can’t recall his name. or what he looked like. not even the sound of his voice. 

but whoever he was… you’re certain he was the first person who ever made you feel truly loved.

since your arrival at kremnos, the letters haven’t stopped.

every few days, a fresh stack arrives. you open elegant envelopes sealed in wax; promises of affection, proposals of alliance, declarations of admiration from noblemen near and far, so on and so forth. 

you never read past the first few lines.

today is no different. you absentmindedly sort through the pile as they gather on your desk, eyes glazed from the monotony—until a familiar crest pressed into pastel pink wax catches your attention.

from… countess cyrene?

countess cyrene of aedes elysiae; though your duties often kept you both endlessly busy, the two of you still exchanged letters now and then.

you’ve always looked forward to her letters. this one is no different.

the letter comes in her familiar flowing script. she writes that word of your stay in kremnos has reached her—and she’s delighted, at last, to have a reason to visit. once her family matters are in order, she promises to make the trip and see her old friend again.

you continue to read for a while, barely noticing how the sky softens into twilight. and at some point, without meaning to, you fall asleep.

when phainon finds you, the room is quiet, bathed in the gentle hush of dusk. 

you’re fast asleep beneath the warm spill of fading light, your breathing soft, the faintest crease between your brows. you’re slumped over the desk, cheek resting against your arm. 

he pauses in the doorway. maybe it’s the way your features have softened in sleep, or how the dying light catches the way your hair falls over your face. maybe it’s because, just for a moment, you look almost delicate to touch.

his gaze traces your sleeping face, and something tender tugs at his chest—so achingly soft it almost hurts. 

he really wants to call your name.

but as a knight, his loyalty belongs to the empire, and with that vow comes a line he’s sworn never to cross—one that makes love for a princess he serves forbidden.

wait, what was he thinking? he quickly shakes himself awake.

because if he lets even a sliver of that feeling slip through, he’s not sure he’ll have the will power to stop himself from crossing that line.

so instead, he shrugs off his cloak and drapes it gently over your shoulders, hands careful not to graze your skin. 

he tells himself this is enough. it has to be.

by the time your eyes flutter open, he clears his throat. 

“forgive me, your highness,” he mutters, his voice gently pulling you out of your slumber, “i merely wished to shield you from the wind.”

you blink up at him, still bleary with sleep; and the tips of his ears turn the faintest shade of red under the lazy, unfocused way you look at him.

“it’s quite alright. thank you, sir phainon.” 

but his heart knows better than to believe it’s truly enough.

that night, as you lie beneath the silk canopy of your bed, eyes lost in the dim glow of the ceiling, your fingers find the necklace resting at your collarbone.

you toy with the pendant absently; you don’t remember when it was given to you, only that you’ve had it for as long as you can remember. 

and as always, your thoughts drift to him.

your dearest childhood friend—whose hands were as soft and warm as summer. he’d reach for you, and you’d follow without hesitation, slipping past watchful guards into the wild beyond the palace walls.

you’d race through sunlit fields until your lungs burned and laughter spilled freely from your chest; lying beside each other as you chattered on about suffocating etiquettes in the palace, while he’d offer you pastries from stalls in markets you never get to visit. 

being with him always smelled of freshly bloomed wildflowers and sun-warmed earth—the kind of scent that clung to your sleeves long after you’d returned to the palace, hoping no one would notice where the young princess had been all afternoon. 

you remember the weeks after you woke from the coma; how every morning, you’d pull back the curtains and press your forehead to the cool glass, eyes sweeping the grounds in silence.

waiting for a glimpse of a familiar wave. 

but no matter how high the sun rose, no matter how many mornings passed… that never came. and even now, you still find yourself wondering—

why didn’t he come back for you?

you pull phainon’s cloak a little closer around your shoulders. it smells faintly of wildflowers, just like those days you still dream about.

and somehow, that’s enough to lull you to sleep.

ACT III: WHY, YOU ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE! 

in the stillness of the royal infirmary, long after the palace has fallen quiet for the night, a young boy stands beside the bed of the unconscious princess. 

a dark hooded cloak hangs off his small frame; even tucked beneath the fabric, the pale strands of his snow-white hair caught what little moonlight filtered in.

he lingers quietly, gaze fixed on her face, bruised and bandaged. his hands tremble as he reaches for hers, lifting it gently to his lips before pressing a soft kiss to her palm. 

then, he tucks a delicate necklace into her hand and folds her fingers around it.

it is a modest thing, barely worth a glance to anyone else, but he had spent the last of his coins on it the moment it caught his eye at the market stall. a sun-shaped pendant. it reminded him too much of her—warm, bright, and out of his reach.

“wait for me,” he whispers. “i’ll be strong enough to protect you one day, no one… no one will ever hurt you again,” he whispers just barely above his breath. “i promise.”

he could’ve sworn her expression softened, the crease between her brows smoothing ever so slightly, as if his words had reached her in her slumber. in his hopeful haze, it felt real enough to believe the faintest smile on her face was meant for him.

taking one final glance, he slipped away the way he came, vanishing into the shadows before anyone knew he was ever there.

phainon, as it turns out, is surprisingly easy to talk to.

conversation with him flows more naturally than you’d imagined. he listens well no matter how trivial the topic is; and maybe it’s the cute way he tilts his head when he’s curious, or how he noticeably brightens just a little when you laugh—you can’t help but notice there’s something undeniably charming about him.

you learn this as the two of you walk through the outer streets of kremnos.

mydei had suggested you take time to acquaint yourself with the city beyond the palace walls, and you’d agreed without hesitation. a quiet stroll sounded like a welcome change of pace.

of course, you couldn’t exactly parade through the city without drawing unwanted attention. 

so you and your knight both don simple cloaks over your usual attire, hoods drawn low to obscure your faces. from a distance, you look like nothing more than a traveler and her escort.

the narrow lane eventually opens into a quieter square where flower stalls line the street. a thought strikes you. 

“sir phainon, if you had to choose,” you say, glancing at him from beneath your hood. “say, what would your favorite flower be?”

phainon blinks, “…a flower? my lady, i don’t think i’ve ever been asked that.” he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

“but surely you have one.” you insist, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

phainon’s brows knit slightly as his gaze sweeps over the stalls. for a moment, he looks lost, till his eyes linger on a bouquet of sunflowers, their golden petals tilted toward the fading afternoon light. his gaze flickers briefly from the flowers to you, then back again.

“sunflowers, maybe.”

your smile widens. “is that so? i suppose sunflowers are really unique, especially their tendency to follow the sun wherever it goes.” 

when you glance to the side to gauge his reaction, you realize he’s already looking at you. you almost miss the faintest trace of color dusting his cheeks as he squints slightly, as though he was looking directly into the sun itself. 

“for your lady, sir?” the vendor asks brightly, holding up a single stem of sunflower.

phainon startles as though woken from a dream. his eyes dart from the vendor to you, and he straightens abruptly, clearing his throat. the faint blush that had lingered on his face deepens.

“she’s not— i mean— well, yes, if she wants, but—”

you can’t help laughing at phainon’s flustered reaction, taking the flower yourself. “i’ll take it then, thank you.”

he finds himself trailing just a step behind you as you skip ahead.

and it dawns on him; perhaps sunflowers don’t choose to follow the sun, but because they simply can’t help it. no matter how far its warmth drifts, they’ll always turn their faces toward the light.

and as he watches you from behind, phainon realizes he’s doing much the same.

ACT III: WHY I FELT A SENSE OF DÉJÀ VU

the dagger pressed cold against her throat.

“not a word,” the man hissed. his voice was calm unlike the tremor in the maid’s hands as she stood frozen, the tip of the dagger tracing the hollow of her neck. “do exactly as i say, and you’ll live.”

“p-please,” she stammered, lips quivering. “i beg, don’t—”

outside, the corridor was silent. most of the guards had been drawn away toward the western gate, distracted by a false report of intruders. the eastern wing, where the princess’s chambers lay, was almost deserted. just as planned.

the man’s gaze darted toward the far end of the hall. “where is she?”

“i— i don’t know. her highness said she wished for some—”

the dagger pressed deeper, drawing a thin bead of red beneath her chin.

“...in her quarters!” she gasped. “please, don’t hurt—”

“get me the oil,” he shoved the maid aside. make sure there are no witnesses, we’re here to assassinate the princess.

moments later, the corridors of the east wing filled with the faint scent of smoke.

the maid dropped the oil vessel and staggered back, horrified by what she had done; choking on her sobs as she fled down the hall. he watched her go until the sound of her footsteps faded, then tipped the lantern, adding fuel to the fire.

the flames leapt to life, devouring everything in their path.

you rise from your chair, a surge of alarm clawing at your chest.  “is someone there?”

no answer.

by the time you reach for the door, the handle sears your palm with heat.

flames crackle as tendrils of smoke curl beneath the doors, making way into your chambers. just outside, unsuspecting attendants flee in panic, their screams muffled as they scramble through the palace.

you snatch a cloth from the table, and douse it with water, wrapping it around your hand before grasping the scorching handle. 

but just as you brace to pull the door open, you freeze—dark streaks of oil begin to snake across the floor, seeping in from the gap beneath the door. 

your stomach drops; in the next second, flames bloom like wildfire at your feet. 

you instinctively take a few steps back. it claws at the edges of the curtains, the heat pressing in from every side as your lungs burn with each ragged cough. 

a wave of icy dread crashes over you. every gut screams that this is no accident. the oil creeping deliberately under your doorframe leaves no room for doubt: someone did this on purpose.

could it be that they have returned for you, after all these years…?

your heart leaps when the window starts rattling violently; shattered glass and shards scatter across the floor as someone steps through the broken pane, hands bare and bleeding from the jagged edges of glass.

“sir phainon?”

the sight of him through the haze makes your heart stutter. 

“what are you doing here? you should—” you cough violently, waving at the acrid air. “you should get out… it’s not safe here!”

phainon’s eyes dart toward the door behind you, where he knows other guards, dispatched the moment the fire broke out, were racing to reach your chambers.

but as he suspected, there was no safe passage leading to you. thus why he had to find an alternative as soon as possible. 

without a second thought, he finds a way in himself, barely feeling the pain in his bloodied knuckles nor the scorching hot flames, driven by nothing but the need to reach you before it’s too late.

“forgive me, my lady, but i cannot obey that order.” 

and though he says nothing more, the truth is written plainly across his face— you are all that matters to him. and the thought of losing you again is something he can’t bear to even imagine.

“please hold on to me.” you barely manage to question him before he sweeps an arm securely around your waist, pulling you close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest. the fire devours what’s left of the room as he braces his bleeding hands against the shattered sill, blood smearing faintly across the glass.

“phainon—your hands—”

he grins faintly, “you can scold me later, princess, preferably when we’re not on fire.”

before you can respond, he lifts you through the window and out into the open air; instinctively, you grab at the front of his cloak, clutching the fabric to steady yourself.

the cold rush of wind hits you like a wave, stealing the heat and smoke from your lungs. 

he lands hard against the grass outside, his body twisting to shield you from the fall. his hand finds the back of your head, guiding it against his shoulder as he absorbs the brunt of the blow. 

the impact jostles you both; for a heartbeat, neither of you moves. you can only feel the rough fabric of his shirt beneath your fingers, the rapid, unsteady rhythm of his heart pounding against your palm.

phainon exhales shakily, his grip loosening just enough for you to lift your head. concern is written all over the beautiful face laying under you, but neither of you seem to remember how close you are.

“let’s get you somewhere safe, my lady.”

he kneels beside you, hands moving with careful precision as he dampens a cloth and gently wipes the dirt from your skin. 

you notice the faint tremor in his fingers as he tends to the scrape along your arm, the subtle tension in his jaw; his eyes that flit over you… your face, your hands, your shoulders, as if searching for possible wounds you haven’t noticed yet. 

“i’m not badly hurt,” you murmur, watching him.

he pauses, eyes flicking up to catch your gaze. “even so, my lady,” he replies, “it eases my mind to be certain.”

“thank you, i’m alright, really.”

he knows he has no right to act as anything more than your devoted knight, yet he tends to you with a fervor that defies norms. each careful touch, each lingering glance, speaks of a devotion that goes far beyond; protecting you has become a desperate, almost instinctive need for him. 

his fingers brush a loose strand of hair from your forehead, lingering a moment longer than necessary, and for an instant the world outside the safehouse feels like it’s miles away. the closeness and the warmth of his hand against your skin, makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. 

he clears his throat, snapping himself from the reverie. “i merely wish to ensure you are unharmed.” 

you nod, “but what about you, phainon?” 

phainon, phainon, phainon… how long had he waited to hear those two syllables fall from your lips? the sound rolls off your tongue like honey, enough to make him delirious off its sweetness.

you tilt your head at his lack of response, eyes lowering towards his knuckles; the blood may be wiped away, but the marks of the glass-cut injuries remain. 

“…does it still hurt?” you ask softly, reaching for his hand before he can draw it back.

his hand is warm and rough in your grasp; you trace the edges of the cuts gently, thumb brushing over a faint streak of dried blood.

