#protective partner

How You Met

Phainon first notices you during a late-night study session in the library. He’s there to return a book on medieval swordplay, but your intense focus on a poetry anthology catches his eye.

You’re surprised when he sits down beside you and asks for help understanding a metaphor. Despite his confident exterior, he genuinely wants to get better at appreciating literature, and you love nerding out with him.

Phainon is outgoing, physically active, and thrives in social settings, while you prefer quiet, intimate spaces and deep conversations.

He helps you loosen up—inviting you to casual campus events and showing you fencing moves (which you find both hilarious and impressive).

You ground him, encouraging moments of reflection, introducing him to the beauty of poetry, and helping him focus his restless energy.

Relationship Dynamics

Phainon’s Protective Side: He’s fiercely protective but also incredibly gentle with you. After a long day, he might text to check if you ate or offer to bring you coffee during finals week.

You’re His Calm: When the pressure of sports or social expectations weighs on him, you’re his quiet refuge, the one who listens without judgment and encourages him to be true to himself.

Cheering Each Other On: He shows up at your literature readings or presentations, the loudest and proudest fan in the room. You attend his fencing matches, quietly cheering and taking notes on his techniques.

Playful Competitions: Sometimes, Phainon challenges you to friendly debates on who’s more strategic—the mind or the muscle. Spoiler: they’re both champions.

He writes your initials on his wristband for luck before a big match, and you catch him blushing when you notice.

You teach him how to write haikus, and he surprises you with a poem about strength and perseverance, inspired by your late-night study grind.

When campus throws a themed dance, Phainon insists you go with him, promising to slow dance even though it’s “not his style.”

He casually wraps his arm around your shoulders in the quad, claiming you as his “favorite bookworm.”

Phainon struggles with the pressure to always be “the best,” but you remind him it’s okay to have off days.

You sometimes feel overshadowed in social scenes but find confidence in Phainon’s unwavering support and genuine admiration for your intellect.

Together, you learn to balance both your worlds—athletics and academia—with respect, patience, and a lot of humor.

“Oz, you’re going to love this!” you exclaimed, your enthusiasm infectious.

He grumbled something about being too old for such frivolities, but the moment the first wave crashed against him, soaking his board shorts and splashing water everywhere, his expression shifted dramatically. A genuine, boyish grin spread across his face, lighting up his features, and he instinctively pulled you closer to him, keeping you steady as the waves grew stronger and more formidable.

“You’re right,” he admitted, laughter spilling from his lips as another wave hit, the cool water drenching you both. “This ain’t half bad.”

You wrapped your arms around him, the water swirling around your legs, creating a sensation of freedom and joy. “Told you so,” you replied triumphantly, feeling a sense of victory in convincing him to let loose.

Oz’s hands found their place on your waist, steadying you against the undulating push and pull of the water that surrounded you. The public nature of the setting did nothing to deter him from leaning down, his lips pressing softly against your forehead in a sweet, lingering kiss that seemed to savor the moment.

“Thanks for dragging me out here,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with sincerity and a hint of gratitude.

“Anytime,” you replied, resting your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming you amidst the splashes and cheers of the park.

The day unfolded like a beautiful tapestry woven with laughter, shared glances, and lighthearted fun. Oz even surprised you by summoning the courage to go down one of the smaller water slides, though he insisted, with a mock-seriousness that was hard to resist, that he was merely “testing it out.” He bought you a delicious ice cream cone from a nearby cart, and when a group of teens recognized him, his protective arm instinctively tightened around your waist. He brushed them off with his usual gruffness, a mix of annoyance and protectiveness surfacing, leaving you both amused and touched by his demeanor.

As the sun began its descent in the sky, casting a warm glow over the water park, you found yourselves back in the wave pool, floating together in the gentle, rhythmic swells. Oz pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours, and for a moment, the world around you faded into a soft blur of colors and sounds.

“You make life feel a little less... heavy,” he admitted, his voice low but sincere, carrying a weight of emotion that resonated deep within you.

You smiled, your fingers brushing along his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. “And you make me feel safe,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, but it held a truth that was undeniable.

In that fleeting moment, he kissed you then, slow and deliberate, unbothered by the playful chaos that surrounded you. The world faded further away, leaving just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s arms, as if nothing else mattered but this shared moment of connection and joy. It was a kiss that spoke of new experiences, deepening feelings, and the promise of many more adventures together, each one more delightful than the last.

As the day wore on, you convinced Oz to try the lazy river. It wasn’t a hard sell—he liked the idea of floating along without much effort. The two of you grabbed a double tube, and Oz insisted on sitting in the back so he could keep an eye on you.

“This is more my speed,” he said, leaning back as the current carried you both forward. His legs stretched out on either side of the tube, and his hand rested lazily on your knee.

“You’re relaxed for once,” you teased, tilting your head back to smile at him.

“Don’t get used to it,” he shot back, but the corner of his mouth twitched up in a grin.

You reached out to trail your fingers along the water’s surface, the coolness a perfect contrast to the warm sun overhead. When the lazy river passed under a cascading waterfall, you squealed as the droplets splashed over you, and Oz chuckled, shaking his head like he hadn’t been hit too.

“Come on, Oz,” you teased, turning to face him in the tube. “Admit you’re having fun.”