“you shouldn’t have done something so reckless,” you mutter, tearing a strip of cloth from your sleeve to wrap around his knuckles.

phainon watches in silence, gaze following the furrow of your brow, the faint crease of worry that doesn’t belong on your face.

and as your fingers tighten the makeshift bandage around his knuckles, his heart pounds loud enough that he’s sure you could hear it, if you only leaned a little closer.

unfortunately, this humble warehouse was built to house only one person at most, which explained the lone bed pushed against the wall. 

at first, he stubbornly insists on sleeping on the floor, but you protest, unwilling to let a wounded man rest on the unforgiving floor. 

in bed, he tries to give you most of the space, or at least he intends to… but with his broad frame, it’s impossible not to take up more than his fair share (despite his genuine best efforts).

so when your shoulder brushes against his, he stiffens, and you notice the subtle way his hand flexes around the sheet. the bandaged fingers of his curl involuntarily, white-knuckled, the muscle in his forearm trembling slightly as he wills himself to remain still, to restrain the urge to reach out, to pull you closer. 

he convinces himself it’s the soreness in his knuckles keeping him awake, not the warmth of your body pressed against his side. 

he stares at the ceiling long after you’ve drifted off (though he can’t help but sneak a few glances from time to time), listening to the even rise and fall of your breathing.

seeing you safe and here beside him once more, it’s the same comfort he remembers from long ago, like coming home after a long, restless journey.

after all this time, he finally has the chance to keep his promise.

the thought is enough to coax a small, unguarded smile to the corners of his lips. 

INTERLUDE: WHY A PROMISE MUST BE REMEMBERED

his breathing was ragged, his steps uneven as he darted into the narrow alleyway behind the market. dust rose beneath his boots, mingling with the late-evening light that spilled through the cracks between the rooftops.

he hadn’t stolen anything. he swore he hadn’t. but when the steward’s silver ring had gone missing, and he’d just happened to pass by with his ragged appearance, that was all it took for them to put the blame on him. he learnt that explaining was futile when the haughty steward shut him up and called for guards immediately.

he pressed himself behind a crate, trying to calm his breathing. the echo of guards shouting carried faintly down the street.

“he went that way!”

... “don’t let that rascal get away!”

just then, a figure in a pale dress peeked in, her gaze sweeping the shadows before landing right where he hid.

...!

he bit his lip, eyes squeezing shut, praying to whichever god was listening to him—that she wouldn’t call out to the guards.

“hello?”

his eyes snapped open and he swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “…please don’t tell them i’m here.”

she tilted her head, studying the boy crouched behind the crate. “what’s your name?” she asked.

“...phainon.” 

“phainon,” she repeated, as if you’re testing the sound on her tongue. “i like that name!”

“well i’m—”  she began, but her words were cut short.

“your highness!” the guards called from behind her, relief flooding their tone when they finally spotted the young princess. “there you are, we’ve been looking everywhere! what are you doing here?”

she you blinked, casting a quick glance back toward the crates, before stepping away inconspicuously. “nothing,” you said lightly. “i thought i heard something and got a little lost.”

“but it seems i’m the only one here.”

the guards exchanged uneasy glances, hesitantly, they inclined their heads.

“understood, your highness. it isn’t safe here, please let us escort you back to the palace before your tutors notice,” one said.

they turned to lead you out of the alleyway, but before you followed, you looked back. 

snow-white hair peeked out from behind the crate. his lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came.

you smiled instead, lifting a finger to your lips to shush him gently, then gave him a playful wink as your parting gift. 

phew...

thank god they—wait. wait, did the princess of aedes elysiae… just wink at him?

you don’t see him again for several days, at least not until another quiet afternoon when you manage to slip past your attendants once more. 

beyond the palace gardens, down a sloping hill and through the meadow, there’s a quiet spot by the riverbank where almost no one ever goes.

that’s where you find him again. barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, rinsing mud from his hands in the river. sunlight glints off his pale hair, the ripples painting silver lines across his face. he startles when he notices you standing next to him. 

“…your highness?” he blurts, nearly stumbling to his feet.

“so you do remember me.”

there is something about the way he looks at you then, more so resembling the awe of someone faced with a miracle he never quite believed he’d see again. as some people are remembered as heroes because they save lives; while others, like you, because they give one a reason to keep living at all.

he straightens quickly, bowing his head, his hands still damp. “i didn’t expect to see you here, your highness. the palace is quite a ways off.”

you step closer until your reflection joins his in the water. “what a coincidence,” you muse. “i come here often, yet i’ve never once seen you. perhaps it’s fate, then.”

you tilt your head. “what are you doing here, anyway?”

“my parents’ field is nearby,” he says, awkwardly drying his palms on his trousers. “i was fetching water for them, your highness.”

you hum thoughtfully,  glancing at the wooden buckets by his feet. “then i suppose i’ve interrupted your work.”

he shakes his head quickly, almost flustered. “no-not at all! you could never be an interruption, my lady!”

amused, you can’t help but giggle at his reaction. the sound makes him blink, unsure whether he’s said something foolish or funny (or both), he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at his neck before lowering his gaze again, a bashful smile tugging at his lips.

after that day, you find yourselves meeting there more often.

“my lady, are you sneaking out again?” “maybe… but you won’t tell on me, right?”

neither of you ever spoke of your meetings to anyone. a young princess had no business secretly spending her evenings with a commoner, after all—what would the court say if they ever found out?

yet, despite the vast gulf of social status between you, you never treated him as lesser; and he finds himself drawn to you more with each passing meeting, until he can’t help but notice that his thoughts turn to you long before the day ends. 

those little observations grow heavier in his chest as years pass, loving a princess is dangerous, but loving a commoner would be no less so. perhaps you both sense it; even the adults, if they ever knew, would likely dismiss it as nothing more than a fleeting childhood affection, a puppy love that simply, cannot last.

but looking at you now, you seem almost ethereal. is it truly selfish of him to wish you’d never leave? to hope you wouldn’t one day be wedded to some noble prince more fitting of your position? 

to imagine himself there instead—if it were him standing beside you, would you look at him differently then?

he hates the way his heart dares to reach for something it has no right to want.

it is such an ugly thought, a feeling so unworthy of you, he fears it might taint you if he even dared to—

“then… when i grow up and become a princess who gets into all sorts of trouble—”

he blinks at you, as though the sweet sound of your voice had pulled him out of a dream. “all sorts of trouble?”

“yes,” you said solemnly. “you’ll come save me, won’t you?”

the boy paused, looking down at his calloused hands. the breeze rustles through the grass, carrying the faint scent of river water between you; he nods, surprisingly earnestly. 

“of course, i’ll save you, no matter what.”

you smile brightly at his response, holding out your pinky toward him.

“then it’s a promise!”

he hooks his finger with yours.

“of course, i’ll protect you with my life!”

that day, the sun may be blazing brilliantly overhead, yet its light pales beside the radiant warmth of your smile, a light that touched his heart with a tenderness no dawn could ever match.

ACT V: WHY HE COULDN’T BEAR TO SEE ME SMILE AT ANOTHER

after a pleasant conversation with the knowledgeable lord anaxa, you slip out of the ballroom, and as always—phainon falls into step behind you the instant you turn away.

you push open the imposing doors leading to the balcony; cool night wind rushes in, brushing across your skin like a blessing after hours drowned under chandeliers. the music dulls to a distant hum as the doors ease shut behind you.

exhaling, you lean against the marble railing, letting the air fill your lungs. phainon steps into the moonlight, his gaze softens when it lands on your back.

“my lady,” he says quietly. “are you alright?”

jealousy doesn’t show easily on him.

usually, he’s a man with no need to covet. but nothing about you, or the way he feels for you, has ever been “usual” to him.

every time a noble leaned in too near, every fleeting touch on your arm as if they had any right to—

“yes,” you murmur, tossing a look over your shoulder and offering him a faint, tired smile. “i just needed a breath of fresh air.” your gaze drops for a moment before lifting to him again. “thank you for staying by my side, phainon.”

it reminds him, cruelly, of the place he stands, of what he can and cannot reach.

a low hum trembles through the air before the first firework bursts into the sky, scattering gold across the night. you both look up instinctively, the sudden glow washing over your faces. 

another follows. then another. soon the sky is filled with blooming flowers, each one painting your skin in shifting hues of amber and rose.

“look phainon!” petals of light drift downward, reflected in your awe-filled eyes, “it’s lovely, isn’t it?”

his breath catches at the way you grab his arm out of excitement (moving just enough that the warmth of you grazes against his side), the soft delight in your eyes, the way you lean forward slightly, lips parted in astonishment—

it coaxes dormant parts of his heart awake, blooming slow and treacherous like flowers touched by the morning sun.

“yes,” he says before he could help himself. 

yet his gaze rests nowhere near the sky, but rather, on the spectacle that lives inside your gaze, the reflection turning your eyes into something soft and luminous.

he thinks that if there is beauty to behold tonight, it exists far closer than the horizon ahead.

and maybe that is why his next words sit so heavily on his tongue.

“my lady.”

“hm?” your expectant eyes meet his.

phainon swallows.

“in a week or so, i will be stationed at the frontlines away from the capital for some time,” he begins.

you blink, surprise flickering across your face, this is news to you. your fingers tighten on the railing.

you had hoped, more than you dared admit, to spend just a little more time with your beloved knight.

“how long?” you ask with a disappointment you try to swallow down. 

“a few years.”

“i see.” a hollow ache blooms beneath your ribs, as if something dear to you is slipping out of reach.

his fingers curl at his sides, knuckles tense; every word he’s buried for years pushes its way up his throat before he can stop it. “and there is also something i have been meaning to say. my lady, i—”

a thunderous crack splits the sky above, drowning out the rest of his words in a blaze of gold.

you tilt your head, “sorry, what was it?” you call over the roaring cascade. 

phainon’s mouth opens—then closes again.

“…nothing,” he turns his gaze away from you, “it can wait, my lady.”

and you, standing inches from him, remain blissfully unaware of the words he had finally dared to speak.

the ballroom is nearly unrecognisable once emptied. 

you and phainon’s footsteps the only sound left in a place that had been overflowing with grandeur only an hour ago.

“a shame i didn’t get to dance properly tonight,” you say, half jokingly. 

“is it?” he asks softly.

you shrug, smiling faintly. “i suppose so.”

“in that case…”  he bows lightly, “if you’d allow me, my lady.” 

“you know how to dance?” you ask, the hint of a smile tugging your lips.

he exhales a quiet laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting. a flicker of playfulness ghosts across his face. “why don’t you see for yourself?” he returns with an unexpected hint of teasing gallantry.

you laugh and slip your hand into his.

his palm at your waist warms through the layers of your gown, its delicate threads woven by none other than the esteemed seamstress, lady aglaea.

he looks down, drinking in the sight of you—your flushed cheeks from the cold air, the soft part of your lips as you exhale. 

for a man so adept at his weapon, his hands felt remarkably soft on your skin.

phainon’s breath caresses faintly against your temple as he spins you gently under his arm.

you both fall into a gentle sway, soft laughter escaping every once in a while.

he lets himself savor the moment, allowing himself this small indulgence: to believe, if only for tonight, you might recognize him in the same way he has always known you.

ACT VI: WHY I WAS JEALOUS OF HIS 'SECRET LOVER'

phainon almost never left you unattended, but mydei (of all people) was someone he trusted without hesitation. and today he had been ordered to train the troupe preparing for the frontlines, leaving you in the prince’s hands for the afternoon.

left alone with mydei, you slipped into your chairs across from one another with a glass of wine in hand (while he sipped his familiar pomegranate juice). 

he regales you with stories of past misadventures, a surprising number involving phainon when he first came to kremnos; the image was so endearing you found yourself laughing, unable to picture that small awkward boy beside the tall composed figure you knew now.

“so how did phainon earn a place among the royal knights? seeing as he’s not of kremnoan blood and all.” 

“oh? and what makes you say that?”

you lift a hand in gentle surrender. “only a feeling.”

that earns a soft laugh from the prince. “you’re right. he’s from aedes elysiae.”

aedes elysiae… huh. you knew he feels familiar somehow, especially that scent of fresh meadow he carries that reminds you so fondly of the grassfields back in your homeland. “he arrived at the palace gates back when we were barely teenagers,” mydei begins. “walked right up to me, introduced himself, and challenged me to a duel on the spot.”

you blink. “a duel?”

“my thoughts exactly,” he says, amused. “he declared that if he won, i would have no choice but to let him join the royal training ranks. insufferably confident, even back then.”

your brows shot up. “and?”

“the duel ended in a tie,” mydei admits with a wry smile. “which, frankly, was the only reason father agreed to it. that old man said any boy who could match me blow for blow deserved at least a chance.” he pauses, swirling the juice in his glass. “we became sparring partners after that. i suppose as a warrior, it was impossible to ignore his determination.”

“in that case,” your gaze drifts toward the empty doorway where phainon had stood earlier, “i should thank that past version of him. had that duel ended differently, our paths may never have crossed.”

“so you’re saying you’re glad i didn’t best him?”” mydei arches one brow in mock offense. 

you huffed a soft laugh. “…i wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

he shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. “unbelievable.”

“well whatever the outcome of that duel might have been,” he says with unusual gentleness, “i have no doubt he would still have found his way to you.”

you blink, then let out a short incredulous laugh. “really? what’s that supposed to mean, your highness?” you wave it off as a jest, half flustered.

to hide the warmth rising in your cheeks (which now, is much more obvious than the pomegranate tint in mydei’s glass), you clear your throat and reach for the safest refuge you know: changing the subject! 

“anyway,” you say lightly, though your heartbeat has yet to settle, “do you happen to know why phainon wanted to be a knight in the first place?”

the prince hums, tapping a finger absentmindedly against his glass. “well, it would’ve been a waste not to put all that talent to use. but,” he leans back, eyes narrowing as he sifts through old memories. “truth be told, he mentioned it once. during a rather… heated match, of all times.”

you perk up. “he did?”

“he said he wanted to become strong enough to keep a promise he once made to an old friend.”

…an old friend?

“it seems he’s cherished that person above almost anyone else.”

you let out a quiet laugh, though it tastes oddly bitter in your mouth.

but before you can press mydei for more—

“talking about me?” phainon steps through the doorway, his eyes flicking between the two of you with a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.

soon the three of you settle around the table, drinks in hand. laughter spills as easy as the flow of river; stories and playful jabs make the hours slip by almost unnoticed.

“so, almighty mydeimos! pray tell, does her highness know about the time i landed ten perfect strikes on you in a row?” / “even she knows that’s a generous exaggeration, captain…” "—i demand a rematch! it's not fair, you wear way less than me-" / “wait so… when you said ‘heated’ match you actually meant… a sauna battle?” 

rain spills from the sky without so much as a whisper of warning, chilling you to the bone in seconds. without a word, phainon shrugs off his heavy overcoat, lifting it above your head as a shield while the two of you hurry toward the carriage mydei had summoned.

inside, the carriage is dim and quiet, the only sounds are your uneven breaths and rain drumming against the roof.

when you arrive, phainon steps out first and offers his hand, guiding you to your chambers.

the warmth of the room hit you as you sway while fumbling for a towel. “i… i can manage.” you frown slightly, digesting the aftermath of the wine lingering in your system. 

“with all due respect, my lady… your alcohol tolerance is abysmal.” his voice carries a chastising tone as he steadies you by the waist before you can tilt forward again.

you ignore the comment, turning your body to face him directly. 

“now what are you d—”

his unfinished reprimand dissolves the moment your fingers slip into his hair. snowy strands cling damply to his temples as you gently pat his head, droplets gathering on your fingertips with every ruffle.

phainon goes completely still.

his hands remain at your waist, tense as if he can’t decide whether to retreat or hold you closer. you don’t know what came over you—but the more his ears redden, the more your hand (and your heart) insists on continuing. 

and gods, the thought flashes across your mind before you can stop it: 

he’s… kind of like a drenched puppy.

a really, really cute one.  

phainon swallows hard, collecting his words. “…my lady, it’s getting late. you should rest. i’ll take my leave—”

he steps back to excuse himself, but you catch his hand before he can reach for the door. 

“phainon.”

your fingers tighten around his wrist. “do you…like me?”

the tipsy haze in your veins makes every flutter in your chest impossible to ignore.

“of course i do, my lady,” he says quietly. “ there is no one i am more devoted to, my loyalty has always belonged to you.”

“then…” you swallow and lift your gaze to his, wavering. “do you like your ‘old friend’ more than me?”

phainon blinks, taken aback. “my—pardon? what do you mean?”

you push on, unable to stop the words tumbling out, soft and slurred with hurt you didn’t realize you were holding.

“mydei told me you seem to like them a lot,” you insist. “so much so that you even came all the way to kremnos just to train your best for their sake.”

you aren't sure what kind of reaction you expected. defensiveness, denial, irritation, anything—but certainly not the way his expression melts.

“...you really don’t remember, huh,” he whispers under his breath.

gently, he pries your hand from his wrist only to place it against his still-damp chest, right over the rapid thrum beneath his skin.

“you know,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “every time you say my name,” beneath your palm, his heart hammers against his chest at a rapid pace. “this place becomes a mess.”

you can feel the tremor beneath his skin, sense the heat radiating from him as he lowers his mouth near your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

“i like… no, i love you. always, and only you.”

a warmth blooms in your chest, hot and dizzying. you let out a small, hiccupping laugh, words catching in your throat. “i—” you falter, leaning into him just as his hands come up to steady you.

phainon’s eyes meet yours again, the subtle lift of his brows showing relief that you don’t pull away just yet. “but please… get some rest now, my lady.”

his tone is tender, as if he fears staying too long might make leaving impossible for him. 

not that you’d mind if he didn’t.

(your head is a total mess the next morning. phainon was right, your alcohol tolerance really was abysmal.

amid the dull pounding behind your eyes, your thoughts flit between your childhood sweetheart… and then, to phainon. 

a part of you wonders, if maybe the two aren’t so different after all. could it really be that the one you’d always held dear is the same person standing beside you now? something about him makes your chest tighten in a way that feels… eerily familiar.

you can only hope to make sense of your own muddled feelings soon.)

ACT VII: WHY HE FEIGNED IGNORANCE (UNCONVINCINGLY)

there's a saying that once fear finally cracks a man, the truth often spills in fragments; grudging and ugly.

the warehouse reeks of iron and damp rot, the kind of cold that settles into the deepest parts of the bone. 

the assassin is long past any condition to resist. 

he hangs slumped against the pillar he’s been chained to for weeks, wrists swollen where the iron has scraped in too deeply. dark bruises bloom along his jaw; while dried blood crusts the corner of his split mouth.

a blade slides beneath his chin and tilts his face upward.

the wielder does not speak. he stands enshroud in shadow, his pale hair catching what little light the warehouse offers.

the assassin’s eyes flutter open to meet the cold, unwavering gaze before him. “i already told you everything i know.”

the white-haired man remains motionless, sword still pressing up beneath the prisoner’s jaw. “so she was nothing more than a tool to you.”

a hoarse, mocking laugh crawls out of his throat. “you’ve kept me here long enough,” he mutters. “don’t tell me you’re a coward, captain.” 

turns out provoking him was a bad idea.

“if her highness had died in that fire,” blue eyes almost delirious looking as they fix on the man before him. “you wouldn’t still be breathing right now.” 

the truth is, phainon had arrived late that night because he’d first cornered the assassin, swiftly knocking him unconscious, and dragging him here before sprinting back to the burning hall to reach you in time. barely in time.

and to think he has come so close to losing you again, was an outcome he simply could not accept. 

it disgusts him, tending even minimally to the prisoner chained before him. every scrap of bread, every cup of water—it all but fills him with revulsion. a man complicit in the attempt on your life, merits no mercy. 

“but you’re right,” the knight says at last. “i won’t forgive anyone who lays a hand on her highness.”

the assassin stiffens. “what…” “was i unclear?” phainon’s gaze does not waver, “your time’s up.”

“no—nonono… wait!” his chains rattle as he jerks to the side, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade now dangerously close to his neck. “i told you everything! everything you asked for. you said—you said you’d spare me if i spoke. you promised!”

he promised… he promised… he promised… 

phainon lowers his gaze, pale eyes devoid of heat as they drift away from the now pathetic man trembling at his feet. for just a moment, they hold the same softness they do when they rest on you.

“i did,” he says. 

relief washes over the assassin’s face. “s-so you are a man of your words! i knew you’d—”

“but understand this, she did nothing to deserve what harm you brought upon her. and while she begged for her life all those years ago, you refused to listen for your own gain.” 

phainon swears to fulfil every promise he makes…

“so i see no reason to listen to you either.”

—to you only, of course. 

a princess killed on foreign soil would more or less be an open act of war; most likely have triggered a major political crisis, straining relations between the two kingdoms and their respective allies. 

the knight knew that much the moment the truth spilled from the assassin’s lips. 

if the attempt had succeeded back in aedes elysiae, the damage would have been just as detrimental. a kingdom already seen as weak due to the lack of military strength—what faith would its people have left? panic would surely have spread, leaving its people gripped by fear and uncertainty.

the assassin stammers, panic shredding what little composure he had left. “but she’s still alive, isn’t she? that’s what matters, right? i mean, nothing happened in the end, so—”

his breath cuts off abruptly mid-word, collapsing into a sharp, broken gasp. he convulses, coughing violently, eyes locked on the hilt of the blade pressed against his abdomen, each rasp growing weaker than the last. 

“her life is not yours to bargain with.” 

ignoring the man now bleeding and sputtering before him, phainon picks up the cup lying on the floor, whatever liquid remains inside sloshes weakly against the rim. 

without a word, he tilts it over the assassin’s head. letting the cold liquid slowly cascade down, dousing his hair and clothes.

a hoarse groan escapes the man as the acrid sting of the liquid hits his senses. the sharp, unmistakable scent of gasoline makes his stomach knot with dread. 

he had assumed it was just water when phainon brought it earlier as he always did, but now, with the familiar tang burning his nose…

as if to confirm his dreaded suspicion, phainon lights a match. 

the tiny flame dances, casting a flickering glow across his sharp blue eyes. and for a fleeting instant, it reminds him of that night, vividly; the smoke, the heat, and your terrified gaze. it grates against every fiber of his being, seeing you in pain.

trapped in the inferno, the assassin is left to face what he set in motion himself.

through the haze, he sees it—that unsettling smile of a man who would burn the world down without hesitation, if it meant to keep you safe.

the fire spreads quickly, the knight takes his leave not long before the flames close in and the wooden beams collapse. surely by dawn, nothing of this place will remain but ash.

out of the corner of your eye, you catch a tall figure moving stealthily past you. 

nowadays, you can recognise your white-haired knight anywhere, even from a mile away. but still, your heart gives a small, irrational leap. 

“phainon?” you call out.

he freezes for a moment as if he was caught in the act, glancing over his shoulder before his eyes finally find yours. he jogs toward you as if nothing’s amiss, but you can tell that something’s off.

as soon as he comes fully into view, though his uniform is perfectly neat, you notice the strong smell of iron that clings to him anyway.

“phainon… are you okay?” you can’t stop yourself, concern spilling out as you step closer to inspect him. “what happened? did you get into trouble?”

he tilts his head, then flashes his signature grin. “i’m fine!” he says, “my lady, you know i’m really strong, you don’t need to worry about me.” 

given his habit of deflecting whenever the topic turns to himself, you’re fairly certain he’s just trying to avoid whatever it is. nevertheless, you can’t shake your concern—what if he’s hiding an injury again?

“uh my lady…?” he can tell you’re not planning to let it go anytime soon; your gaze is firm, a slight pout forming as your worry fuels your refusal to back down so easily.

before you can press him further, he steps closer and wraps you in a sudden hug. “see? i’m not hurt.” he murmurs, his tone unusually gentle, as if sensing the depth of your concern.

you stiffen at first, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides. “phainon—” you protest, trying (and failing) to sound stern. you give his chest a light push, but he doesn’t budge. instead, he loosens the embrace just enough to look at you, eyes soft, almost wounded, like you’d just kicked a puppy.

“…did i do something wrong?” he asks quietly.

your shoulders slump in defeat.

perhaps realizing it was futile to even attempt to stay mad at this big, stubborn puppy, you sigh and give in, ruffling the edge of his hair and patting him on the back. 

he leans just slightly into your touch, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, clearly satisfied with having “won” this little battle.

though the way his arms remain around you suggests he never planned to let go so easily in the first place.

today is the day the knights are to be stationed outside the capital for the upcoming war against the black tide. the courtyard is alive with farewells from families and friends, but no matter how far you search, you can’t seem to find phainon among the crowd.

just then, you catch sight of someone moving off to the quieter edge of the grounds. there he is—alone, kneeling by his greatsword and polishing the blade with meticulous care.

“phainon!” you call, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to stay composed.

he stops, turning in surprise. for a brief instant, there’s that faint flash of shock in his eyes—but it vanishes as quickly as it came. slowly, he sheaths his sword and bows politely in greeting.

in the brief space between you, you raise your hand, trembling slightly, and reach up to his face.

“you idiot, were you going to leave without telling me?”

he freezes for a heartbeat, a faint chuckle escaping him before his fingers curl gently around your wrist. please forgive him, he couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye to you once more.

he lifts your palm to his lips, pressing them softly against your skin—tender and reverent. just like it was when he kissed your hand all those years ago.

“i’ll be back before you know it.”

you slip the necklace from around your neck, the chain sliding free with a soft clink before you place it gently into his open palm. 

“don’t lose it,” you say with a teasing lilt. “you’ll have to return it to me once you come back safely, alright?”

phainon’s fingers close around the familiar pendant, and a small, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips. “as you wish, my lady.”

“then i suppose i’ll just have to wait for you this time, phainon.”

what a ridiculous demand from such a cruel princess—not because it was impossible, but because it left him no choice at all.

the thought draws that same faint, almost incredulous smile to his lips.

there was never a world in which he would not do his utmost to return to you.

ACT VIII: WHY HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS it’s been two years since you last saw him. having returned to your homeland to visit your parents a few months ago, you find yourself wandering the familiar grounds of aedes elysiae. 

the fields are fragrant with late blooms, and the warm sun filters through the leaves, dappling the ground with light. 

ever since that night, when the truth finally dawned on you, the memory has clung stubbornly to your thoughts: his infuriatingly handsome smile, the way he presses your palm to his lips, the beating of his heart, his whispers in your ear—it all replays in your mind whenever you even remotely think about him. 

it has to be him… 

overwhelmed by nostalgia, you let your feet carry you almost without thought. soon, a familiar sight comes into view: the shimmer of lake water and the golden wheatfield you’ve returned to countless times as a child. 

you stand at the edge of the bank, closing your eyes and letting the wind brush across your face, a bittersweet feeling arises deep in your chest.

but a sudden rustle comes from the stalks behind you, pulling you from your reverie. you peel your eyes open just as a shadowed reflection ripples across the surface of the lake.

your heart leaps. instinctively, you spin around… 

“...phainon?” a familiar face greets your vision. “so you do remember me.”

your knees almost go weak, your chest tightening at the sound of his voice as you take in the familiar tilt of his head, and the way the sunlight catches his hair just like you remembered. 

and a rush of emotions—relief, joy, longing—crash over you all at once.

“you… you’re really here.” you step towards him, until the space between you is pretty much non-existent.

“i promised i’d return,” phainon murmurs, leaning closer. almost hesitantly, his earnest gaze flickers to your lips before returning to your eyes.

he waits patiently for your nod, and when you finally do, he closes the last of the distance between you. 

you’ve missed him terribly.

you melt into him, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as his hands settle gently on your waist, drawing you closer.

but beyond all else, you love him more than anything. 

this closeness—the undeniable press of your body against his—is all he has ever longed for. it makes him feel light-headed even. 

holding you close, he savors the soft exhale that mingles with his own.

his world is finally back where it belongs.

maybe things would’ve been easier in another life, maybe the gods would take pity and give you both a kinder story.

but to phainon, it makes no difference. not this life, not the next, not the thousand before or after. because he has loved you in every one of them. in every form, his heart always finds its way back to you.

he remembers the warmth of your hand even when he’s born without one. he dreams of your voice in lifetimes where he never learns your name.

even if you so cruelly forget him again, if he must live through it all, he would. again and again.

because this is the most terrible truth of it all: it is the most human thing he’s ever known, to helplessly love you, despite it all.

he loved you, he loves you still, and he will keep loving you—for as long as the sun continues to rise, his heart will belong to you. 

as surely as yours is his.

before the assembled court, the king rises.

“for your service to the realm of aedes elysiae and castrum kremnos,” the king declares, voice carrying through the grand hall, “you are hereby granted a title befitting your deeds. from this day forth, you shall stand among the highest of my lords.”

phainon inclines his head in a respectful bow. “thank you, your majesty.”

“your actions have greatly strengthened the enduring bond between our kingdom, and kremnos.”

“so brave hero,” the king continues, “you may name your reward. gold, estates, influence—whatever you desire shall be yours.”

“i’m honored, your majesty.” he adds, “but i ask for none of those things.”

the king inclines his head, curiosity evident in his expression. “then what is it you wish for?”

phainon lowers himself to one knee. “may i have the hand of the princess of aedes elysiae?”

EPILOGUE: WHY WON’T THE CHARMING PRINCESS MEET MY EYES? 

first gifted by your beloved knight in your childhood, to countless days through battles, then at last all the way back from the frontlines—the necklace’s once-shimmering metal had lost its luster, spots of rust crept along the chain and the pendant bore a few small chips. 

you had told him a hundred times over it didn’t matter, insisting that it was fine just the way it was. you really didn’t mind, it was the thought that counted.

but phainon, being the ardent lover that he is, believed otherwise. 

“here you go, young man,” the old lady says, holding out the carefully mended necklace. its chain gleamed faintly now, polished and whole again.

“this is amazing! thank you so much, ma’am.” grinning, phainon takes the necklace from the goldsmith’s hands.

“it’s my pleasure, dear. come by anytime, okay?” the old lady replies, the wrinkles on her face deepen with her smile as she gently holds both of his hands in hers.

“of course ma’am!” phainon nods politely. 

you giggle. well there he goes again, stealing the hearts of every elderly he comes across. 

slowly, he lifts the necklace from his hand and clasps it gently around your neck. the cool metal brushes against your skin, and for the first time in so long, it finally rests where it belongs.

“there we go,” he says softly, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "all yours again." 

perhaps not used to such public displays, you feel your cheeks heat up. you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, staring instead at the necklace, your fingers fidgeting nervously with the chain. 

phainon notices immediately and can’t help but take the opportunity to tease you more.  

his hand deliberately brushes your shoulder, then trails down to adjust the necklace, fingers grazing your collarbone ever so slightly. 

that cheeky bastard… you can almost see the curve of his smirk from the corner of your eyes.

the sun rises behind you, painting the world in a mesmerising dawn. but in phainon’s eyes, you are the most ethereal sight of it all—because you are his sun.

with a mischievous grin, he tilts your chin upward, coaxing your gaze to meet his.

please allow him to be selfish just this once. he wants to fill your memories with him, to leave traces of himself in every corner of your life, ensuring you’ll never forget him again.

a man so terribly in love with you, phainon only has one wish: 

that is you’ll remember this moment—not just today, but tomorrow, and for all the days that follow.

so that he may always keep you in his sight, in his thoughts, in the quiet corners of his heart where no one else can reach.

won’t you promise him that, his lady?

extended author’s notes: here

thank you for reading !! reblogs are appreciated <3

she chuckles, "you should give plushienon a kiss to cheer him up!"

"don't call him plushienon, and i'm not kissing a toy!"

"aww, c'mon, it's just the deliverer boy, what's wrong with that?"

"it's embarrassing and juvenile!" you murmur, hiding behind the tufts of white hair.

"it's embarrassing to show the love of your life some affection?" she pouts, dramatising a pout. "this isn't even him, what will you do when it is the real deal?"

"fine!" you huff. "i'll kiss him!"

she giggles, satisfied. you press a fleeting kiss to his covered forehead, the fabric soft underneath your lips. you don't linger long, getting ready to sass cipher with a quip, but the words die on your tongue when you notice something unbelievable.

the small frown and teary blues that plushienon previously had have morphed into a beaming smile and bright eyes, the sudden change catching you off guard.

what is this elation magic- you swear he was crying before!

"little y/n, you look like you've seen a ghost! what's wrong?" cipher asks as she studies your expression with great amusement. "surely kissing him can't be that unenjoyable-"

you turn him around, "why is he happy all of a sudden?"

she begins cackling, her tail whipping. "oh my! i didn't know this thing was going to be true to life!"

"did you do something to him? you didn't use your trickery powers, did you?" you ask wildly, looking at him again to make sure that he was still smiling- and indeed he was. in fact, it seems as though he's grinning wider.

"this is brilliant! wow, i didn't think the deliverer's obnoxiously obvious affection for you would transcend into inanimate versions of himself as well!" the demigod is beside herself now, holding her stomach with tangible glee.

"hey! what do you mean affection? and obvious?"

"you'd find out if you just show him!"

"no!" you shriek, holding the big plushie to your chest now as your flustered cries get hidden by the bustling nature of okhema's markets. "i'm not showing phainon anything!"

an all-too-familiar voice pipes up from beside you. "why not?"

this is the worst day of your life. phainon absolutely can not see you holding a large plushie of him, and he can not know that you discovered it had the ability to change expressions as soon as you kissed its fabric-covered forehead.

cipher, however, had other plans.

"deliverer boy," she greets, "you have many fans outside amphoreus, did you know that? while i was in planarcadia, i found this!"

she gestures to the plushie that you have pressed against your chest. for a moment, the two stare at you expectedly. it is with great embarrassment that you reveal the item in your arms, unable to make eye contact with the white-haired before you.

"is that me?" he questions, "am i… crying?"

"isn't it so cute? wouldn't you agree, y/n?" cipher prods.

"i don't think it's cute because it's crying!" you murmur, trying to defend what is left of your dignity.

"so you think it's cute because it's lord phainon?"

"cipher!" you wish the ground could swallow you whole.

"anyways, what's more important is that y/n has found an interesting discovery by kissing plushie-you's forehead. why don't you show the great hero of amphoreus?"

you frown, the heat in your cheeks now unbearable. with a grumble, you turn around so that your back was towards the pair, not allowing either of them to see you peck the plushie's forehead. turning around, its frown has now transformed into a beaming smile, delight completely painting over its previously-woeful expression.

phainon is quiet for a moment and you brace for the worst, your heart thumping wildly in your ears as you wait for him to be offended or disgusted by your discovery.

instead, it is him who completely rips the carpet from underneath your feet.

"interesting, they've captured me scarily accurately…"

“This is it? This is the grand ending?” you rant to no one, waving the book around like a flag, compensating on throwing it against the wall with full strength, but the book costs too much for it to be thrown around like that.

You flip it open again just to make sure you didn’t hallucinate it in some bizarre fever dream. Nope. It’s all still there. The endless misery. The memory loss trope. The eternal despair. You can practically hear Lygus giggling to himself while writing it, thinking he’s so deep and poetic while he rips Phainon apart piece by piece.

You flop back on your bed, groaning into your pillow. "Fuck this author, Fuck this book, Everything sucks!! AAAAAGH"

You’d been rooting for him from page one. He was everything a main character should be—resilient, kind, stubborn in the face of impossible odds. And then Lygus went and… executed him, in the most metaphorical and literal way possible.

You toss the book onto the floor. “Trash. Garbage. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend unless I want to ruin someone’s week.”

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You ignore it, still fuming. Honestly, if you could punch your way into that novel just to drag Phainon out of it, you would.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought lingers, half-bitter, half-joking: If I ever woke up in that world, I’d make sure none of this ever happened.

.

.

.

.

"WHAT THE FUCK??"

The words leave your mouth before your brain can catch up.

You’re no longer on your bed, no longer in your cramped apartment surrounded by snack wrappers and half-finished laundry piles. No, you’re in a throne room—because of course you are. And it’s exactly the kind of place a villain would be caught dead in: high arched windows bleeding in cold light, black marble floors that reflect your every twitch, and a ridiculously oversized throne that could seat three people but is apparently meant just for you.

The problem is, you recognize this room.

It’s the opening of Chapter 27—the point in The Last Dawn of the Deliverer where the "Tyrant of Humanity- Lycurgus” (aka the absolute bastard responsible for 90% of Phainon’s trauma) is introduced. And now? Yeah. You’re sitting exactly where that tyrant sat.

A cold realization slams into you like a freight train. You glance down at your hands, still your hands. No sudden delicate villain fingers with jeweled rings. You touch your face—still your face, familiar skin, same jawline. You’re not in someone else’s body.

But when you look up…

The guards lining the throne room bow stiffly, their armor clinking in perfect unison.

"Your Excellency," one says, voice sharp with discipline and one might even say, fear. "We’ve captured the rebel scouts you ordered us to find. They await your judgment."

Oh no.

Oh no.

You don’t have to ask who those “rebel scouts” are—you know. This is the chapter where Phainon first meets the villain. Where you—well, not you, but the villain or the author whose job you now apparently have orrders the execution of innocents to break Phainon’s spirit. Because, well, the author is the villain in this novel.

You open your mouth, about to scream “WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT PRANK IS THIS?!” but stop when you catch your reflection in the polished marble floor.

It’s still you. Same hair, same eyes. But here, in this world, everyone is looking at you with the kind of fearful respect reserved for people who could order your death with a snap of their fingers.

The guard shifts uncomfortably. “…Your Excellency?”

Your brain is doing cartwheels. You’re still you—but somehow, in this world, you are the villain. The tyrant. The architect of Phainon’s suffering.

Which means—

You swallow hard.

If you do nothing, Phainon’s story plays out exactly as you read it.

But if you act… maybe, just maybe, you can burn this entire plot to the ground.

You force yourself to stand, channeling every ounce of fake confidence you’ve ever used in your school classroom during project presentations. “Bring them to me,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake.

Because if you’re the villain now? Fine.

You’re going to be the worst villain Lygus has ever had the misfortune of creating.

And that is, by defying every single string plot that he created, you were going to make your own plot now.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The guards move in perfect formation, spears glinting under the cold light as the massive double doors creak open.

Bootsteps echo against the marble.

And there they are.

Phainon walks at the front, wrists bound in iron shackles that look far too heavy for any human, though he moves like the weight is nothing. His head is high despite the bruising at his temple, silver hair catching the light, eyes sharp yet it was still..gentle. Behind him follow Aglaea, Mydei, and Anaxa—each worn from travel but had the aura of authority, the kind of people who refuse to bow even when they should. Hyacine keeps close to the triplets, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon—stare wide-eyed at the towering throne room. And, only Castorice had come without chains.

God. Seeing them in person—these people you’d only read about feels unreal. In the book, this was the point where Lygus twisted the knife: the villain making a cruel spectacle of their capture, ordering their execution to shatter Phainon’s last shred of hope.

Not this time.

The guards shove the group forward, forcing them to kneel. “We found them attempting to smuggle food and weapons to the rebel base in Amphoreus, Your Excellency,” one announces, voice dripping with satisfaction.

In the novel, this was where the villain sneered. Where they spat some venom about traitors and loyalty before making Phainon watch helplessly as the others were dragged away.

You lean forward on the throne, resting your chin in your palm. And then—

You smile.

A warm, genuine smile that doesn’t belong in this scene at all. “You protected Amphoreus?” you say, voice bright with approval. “Incredible work!! Truly inspiring :)”

Absolute, stunned silence.

The guards exchange bewildered looks. Aglaea’s head jerks up sharply, Mydei blinks like he’s trying to confirm he heard correctly, and Anaxa mouths something under his breath that’s definitely not polite.

Phainon’s gaze narrows, suspicion flickering there, as though he’s waiting for the punchline.

“You’re not… angry?” Phainon ventures cautiously.

“Angry?” you scoff, waving a hand. “Why would I be angry at people risking their lives to protect innocents from an invading force? That’s… admirable. The kind of courage I like to see.” You lean back in the throne like your personality didn't do a complete 180 flip. “In fact, I should be thanking you. Amphoreus has been through enough, it’s about time someone stepped up to defend it.”

The triplets exchange glances, then you throw a glance at the three, yet they didn't withdraw themselves, Classic Tribios. No wonder they were the leader of the group.

You clear your throat. “Right. Well. You’re free to go. Guards—untie them. Immediately.”

The room goes still again.

“…Your Excellency?” one guard asks, like maybe they misheard and you actually meant execute instead of release.

You meet his eyes. “Did I not make myself clear?”

Chains clatter to the floor, and your eyes return to the group.

"Host them a party, assign them their following rooms and clothing. Their headquarters will be in the royal palace from now on."

The guards looked more shcoked than you after the ending of the novel. Their expressions shifted from confusion, to disbelief, to the kind of internal screaming usually reserved for emergency war drills. One of them even opened his mouth, probably to remind you that these people were enemies of the crown, before thinking better of it under your glare. Phainon was the first to move. He straightened to his full height, chains gone, rubbing his wrists in silence. His eyes were locked on you, unblinking, and then, within a flash, his empty eyes changed to those of a fake saccharine facade. He smiled widely at you, bowing down towards you, thanking you for your 'gratitude'.

Girl, no, you were just saving your ass from the torturous death he was about to give you.

Aglaea exchanged a glance with Mydei, her lips pressing into a tight, mistrustful line, but then her alluring yet empty, turquoise eyes stared right at you, and she smiled at you. Full of elegance, as always.

The three triplets had the most maturity out of all of them, despite their appearance of an 8-year-old child.

“You’ll be given rooms in the west wing. Fresh clothes, proper food, and baths. The party will be tomorrow evening, make sure they’re not served the bland menu. I want them to be treated like actual heroes."

Your voice made the guards jump to action, bowing before hurrying out to arrange the chaos you’d just dumped in their laps.

Ah, money and power is the best.

“I’m… sorry, what exactly is going on here?” Mydei’s tone was as destructive as the power he was known for. “Last I checked, we were getting skinned alive for having golden blood. Now we’re getting royal hospitality?”

You smiled like you were enjoying an inside joke no one else was in on. “Consider it a… shift in policy.” You let the words hang in the air. “You fought to protect Amphoreus. That’s more than I can say for most of my so-called loyalists. So yes, you’ll be treated with respect. You’ve earned it.”

The group turned their back as the soldiers lead their way into the guest-area hallway of the palace.

"Y-your highness?! We can't possibly do that! This is against the law your father had passed down decades ago!"

"We'll just make a new one."

"YOU'RE MAJEST-?!" You glare at him, which means "Shut up before your head is displayed on the palace entrance."

The poor man’s mouth snapped shut so fast you were half-surprised his jaw didn’t break. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the marble, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer to the titans before retreating with the rest of the stunned guards.

The grand throne room door groaned shut behind Phainon’s group, leaving you alone with the echo of their footsteps and the faint, suffocating silence of a palace that was not used to this kind of disruption.

You slumped back in the throne, running a hand over your face.

The door to the side of the throne creaked open, and in swept Chancellor Caenis—one of the chief advisors you vaguely remembered from the book. Sharp nose, sharper tongue, and a political backbone made entirely of stone. She looked at you as if you’d personally thrown the kingdom into ruins, (which you did but anw).

“Your Excellency,” she began, each syllable dipped in acid, “would you mind explaining to me why the most dangerous insurgents in the empire are not only alive, but being hosted in our home?”

“Because,” you said sweetly, “unlike most of my staff, I can recognize competence when I see it.”

“That competence,” Caenis snapped, “has burned our supply lines, toppled our outposts, and rallied half the borderlands to their cause. You’ve given them access to the palace, Your Excellency. Do you understand what that means?”

“Mind your tone, Caenis,” you said sternly, making her shrink down, stretching your legs out. “It means they’re under my watch, where I can keep an eye on them. It also means Amphoreus has a fighting chance at surviving the mess my father had made 50 years ago, purely because he hated the golden-blooded. I will not be the one who enables my father's cruel actions, not anymore.”

Caenis’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again like a fish gasping for water on land. “And the law your father—”

“I said,” you interrupted, leaning forward with the kind of slow, deliberate motion that made her stiffen, “we’ll make a new one. Or perhaps you’d like to argue with the tyrant herself? Do you want a miserable death, Caenis?"

She froze completely and a smile appeared on your face again.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

She bowed stiffly and withdrew, though you caught the way her hands were clenched behind her back.

As the door closed again, you exhaled, heart hammering. God, that was terrifying. Your legs were shaking underneath the thickness of your dress, ugh as if the sun wasn't enough, you were wearing red velvet and 7 layers ontop.

HolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshitHolyfuckingshit—

"I will be going back to my headquarters; do not summon me unless of absolute necessity." You said eyeing at your attendants before you pick up the floof of your gown and walk in a straight posture despite your legs feeling like jelly.

Your attendants bowed low, murmuring the usual rehearsed phrases of obedience, but you could feel their curious gazes burning into your back. No doubt, by dinner, the entire palace staff would be whispering about the insane turn of events in the throne room.

The hallway stretched ahead, sunlight spilling in through the tall arched stained windows, painting the marble floor in ribbons of colours. Every step made the weight of your gown sway against your legs, the distant echo of your heeled boots clacking in time with your pounding heart. You kept your head high, the picture of imperial composure, even as your thoughts ran in circles, screaming.

Okay. You survived the scene. You changed the outcome. No one died. Yet. That’s good. Great, even. But also, holy hell, you just declared open defiance against a law that’s been in place for fifty years, in front of half the guard corps and your most politically venomous advisor. But holy shit, that felt soooo good, You hated Caenis since the beginning, from when you saw her.

The deeper you walked into the west wing, the quieter it became—guards stationed only at the ends of the corridors, and the sound of court politics replaced by the distant cry of gulls from the sea cliffs beyond the palace. You didn’t stop until you reached the private antechamber to your quarters.

The moment the door shut behind you, the mask cracked.

You squeal out and immediately kick off your shoes, asking your maid to fetch the knight's uniform. The overweight gown and jewelry were far more than what you expected. But luckily, Lygus was an extremely good fighter, so people won't question much.

You close your eyes, embracing the silence and then you squeal and giggle again, thinking about Phainon. Oh god, he looked majestic.

It’s honestly unfair, the way Phainon exists normally. His face isn’t just handsome, it’s the kind of handsome that makes you forget basic functions. His silver hair falls in a way like that of moonlight shining, and his eyes are sharp enough to cut through your composure but warm enough to make you want to sink into them and never surface. His eyes truly were the ocean you wanted to sink in.

You smile yo yourself and bury your face in your pillow, screaming in it, relieving all your stress before your assigned maid knocks on the door, asking whether she could come inside.

You clear your throat, trying to smother the embarrassing little squeal that had just escaped into your pillow. “Enter,” you call, voice only, mostly steady.

The door opens, and your maid, Arnes, slips inside with the careful grace of someone who’s been navigating royal moods for years. She carries the folded knight’s uniform in her arms, the dark leather and gold accents catching the flicker of blue lamplight.

She sets it down on the low table by your bed and dips into a curtsey. “Your Highness, the uniform you requested. Shall I assist you in changing?”

You sit up, smoothing your hair like you hadn’t just been rolling around giggling like a lovesick idiot. “Yes. And quickly."

Arnes moves to help you, deftly undoing the fastenings of your gown. The heavy velvet slides away, layer by suffocating layer, until you can breathe again. You stretch your arms, feeling your muscles complain from hours of sitting still on the throne, pretending to be unshakable.

Once dressed in the uniform, the shift is immediate. The fitted leather plates, the loosened trousers, the weight of the sword belt at your hip. This was much what you were used to from your own world, compared to the heavy 7 layer gowns. Probably a sign to order more free dresses.

Arnes pauses before tightening the last strap. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, Your Highness… but the palace is buzzing about your decision in the throne room today.”

Of course it is.

You glance at her through the mirror, one brow arched. “And what is it they’re saying?”

She hesitates, then meets your eyes in the reflection. “Some think you’ve gone mad. Others… that you’ve found a way to tame the untamable.” A faint smile touches her lips. “They don’t know whether to be terrified or impressed.”

You snort. “But, the commoners are most happy right?”

Arnes’s smile widens, just barely, like she’s trying not to look too pleased about delivering good news. “Yes, Your Highness. Word reached the market square before the hour was up."

"..I see"

The nobility will not appreciate it, though.

"I will be going for a short nap now. You may leave now, Arnes. Thank you."

Arnes simply bows and nods before heading out and closing the door, leaving you alone again, a little suffocated this time, though. But you head to your bed and lie down. Much more comfortable with trousers this time. And then you felt your eyes get heavy before one final thought runs as you fell asleep.

Phainon is going to break into my room when im asleep isnt he?

Phainon is shocked by how much you murmur in your sleep. You felt more human than the tyrant everyone knew. The air in your quarters was warm and faintly scented with something floral, a sharp contrast to the salt wind he’d grown used to. Moonlight spilled across the bed, illuminating the tangle of sheets and the steady rise and fall of your breathing. You were sprawled in the knight’s uniform, still—an odd choice for someone who’d spent the day sitting in a throne—and your sword belt lay within arm’s reach.

Phainon stepped closer, each movement deliberate. He studied your face in the dimness, the faint crease between your brows, the way your hand curled slightly as if ready to grab steel even in sleep. Not the same as the ruler from the book, he knew you should’ve been. You’d looked at him today with… something else.

“You’re not like..from before,” he murmured under his breath,

He crouched at your bedside, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes never leaving yours as if waiting for the moment you’d wake and catch him here.

It would be interesting to see how you reacted.

To his dismay, his hair accidentally brushed against your nose, and your hand instinctively slapped the softness of Phainon's cheek, still asleeep, thankfully.

“…die, Lygus… die—how dare you…”

The name hit him like a thrown dagger. Lygus. That name was awfully familiar; he never appeared in any of the cycles. His jaw tightened, his heart thumping loudly and making his head spin. Just.. who is Lygus and why does he deserve such hatred from you, the empress herself?.

He sat back slightly on his heels, frowning. Was it an act? A convenient dream to make him lower his guard?

Phainon studied your sleeping face, lit faintly by the moon. There was no mask here, or fake smirk. Just a regular girl sleeping and uhm...drooling on the pillow.

He wanted to chuckle a bit at the sight of you, but that unsettled him.

He leaned forward again, close enough to hear the quiet little huffs of breath when you exhaled. The floral, rrefreshing scent clung faintly to you, and it made him think of spring mornings long before the cycles had started. It made him relive the memories he swore to close off forever.

Of Aedes Elysiae

He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting over the sword belt within your reach. You weren’t careless. Even asleep, some part of you was ready to fight. That… he could respect.

Your hand twitched again, and your lips moved, the words softer this time. “…should’ve—burned him myself…”

Phainon felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward in curiosity.

Maybe he wouldn’t kill you tonight after all.

He rose to his feet soundlessly, stepping back into the shadows of your room. His silver hair caught in the moonlight one last time before he slipped toward the balcony doors. And then, he's gone.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The first thing you were aware of was warmth. Not the gentle kind from a blanket, but the deep, bone-soaaking warmth that came from sinking into a bath.

Your eyelids fluttered open to sunlight streaming through the tall windows of your chambers. The scent of roses and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint steam that curled above the enormous marble tub you were currently reclining in. Two attendants knelt at either side, their hands deft and practiced as they poured water over your shoulders, the heat cascading down your back in soothing waves.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” one of them murmured, bowing her head slightly before taking up a silken cloth to scrub away the remnants of yesterday’s grime. The water shimmered faintly from the oils already mixed into it—orange blossom and something sweet you couldn’t quite name.

You let yourself lean back, the carved edge of the tub cool against your neck. If nothing else, being royalty had its perks. Your muscles loosened as the second attendant worked on your hair, combing fingers through to untangle it before rinsing it in the perfumed water.

“Careful,” you warned idly, “if you pull too hard, you’re walking out of here bald.”

They tittered nervously, but their pace didn’t falter. One reached for a small crystal vial and poured a rich amber oil into her palms, working it into your skin with gentle, sweeping motions. The oil warmed instantly, leaving your arms and shoulders with a faint, golden sheen.

By the time they were done, the water had cooled slightly, and you stood with their help, stepping onto the thick towels they’d spread at your feet. Another servant approached with your knight’s uniform, freshly pressed, the black-and-crimson leather polished until it caught the morning light.

Piece by piece, they dressed you—tightening straps, smoothing seams, fastening the heavy cloak at your shoulders. The scent of the oils clung faintly beneath the crisp leather, a reminder that under all the armor, you were still the Empress.

Your sword belt was buckled into place last, the weight of it grounding you in a way the gown never could.

“Breakfast will be brought to your study,” one attendant murmured, bowing low.

“Good, I will be going to visit the heirs in a while.” you replied, stepping away from the tub and toward the tall mirrors.

Man you look pretty.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The corridors leading toward the Chrysos wing (formerly the guest room wing) were nothing like the rest of the palace. Here, the air carried a faint warmth, tinged with something intoxicating. Not quite perfume, not quite incense but it was softer, subtler, like the lingering scent of someone you couldn’t forget.

Gold-veined marble stretched beneath our feet, and rose-hued glass panels along the ceiling filtered the sunlight into a perpetual blush. Everything about this section felt tailored to seduce the senses without overwhelming them.

Aglaea had been in this quarter for a day and yet it feels like you had been stepping into her domain rather than the opposite.

“They call her the demigod of romance,” one of the palace attendants murmured as she walked ahead of us, tone reverent.

You had to physically hold your mouth back from jsut ranting all about Lady Aglaea, she was truly something, beautiful, smart and etc etc (its 4 am im sleepy rn)

And then, you opened the door to her headquarters.

Her presence hit like the cold breeze during spring — radiant, warm yet cold at the same time, and utterly impossible to look away from. She was truly effortlessly elegant.

Her eyes flicked briefly towards you and looked at us dead in the eyes, before standing and doing a curtsy to show respect to us.

“Lady Aglaea,” you greeted, keeping your tone warm, but not dripping with the kind of calculated charm that she herself wielded so effortlessly. “I trust the accommodations have been to your liking?”

Her lips curved just slightly, the faintest smile, like she was indulging you. “They’re… adequate,” she replied, voice soft but measured. “Your staff is attentive. The space is comfortable. It is… awfully concerning, however, to find myself welcomed into the very palace that once sent knights to hunt my kin.”

There it was — her way of balancing courtesy with truth. Not an accusation, but a reminder.

You didn’t flinch. In fact, you stepped a little closer, careful to match her unhurried pace. “Then consider this my first step in amending a… rather unfortunate history,” you said, letting a bit of sincerity slip through. “You’ve earned your place here, Aglaea. I’d like you to feel that this isn’t just a guest quarter, but now yours.”

Her gaze sharpened ever so slightly, like she was trying to decide whether you were serious or just another ruler playing diplomat. “Possession is a dangerous word,” she mused, turning slightly toward one of the petal-strewn fountains. “It suggests permanence… and permanence suggests trust. I don’t give that lightly.”

You followed her movement, stopping just beside the fountain. “I’m not asking for your trust,” you said. “Only your time. The rest, I’ll earn.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, broken only by the trickle of water and the distant flutter of the rose-colored drapes in the breeze. Then, she let out a small, almost imperceptible hum. Not quite agreement, but not dismissal either.

“You speak differently than I expected,” Aglaea said finally, her turquoise eyes studying you. “The stories painted you as… colder.”

The corner of your mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Perhaps the stories were written by people who never spoke to me.”

A faint laugh slipped past her lips, light, melodic, and short-lived, as if she hadn’t meant to let it happen. She shook her head slightly, the sunlight catching in her hair as she turned toward one of the tall windows.

“Very well,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward a side door. “Walk with me. If you wish to make my quarters feel like they belong to me, then you should see what I value.”

“I wonder,” Aglaea continued smoothly, “how you intend to keep the rest of us from perishing the nobility before your ‘shift in policy’ takes root.”

"Soon, don't worry, bearer of romance :)" You were cursing yourself internally again on how cringe you sounded in front of one of your favorite girl characters in the entire damn novel

"I would like to ask you regarding the other heirs," you said lightly, looking right at her.

She glanced over her shoulder at you, one brow raised. "Well then, let's start with Mydeimos, shall we?"

You smirk awkwardly. “Ah, yes, the one with the red tattoos?” you're actually quite proud of yourself on how you're acting so wonderfully clueless when you actually know each and every detail about these characters.

That earned you a hum of agreement. “Mydei is the demigod of strife, or what you people call destruction. He's like a furnace, always lit with bottomless fire. This fire will either be completely doused in a storm or melt down his own existence with it. He is one of the most respectful warriors.” She tilted her head toward you, eyes glinting.

"And...About the triplets, the three of them, they are the leader, are they not?"

Aglaea smirks at you before answering, “Teacher. They’re more ancient than they appear. The first demigod of Passage — leaders, truly. They were once the holy maiden of Januspolis, but then, after claiming the coreflame of passage, they separated into 1000 versions of themselves. Only three of them remain now.”

You nodded like a student taking mental notes from their favorite professor. “Hyacine?”

The smirk turned into something gentler. “The demigod of the Sky. She is soft as the lightest breeze and bright as the first rays of dawn. The world had been far too long dark; the time has come for her healing to be the new light.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide a grin. "She sounds like a sweetheart !” and she is a sweetheart, an absolute cutie yet...terrifying when angry. you wish to just squish her chubby cheeks!! and that fat unicorn of hers.

"She is like the sun's gentle rays after a storm," You nod to yourself, this is Aglaea of course shes poetic as hell.

"And about..Anaxagoras?"

 "..I do not agree with the ideals of that blasphemer, but we are the same when it comes to the determination with which we seek our dreams. He is a respectable figure and certainly suitable as the Demigod of Reason."

Your lips curved faintly, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. just kiss already bro

Aglaea straightened slightly, her poise flawless, and regarded you with that same unreadable half-smile and cold, empty eyes. “Why do you ask so much about us, Your Highness? Most rulers prefer to keep their distance from those who might eclipse them.”

You held her gaze, letting your own smile mirror hers. “Because I’d rather know the ones who might change my world before they do.”

You leaned forward slightly, as if the next name on your mental list was one you’d been waiting for. “And Phainon?”

"Your highness, I needn't introduce him to you; you already look at him as if you are familiar with him.

Heat rose, unbidden, at the implication. You forced your expression to remain perfectly neutral, though your fingers curled faintly in the folds of your pant pocket.

holy shit am i that obvious?

“That is because,” you said carefully, “I’ve heard his name enough times to commit it to memory." okay bro 🥀

The demigod’s brow arched ever so slightly. “Of course.”

As the words hung in the air, the double doors at the far end of Aglaea’s marble hall opened soundlessly, Aglaea wishes you goodbye as you head next to..Phainon's quarters.

Would he care? ugh what if he-

Your thought gets cut off by your servant, who opens the door to his headquarters. Revealing a tall, silver-haired man bowing down with an awfully sweet smile, yet an aura which could make even the strongest warrior fall down to his knees.

"Greetings ,Your highness!"

You inclined your head, mirroring the formality. “Phainon.”

“I trust you slept well?” he asked lightly, though there was a glint in his eyes that made the question feel far less casual than it sounded.

You allowed yourself the smallest of smiles. “Well enough.”

His gaze flicked, almost imperceptibly, toward the sword at your hip, then back to your face. “I’m pleased to hear it,” he said. “The palace can be… unpredictable at night.”

Somehow, you couldn’t tell if that was a warning, an observation, or simply bait to see how you’d react.

You decided not to give him the satisfaction of an obvious answer. “I imagine you’ve seen worse.”

“I have seen worse,” he agreed, stepping closer with an ease that made the hairs on the back of your neck stir. “And better. But rarely something quite as… interesting as last night.”

Oh, he was absolutely doing this on purpose.

Your heartbeat ticked up, though you managed to keep your voice steady. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course not.” His tone was the picture of innocence, but the glimmer in his eyes told another story. “Still, I’m glad to see you safe and—” his gaze dipped, fleeting but deliberate, to the faint crease where your jacket met your shoulder “—well armed.”

You swallowed. Gods, he was exactly like in the novel—saying the nicest things in the most disarming way possible, making you feel like you were both being complimented and tested at the same time.

Phainon gestured toward the seating area beside the tall windows, his movements as precise as a blade’s edge. “Would you join me for tea, Your Highness? I promise it’s not poisoned.”

You almost laughed, but the little voice in the back of your head whispered but what if it was? Still, this was Phainon. The Phainon. And this man absolutely hates you whilst you love him. You even notice the red puffiness of his skin underneath his eyes, even his soft lips, scars, and just—everything.

he doesnt know that though.

Your escort peeled away to let you breathe in the courtyard’s evening air after the meeting with the Chrysos heirs. A few servants were already stringing lanterns across the archways in preparation for the banquet. Soft bells chimed overhead when the wind shifted, scattering the last of the petals from the garden paths.

By the time the sky deepened to midnight blue, the palace had transformed. The great banquet hall glowed with fireflies. A sea of silk, jewels, and gilded masks moved across the floor. The Chrysos heirs, some you’d already met that day, others yet to greet, were wandering around the banquet room, and well, uh Phainon was quite literally stuffing his face with food..

You chuckle to yourself and sit down on the throne at the middle top of the room, all the figures in the room turn towards you and bow to welcome you.

You smile elegantly before raising your hand. Your hand stays poised in the air for only a moment before the ripple of movement stills

"Please," your voice carries easily over the gentle hum of the banquet hall, warm but firm, "tonight is for celebration, not ceremony. Enjoy yourselves." There’s a faint murmur of relief, polite laughter, and then the room’s energy returns back to life. Music picks up again, lilting strings and soft percussion, while servants glide between clusters of guests carrying tons of champagne and trays of candied fruit.

From the corner of your eye, you watch Phainon— freeze mid-bite when he realizes you’re watching him. His mouth is still half-full, and he’s clearly debating whether to finish chewing like a dignified heir or swallow the entire thing and pretend nothing happened. A sly smile curves your lips. And he freezes up in terror.

He genuinely thinks you're going to humilate him but youre just loving him you just have a resting bitch face trust,

Before you can get too lost in thought, a more deliberate presence approaches. Anaxa. The very air shifts from a careless, free one to one filled with gas in the air, ready to be lit on fire any moment.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice smooth but direct with a mocking tone, “it is… illuminating to finally observe you in person, rather than through the filtered tales of the palace.”

oh that little shit-

You raise a brow, leaning forward just slightly

“Illuminating, hm? Please indulge me on the tales of the palace which you have heard, Anaxa."

your heart is drumming against your chest, stay calm. even a little slip up of your composure can make Anaxa realise everything and then you will die a torturous death just like—

Anaxa tilts his head, sharp silver eyes glinting like polished steel in the flickering candlelight. “Ah, where to begin?” His voice is smooth, yet there’s a razor’s edge to it. “They claim you’re… unpredictable. Mercurial, some say. Dangerous, to those who cannot keep pace with your whims, and even....brutal.”

You bite your lip, forcing a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Dangerous, hm? That’s flattering coming from someone who could ruin people's lives with a flick of the tongue.”

He arches an eyebrow, smirk twitching. “Flattery is unnecessary. But observation is essential, especially to their subjects, Your highness, you surely know that, right?”

You lean back in your throne, crossing your arms, heart hammering like a drum. “Subjects, you say? Surely you don’t consider yourself a subject, Anaxa.”

“Not a subject,” he says smoothly, stepping closer, the faint scent of old parchment and ink clinging to him like a signature, “but an observer. One who knows which pieces move the board and which are mere pawns.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes, feigning calm. “And where, pray tell, do I fall on your board?”

He pauses, considering, and that pause makes your pulse skyrocket. “You are… a player unlike any I have studied, you are far more cunning than what rumours suggest, but not..definitely not brutal.”

Your stomach flips, and you force yourself to stay composedl, to not crumble at the soft but piercing edge in his voice. “Cunning, hm? Perhaps. But I’ve yet to see anyone match me yet… including you.”

man you're gonna die cuz of this bratty man, screw his intelligence

“Ah, Your Highness. That is exactly why I am present in the palace… to see if the tales are true, or...” the last part was mumured and you couldn't hear it well.

Your fingers twitch against the armrest of the throne. Every instinct is screaming at you: remain composed. Do not let him see how frustrated you are. And yet the sharpness of his words, makes you want to scream "Execute him" right this moment.

You straighten your shoulders, voice deliberate, keeping the teasing edge that masks the racing of your heart. “Captivating, you say? Then perhaps you’ll find I am worth the attention… but I do hope you can keep up.”

Anaxa bows slightly, that familiar edge of arrogance lingering, but there’s something warmer in the curve of his smile, and subtle acknowledgment. “Oh, Your Highness… I intend to, if only to see how far you will go before the game truly begins.”

This One-Eyed Bastard

Anaxa straightened from his bow, that same unnerving mixture of arrogance and amusement still dancing across his features. “Now then,” he said smoothly, voice carrying just enough to draw the attention of nearby guests without interrupting the flow of the banquet entirely, “thank you for your audience, Your Highness. I may return to my partner, Aglaea.”

With a fluid, almost imperceptible motion, he pivoted on his heel, cloak whispering against the floor, and began moving down the banquet hall. His light teal hair caught the eyes of many nobles, some admiring him and insulting his audacity.

You exhaled, straightening fully in your throne, fingers tapping lightly against the polished armrest. Eyes sweeping across the gathered Chrysos heirs, you allowed the smallest, genuine smile to slip through.

“Guests of honor, Chrysos heirs,” you began, voice firm yet carrying warmth, “your courgae and skill have already shown their value. Your actions have saved lives, protected humanity, and proven your unwavering dedication to the world, even in the face of centuries of misunderstanding.”

Heads lifted, some curious, some wary, as you continued. “From this day forward, let it be known that the Chrysos heirs are no longer considered refugees, criminals, or traitors. You belong here, within the imperial palace, under my protection. Any display of disrespect toward you will not be tolerated.”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall, a mixture of disbelief and cautious relief. You held their gaze steadily. “You are the bearers of coreflames, wielders of powers meant to protect humanity. Your presence is not merely tolerated, it is honored. And for far too long, the worship of the Titans, a heritage unjustly forbidden by my father, was driven underground. Today, I restore it. Let the honor of the Titans and the rights of the Chrysos heirs be recognized again.”

The hall was momentarily silent, the weight of your decree settling into every corner. Then, soft exhalations, whispers, and finally a swell of nods and quiet expressions of gratitude passed among the heirs. Aglaea gave you a small, approving smile from across the room, eyes glimmering as if silently praising your audacity and justice.

Your eyes found Phainon in the distance, silver hair catching the lantern glow as he glanced toward you, expression unreadable but clearly attentive. Mydei, the triplets, Hyacine, Castorice—all subtly inclined their heads in acknowledgment, a rare mixture of respect and cautious trust forming in their stances.

Great, step one to not going through a torturous death!!

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The clinking of goblets and the fading music from the banquet hall gave way to the quiet hush of the palace corridors. Lanterns flickered against the marble walls as you made your way toward the courtyard, your steps light but slightly unsteady from the single cup of wine you’d gulped down.

From around the corner, a familiar figure came sprinting toward you—silver hair glinting in the lantern light, his black cloak fluttering behind him. Phainon, looking simultaneously regal and panicked, skidded (skibidi) to a stop a few feet away.

“I—uh, Your Highness… are you—” he started, but stopped, clearly unsure how to address someone clearly wobbling like a feather in the wind.

“I miss my phone,” you blurted suddenly, voice loud in the quiet hallway, gesturing vaguely toward… nothing, really. “Like… I really miss it. And Wi-Fi. I could really use some Wi-Fi right now...My yuri...my yaoi...” You hiccuped softly, swaying on the balls of your feet.

Phainon blinked, completely still and confused af, his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something. “…Your Highness?”

“Wtf is going on, man,” you continued, throwing your arms wide as if the palace walls themselves had failed to answer that question. “One moment I’m like in some fancy hall, everyone’s bowing, wine everywhere, and now… now I’m just… cooked.”

He shifted slightly, glancing down the corridor as if the floor might explode with judgmental glares. “Cooked…?”

“Yes! Cooked! Like a… roasted chicken! Or maybe a marshmallow? Either way, I am fully… cooked. Somebody save me!” You flopped dramatically against the cool marble wall, leaning your head back.

Phainon, despite himself, let out the faintest exhale, lips twitching into a smile he tried—and failed to hide. “…You truly are… unpredictable, Your Highness.”

“Unpredictable?” You lifted a finger, wagging it like a teacher scolding a child, "No way that you're saying that!!"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation battling amusement. “…I think… I’m supposed to escort you, yes?”

“Escort! That’s exactly it!” You flopped toward him, grabbing his arm for support. "Go samoyed!!"

you. His silver hair brushed your cheeks as you leaned ever so slightly closer, taking in the faint, clean scent of him—the mix of leather, a hint of smoke from the banquet torches, and something inherently… Phainon. You inhaled like it was air itself.

He tensed. Very much tensed. Every step toward your chambers, his grip subtly tightening on yours, subtle enough to keep you upright but firm enough to suggest he was calculating something. His sharp eyes flicked to yours more than once, narrowing slightly.

“…Your Highness,” he said finally, voice low and carefully measured, “are you… placing something on me?” His tone was stern like he would not hesistate to finish you off, but that undercurrent of suspicion made your stomach flip.

You blinked at him, panic spreading like wildfire. “W-what?! No! N-no! I swear, I’m not—” You froze, suddenly aware of how close you were to him, the scent of him filling your senses far too completely. “I… I just… I… like… your scent! Yeah, I have a… uh… scent kink… yeah! That’s it!”

He stopped dead in the corridor, turning to face you fully. His silver hair caught the lantern light, his eyes sharp and silver against the dark, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips—half amusement, half utter disbelief.

“…A scent… kink?” His voice was low, controlled, but carried that razor-sharp edge of incredulity he always seemed to manage.

“Yes! Totally! I mean, it’s not weird! Well… maybe a little weird, but I’m not… I’m not trying to poison you or anything, I swear!” You flailed one hand dramatically while clutching his arm with the other.

Phainon tilted his head, eyes blown wide and mouth left open like a concerned puppy.😨 and silently escorted you, he gave you to Arnes, and you went inside before looking behind your shoulder and smiling one last time as the heavy wooden door slammed shut.

Phainon stood in the corridor long after the heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind you, the echo of your giggling and flailing still clinging to the air. His gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, or maybe on the mess of words and gestures you had left behind.

Cooked? Wi-Fi? Yuri? Yaoi? Samoyed?

His brow furrowed, the sharp, precise lines of his face tightening with thought. What kind of strange codes are these? Are these… instructions? Warnings? A declaration of war? Or… He shook his head slowly. Or is she… insane?

Every word you had said seemed like a puzzle, a string of unfamiliar patterns he was supposed to decode. “Cooked… cooked like a marshmallow… samoyed…” He muttered to himself, pacing lightly along the corridor, his polished boots clicking against the marble. “Do these words hold… some hidden meaning? Or is this… simply… madness?”

His next step was obvious, he needed perspective. He found Mydei first, lounging lazily in one of the smaller rest chambers. (manspreader)

“Mydei,” Phainon started, voice clipped, controlled, but tense. “A moment.”

Mydei raised an eyebrow, lazily stretching, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliverer. What is it?”

He glanced around nervously before blurting, “She—Your Highness… she keeps saying… things. Strange things. Cooked. Wi-Fi. Samoyed. What does she mean?”

Mydei blinked once. Then twice. “…Phainon, has insanity finally peaked upon you?”

Phainon’s jaw tightened, frustration and confusion simmering beneath the surface. “I’m… I’m trying to understand! These words—perhaps they’re codes. Perhaps they signify a hidden plan. Or a… threat. Or… a test!”

Mydei chuckled, amused. “Phainon, she drank one cup of wine."

Shaking his head, Phainon moved next to the triplets. They were seated and talking to eachother.

“She said… words… and I—” Phainon started, but before he could finish, one of the triplets cut him off.

“Snowy!, you sound ridiculous,” Trianne said cheerily. “We heard them. We have no idea either, and there is no word ever created like that which your highness said, she's just tipsy!.”

Phainon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his silver hair, strands falling over his eyes. He looked up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answers, but no, only the flickering lanterns offered light. Unique? Not dangerous? That didn’t calm him. It only made his thoughts spiral further.

He muttered to himself again, pacing again, because of you.

You are kind of cute though, wait what?

Phainon finally slumped into a nearby armchair, black cloak pooling around him, and allowed himself a small sigh. “What am I… thinking? I am meant to observe… to guard… not…”

His eyes drifted toward the corridor where you had disappeared into your chambers, the memory of your leaning into him, the scent of you lingering faintly in his mind, still present.

This is… complicated. Very complicated. Everything is going against what happened in the past 2000 cycles. What..just what is going on?

Phainon leaned back, one silver eyebrow slightly raised, and muttered to himself, half in exasperation, half in awe: “What… is she even trying to do to us?”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Your head throbbed like a drum during a hardcore metal concert, and the faint metallic taste in your mouth reminded you of the banquet’s aftermath. You blinked slowly, trying to process the world, and immediately remembered, oh fuck.

Ugh.

You rolled over onto your back, staring at the ceiling with wide, pained eyes. Your thoughts were fragmented, fuzzy, and somehow still stuck on the way you clung to him last night. Do not think about that. Do not think about that. DO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT. But, of course, your brain refused to obey.

A faint knock echoed through the chamber door, and your stomach did a nervous backflip.

“…Yeah?” you croaked, voice breaking due to dehydration or pity, you don't know which one it was.

The door creaked open, and in stepped your maid, Arnes, carrying a tray with what looked like a whole full-course meal: water, tea, bread, omelette (?) and some other fancy meat which you are too sleepy to comprehend.

“Your Highness,” she said with a smile that was far too bright for how she usually is. “Time to get you ready for the morning audience.”

You groaned, pulling the blankets over your head. “Audience? Who’s getting audience-ed? Not me. I'm dead now.”

The maid did not dignify that with a response. Instead, she set the tray down, opened the curtains wide flashbang and began bustling about with brushes and fabric. You squinted against the sunlight like a vampire seeing daylight for the first time in centuries.

She had just started fixing your hair when the door opened again.

Revealing silver hair perfectly in place, black cloak flowing, a huge claymore against the doorways.

Why is phainon here?-

“Good morning, Your Highness,” he said, tone warm in a way that made you instantly suspicious. “I trust you slept well?”

You glared at him from under the comb your maid was working through your hair. “No.”

He stepped further into the room, boots silent on the carpet, and set the massive claymore against the wall.

“That is unfortunate,” Phainon replied smoothly, folding his hands behind his back with a cheeky smile. “You seem… functional enough.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, the motion making your head pound harder. “Functional? I’m hanging on by a thread here!''

“I will choose my words carefully then,” he said with infuriating calm, glancing at the tray Arnes had brought in. “Eat, Your Highness. You’ll need your strength.”

You frowned. “Why are you here? Don’t you have other business to attend to?”

He ignored the jab completely, moving to pour tea into a porcelain cup. “I was asked to escort you to the audience chamber. Apparently, some are concerned about your… stability.”

You nearly choked on air, remembering the events from last night.

Phainon handed you the cup, holding it just long enough that you were forced to meet his eyes. “Drink. Before you collapse halfway to the throne.”

You took it, glaring over the rim. “You’re acting all uh normal. Like nothing happened last night.”

His silver brow lifted ever so slightly. “And something happened last night?”

Arnes froze mid-comb, eyes darting between you two with utmost curiosity.

You gulped down the rest of your tea in one go, slamming the cup down. “NOTHING. Absolutely nothinggg, let’s go.”

The corner of his mouth curved, just slightly, before he straightened and gestured toward the door. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

The hallway air was cool, the kind that woke you up whether you wanted it to or not. You walked beside Phainon, trying to pretend the sunlight streaming through the high windows wasn’t stabbing you right in the brain.

His boots clicked steadily on the marble, a calm, almost lazy rhythm. Yours…uhm less so. Every few steps you stumbled just a little—whether from the hangover or the fact that you were still processing him standing there all cheerful this morning, he looked stunning omg.

The gates opened into a sunlit expanse of packed dirt and scattered weapons racks. The heirs were already there, practicing with blunted blades, calling out challenges, ignoring the etiquette of keeping voices dignified.

Phainon stepped aside to let you pass first, his hand brushing lightly at your elbow. “Careful on the step.”

It was one step. You took it perfectly fine, but your heart still did that stupid little trip it shouldn’t be doing.

“See?” you said, not looking at him. “Perfectly stable.”

“Mm,” Phainon hummed, gaze drifting down in that way that made you suddenly hyper-aware of the fitted knight’s tunic they’d shoved you into this morning, and the sword resting at your hip.

“I am,” he said slowly, “quite curious about your skills! :D”

You blinked. “…Skills?”

His silver eyes flicked back up to yours with a spark of mischief. “You wear a blade as though you intend to use it :)”

“That’s because I can use it,” you said automatically, even though the last time you actually sparred with someone, you may or may not have tripped over your own foot.

He stepped a fraction closer, voice dropping into something both polite and way too direct. “May I ask for a duel, Your Highness?”

You nearly laughed. “Right now? In front of the heirs?”

“In front of the heirs,” he confirmed, that faint smile deepening just enough to let you know he already expected your answer. “It would be fun!"

you muttered something incomprehensible, but his hand was already gesturing toward the open sparring ring, as though he were inviting you to tea instead of inviting you to be publicly humiliated.

“Unless,” Phainon said, just loud enough for them to hear, “you would rather decline.” you swore under your breath, you are too prideful to decline.

You stepped into the ring, the crunch of the packed dirt under your boots sharp in your ears. Someone tossed you a wooden practice sword, and you caught it with a little more flair than necessary, mostly to make a point.

Phainon picked up his own sparring blade, testing the weight with an idle twirl. Even holding wood instead of steel, he looked every inch the war hero. A few heirs had stopped their training completely now, watching with barely disguised anticipation.

You squared your stance, forcing your headache into the background. “Don’t go easy on me,” you said.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Your highness !!”

The first clash rang out sharp, wood striking wood. You moved fast—faster than most people expected when they saw the royal robes on you. Your footwork was tight, your strikes precise, and for the first few exchanges, you even had him on the defensive.

holy shit you weren't even in control of your body right now, its as if something possessed you.

“You’re holding back,” you said between breaths, pressing forward.

parrying your next strike and sidestepping with infuriating ease.

You gritted your teeth and changed tactics—feint to the left, twist, swing low—he caught it effortlessly, his blade meeting yours in a firm block.

And then—oh.

His pace shifted.

One second you were trading blows, the next, he was a blur—each strike of his was controlled but unyielding, pushing you back step by step. You blocked one, two, three attacks in quick succession, but the fourth—

Smack.

Your sword flew from your grip, clattering to the dirt. In the same motion, his practice blade rested lightly mockingly at your shoulder.

“Point to me,” he said softly, his silver eyes alight with something far warmer than mockery.

You exhaled, half from exertion, half from the way he was looking at you. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“Perhaps,” Phainon murmured, lowering his sword. “But you are extremely .”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone.

He stepped back, offering you his free hand to help you up from where you’d sunk into a crouch. “Again?”

…You took his hand

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

How did this even happen?

“No—here," Phainon stepped closer, the warmth of his presence brushing along your side. He covered your hands with his own, guiding the angle of your wrists with ease. His voice was light, like he was talking about something as casual as pouring tea, not swordsmanship. “Your stance is fine, but the moment you strike, your weight’s too far forward. You’d be easy to topple.”

You huffed. “So you’re saying I’d lose immediately?”

His laugh was bright, unbothered. “No. I’m saying you’d be easy to catch.”

It made you blink at him, but he was already adjusting your elbow, fingers brushing your arm just enough to be felt through your sleeve. Around you, the sharp clang of steel echoed from other sparring pairs, but you noticed a small group in the distance, the heirs were watching you both with the kind of smiles people wore when they’d caught onto something they weren’t supposed to.

They’re smiling again. Like they know something I don’t.

Phainon thought

Your sword swings are still clumsy, yet you listen. Really listens. He can see it in the way your brows knit, in the way your body shifts at every correction he gives. You're not afraid to be wrong here, in front of him, even if your cheeks flush each time Phainon steps in closer to fix your posture.

He adjusts your hands again, fingers curling over yuors, feeling the tremor in your grip, clearly focused. “Better,” He murmurs, softer than he meant to. You glance up, meeting his eyes for just a second before you try the move again.

There’s a warmth in hsi chest he hasn’t felt in a long time. Dangerous, because it’s comfortable. Dangerous, because he can already feel himself cataloguing the curve of your smile, the way your hair catches the light, the slight rasp in your voice after training.

Phainon catches himself smiling before he even realizes it. The heirs probably see it too

He shifted behind her again, leaning in so close that his breath stirs the hair near your ear. “One more time, Your Highness, and this time, don’t think. Just follow me.”

You laughed lightly, saying something about how you’d never be able to match his skill, but he just shook his head, saying a corny joke.

His hands hovered near your waist, not touching but close enough to guide if you faltered. He leaned in just a little, his voice lower now, the faintest hint of a smile in it. “Good… you’re catching on quicker than I thought. You might even embarrass me at this rate.”

The heirs’ muffled chuckles carried faintly over the sound of practice swords clashing in the distance.

And still, Phainon’s focus stayed locked on you.

Phainon didn’t notice when his hand slid from correcting your grip to simply holding it, his fingers wrapping firm around yours as if anchoring you in place. It wasn’t until you gave the slightest flinch that the moment cracked, reality bleeding in through the haze of focus.

You didn’t pull away sharply—just a small wince, quick enough that you might’ve thought he’d miss it. He didn’t.

“Ah—” he loosened instantly, brows knitting. “Did I—?”

Before he could finish, the pounding of light boots echoed from across the training ground.

“Your Highness!” Hyacine’s voice cut through the warm hum of practice. She jogged toward you, ponytials bouncing against her sides, her healer’s wand already in hand. “I saw that grip—Lord Phainon!! you absolute giant, you can’t manhandle her like she’s a sparring dummy D:”

“It wasn’t—” he started, then stopped. No use defending when Hyacine was already ushering you toward the edge of the ring like a storm in full force.

You glanced back at him with an expression he couldn’t quite place—something between exasperation and… amusement?

Phainon stayed where he was, wooden sword still hanging loosely at his side, watching as Hyacine fussed over your wrist. The rest of the heirs had paused their own drills, mydei openly smirking, Aglaea exchanging looks like they’d been expecting this all along.

His chest felt strangely hollow without your attention on him.

You chuckle as Hyacine's wand bonked against your head, and you raise up your hands, rotating your wrists faster than a windmill's wings.

Phainon smiled at you, feeling his ears heat up.

He will make you his

The next few months blurred into a strangely warm routine.

It turned out that the Chrysos heirs were actually surprisingly easy to spend time with !! Hyacine was constantly by your side, dragging you from room to room to “show you important things,” which were, in reality, her extensive plushie collection, an entire cabinet of porcelain animal clay figurines, and a hidden stash of candied nuts she swore no one else knew about and play with her pet unicorn, Little Ica (fat fuck). You spoiled her without thinking, shes such a cutie!!, slipping her extra desserts at dinner, letting her braid your hair with ribbons she insisted would “bring good luck,” and tucking her in when she inevitably fell asleep mid-conversation.

Aglaea became your quiet partner in tea. The two of you would settle into the sunroom, pale light spilling across the table as delicate porcelain cups steamed between you. She spoke in gentle, deliberate words, always tilting her head slightly as if weighing your responses. Yet she would always make these weird remarks poetically, because you were still a Gen-Z person, of course, you were used to short abbreviations not long...poetic sentences.

Anaxa, uh well, you bickered with Anaxa as if it were a competitive sport or a habit more tbh. He’d make a smug comment about your “amateur understanding of politics,” and you’d fire back with a remark about his tragic inability to win an argument without pacing like an angry cat. Half the time, Hyacine had to intervene before you two could escalate into an actual physical fight.

Castorice was a gentle butterfly, always with her hands folded neatly in her lap and her expression unreadable, except for the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes when you said something outrageous. (her smiles are so cutee). She listened with perfect attention when you brought up the yaoi, even leaning in ever so slightly as you excitedly recounted a story about two male characters who had way too much chemistry for it to be “just friendship.” She'd even write for you and you would squeal and happiness before air-hugging her.

Mydei, on the other hand, was well, the opposite in energy. A beast on the battlefield, but when you sat beside him with a plate of honey bread, he was just a man with a soft spot for sweets and a habit of offering you half of whatever he had. You never pushed him to talk much; instead, you kept trading recipes and slipping him extra desserts, and somewhere along the way, it became your own not so secret. (everyone knows his insane baking skills and sweet tooth, even the royal chef)

And Phainon… He was always there, literally, looking at you with a smile.

Sometimes on the edge of your vision, leaning against a pillar like he had all the time in the world. Sometimes directly across from you at the dinner table, eyes fixed on you even when someone else was speaking. There was a certain dark amusement in the way his lips curved everytime you talk with him with a wholesome smile.

But there was something else, too.

A faint, prickling sensation under your skin when he was near, it felt suffocating, sometimes making you think that he might actually kill you with torture, leaving you with amputated limbs and gouged out eye sockets.

But you ignored it for the best, because of how he would hold your hand during sword practice, of how he would always invite you to watch him spar with Mydei.

You should've seen the face he made when he found out you and Castorice...made stories of him with Mydei.

him: 😨

Little did you know that, the more time Phainon spent with you, the more the idea dug into him like a thorn, except instead of festering, it bloomed. He’d catch himself in the middle of sparring with Mydei, distracted by the image of you leaning back into him, flushed and breathless, your laughter spilling into the hollow of his throat. He’d think about how small your hand felt in his when he adjusted your grip on a sword—how easily he could just keep it there, never letting go. The way you tilted your head to look up at him made his chest feel too tight, and somewhere deep inside, an ugly, possessive heat coiled, whispering that no one else should get to see that expression but him.

He imagined you on the throne, yes, but not alone. No, you’d be seated right on his lap, his arm resting across your waist, his chin on your shoulder as he murmured sweet, private words meant only for you. He’d hold you there in front of everyone, let them see that you belonged to him. Every smile you gave him, every laugh, every soft, fleeting touch, it all fed into the quiet obsession wrapping tighter and tighter around his ribs.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

ACHOO!!

You sneeze, confused, was someone thinking about you? strange. you dont even have a cold D:

You flop back onto your bed, arms spread out like a t-pose.

The ceiling stares down at you in judgement, and you stare right back, stubborn.

Except it’s not really the ceiling you’re seeing. It’s his stupidly perfect smile. His annoyingly flawless hair. The way his voice dips just slightly when he says your name like he’s been doing it for centuries.

Ugh.

You roll onto your side, pulling your blanket halfway over your face before groaning. "Phainon, the man you are!"

You can still hear his laugh from earlier, unbothered and warm in a way that makes your chest feel like someone lit a candle inside it. You hate it. You love it. You hate that you love it.

This man might kill (for) you any moment and you're giggling over him like a lovesick teenage girl.

You bury your face in your pillow. Yeah... If he ever found out you thought about him this much, you’d have to fake your own death and run off as a local outside the palace.

You let your eyes slip shut, letting the image of him linger in your mind—his gaze catching yours across a crowded room, the slight furrow of his brows when you’re not near, the faintest hint of possessiveness that sends a thrill down your spine.

Is he planning to kill me only for himself? man.

You curled deeper into the blankets, sighing into the soft pillow. The faint moonlight spilled through the curtains, lighting up your room.

Your chest felt warm just thinking about it. It was stupid. He was… well, he was Phainon. And you were just you..and well, you were the reason for his suffering, for his time loops.

Your eyelids grew heavier, thoughts smudging together as sleep pulled you under.

You didn’t hear the faint shift of the window latch. You didn’t see the pale fingers curl around the edge of the frame.

A shadow slipped into your room, noiseless except for the sound of silk fabric. The figure straightened, white and gold catching the faint moonlight, before his steps brought him to the edge of your bed.

Phainon knelt slowly, almost reverently, like a worshiper before their god. His eyes trailed over you, lingering on the slow rise and fall of your breathing.

“…So peaceful,” he murmured under his breath, voice low with a sound of. His gloved hand hovered above your face for a moment before he removed it, his bare, scarred skin tracing the curve of your cheek.

The contact was feather-light, almost hesitant, but the way his breath hitched made it feel anything but casual.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing just under your eye. “Every look, every laugh, you don’t know, do you? How much I think of you. How much I…”

His lips curved faintly, but it wasn’t kindness. “I should be ashamed. I’m not...You are the reason for my endless pain yet why do i find myself lingering towards you”

He let his hand linger, stroking once more before leaning in, his breath ghosting your ear.

Phainon’s gaze dropped to your hand, half-hidden beneath the blankets. Slowly, he drew it out, careful not to wake you.

He turned your wrist in his palm, studying each delicate line, each faint pulse beneath your skin, as though memorizing it. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and then, without breaking his stare, he lifted your right hand to his lips.

The kiss was soft at first, almost reverent, the warmth of his breath soaking into your soft skin.

“…Perfect,” he murmured against your fingers, letting them rest there as if he couldn’t bear to release them. His voice dropped into something darker, “You have no idea how easy it would be to keep you. To never let you go.”

His eyes softened, but one who might see him in this state would call it, "insanity" or "obsession"

“Maybe,” he whispered, pressing one more kiss to the tip of your finger and nuzzling his cheek against your limped hand, “I’ll take you through eternity with me, all locked up and mine to look at.”

"Wow, honey, it's amazing," he replies with his face basically glued to the phone, analyzing every detail like it's the greatest piece of art since Michelangelo's Pietà.

Your eyes sparkle and you spend the rest of the call describing how you decorated your shared house in great detail.

On a random day blessed by the gods, when your schedules fit well enough for you to spend some quality time together while on campus, you gasp again. But it's not the A tier, Major announcement gasp, it's more of a C tier, I found my favorite pair of socks again and I wanted to share that with you gasp.

"Did I tell you we're about to have a baby?" you casually drop. Phainon stares at you, blinks, raises his brows, then shakes his head like he's just been struck by something.

"I'm sorry?"

"In Tomodachi Life," you specify (thank Kephale).

"Oh," he says. How would a normal person react to this information? "How do you know?"

"This bubble telling you your Miis have something to tell you appears on screen, though I didn't have the time to check. But that must be it because that's how it happened the previous five times."

Five?

Phainon's face becomes the color of a pomegranate seed.

After this, it takes a week or so for him to stop physically avoiding you, and then another three days so that he can look at you in the eye. Although his face still flushes when when you bring up that wretched game.

It's okay. One day he'll be normal about this.

ʬʬ.astronote.com phaimii needs to pay child support

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.

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

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 nudges 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.