He smirked, his hand slipping up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d have fun anywhere, long as you’re there.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected sweetness of his gesture, an unanticipated thrill that sent a rush of warmth through you. Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, he leaned in closer, bridging the gap between you, and pressed his lips against yours in a soft, tender kiss. Time seemed to suspend itself in that instant; the lazy current of the day faded into the background, and the outside world dissolved, leaving just the two of you enveloped in a cocoon of intimacy, like a delicate bubble that shielded you from everything else.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting the surroundings in a rich, golden hue that seemed to enhance the beauty of the moment, you playfully persuaded him to take one last plunge down the water slide. It wasn’t the tallest or the fastest slide you had ever encountered, but it held its own kind of excitement, enough to make your stomach flutter with anticipation. You could hear the rush of water beneath you as you both soared down, and laughter erupted between you like a shared secret, echoing joyously against the backdrop of splashes and delighted screams from other park-goers.

Once you reached the bottom, breathless and exhilarated, you began toweling off, the warm sun drying your skin. As you glanced over, you noticed Oz stealing a quick glance at the family locker area nearby. Your attention was drawn to a little boy who was visibly upset, tears streaming down his cheeks, with his goggles hopelessly tangled around his neck. Without waiting for a second thought, Oz crouched down to the child’s level, exuding a surprising gentleness that warmed your heart even more. His typically rugged demeanor softened as he carefully worked to untangle the strap, his movements tender and reassuring.

“Are you good, kid?” he asked, his usually gruff voice adopting a softer tone that made you smile. The little boy nodded, sniffling as he looked up at Oz with wide, awe-filled eyes, as if he were gazing at a superhero come to save the day. It was a sight that struck you—seeing Oz's nurturing side revealed in such an unexpected way.

When Oz finally returned to you, the familiar air of confidence surrounded him once more, but you couldn’t help but notice the lingering warmth in his expression, a hint of pride perhaps, or maybe just the afterglow of kindness.

“You’re such a softie,” you teased playfully, bumping your shoulder against his, relishing the closeness.

“Don’t spread that around,” he muttered, a mock-seriousness in his tone, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. His hand found yours effortlessly as you began walking toward the park exit, fingers intertwining comfortably, solidifying the connection that had blossomed between you. The day had been filled with laughter and unexpected moments, but this—this simple act of holding hands—felt like the sweetest cherry on top of a perfect day.

By the time you got home, the two of you were exhausted but happy. As you collapsed onto the couch together, Oz wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

“Today wasn’t so bad,” he admitted, his voice low.

You laughed, snuggling against him. “Told you you’d have fun.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but a fit of wheezing overtook you, your body trembling as you tried to steady yourself. Immediately, his tone softened, and he guided you gently to sit on the couch, his hands supporting you as he positioned you against his chest. "Lean on me," he said quietly.

He rubbed circles on your back, his touch calculated and firm, his other hand trailing over your chest in soothing, rhythmic motions. “Your lungs are working too hard. You need to focus on shorter breaths—don't force it.” His voice was soothing now, like an anchor keeping you grounded.

As your breathing steadied, Ratio reached for the bowl of soup he had prepared earlier, infused with an assortment of herbs known for their restorative properties. “I’ve designed this specifically to soothe your respiratory tract. It may not be as groundbreaking as my usual work, but its efficacy is indisputable,” he said, holding the spoon up to your lips.

When you hesitated, embarrassed by your dependence, he raised a brow. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d lecture me if I neglected my health. Now open your mouth.” You complied, savoring the warmth of the soup.

Later that evening, when you forgot to take your prescribed medicine, Ratio’s sharp voice rang through the quiet of your shared home. "Do I have to personally supervise you every hour?" he scolded, pulling you gently into his arms. Yet, his lips brushed your temple. "You’re going to recover, love. I won’t allow anything else. I’ll see to it myself."

You drifted to sleep against him, soothed by the rhythm of his hand on your back and the quiet strength of his presence.

Jiaoqiu’s hands, soft yet steady, traced soothing lines down your back as you struggled to catch your breath. His sharp ears twitched at the sound of your wheezing, and though his eyes remained closed, his expression was full of concern. “I told you not to push yourself,” he said softly, his voice laced with gentle reproach.

You tried to apologize, but the effort to speak only triggered a coughing fit. Jiaoqiu immediately shifted closer, his tail curling around the both of you protectively. “Shh, don’t speak. Just focus on breathing slowly. I’m here,” he murmured, his tone like a balm.

He adjusted your position so you were reclining against his chest, one hand continuing its comforting motion across your back while the other cradled your side. "I know it’s frustrating," he said quietly, "but healing takes time. You can’t rush it. Trust me—I’ve been through worse, and I’m still here, aren’t I?"

Once you’d calmed, he reached for a steaming bowl of congee he had prepared earlier. “Here. It’s my own recipe. The herbs I added should help you feel less strained.” Carefully, he guided the spoon to your lips, his patience infinite.

When you forgot to take your medicine later, Jiaoqiu sighed deeply, his fox ears drooping. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, love. I may not be able to see, but I can hear your struggles. Every wheeze, every cough—it pains me more than you realize.” He found your hand and pressed it to his chest, his voice trembling just slightly. “You’re going to get through this. You have to. Not just for yourself, but for me.”

He held you close that night, whispering soft reassurances until you fell asleep, his hands never ceasing their gentle rubs across your back.

Dan Heng’s sharp eyes darted toward you as you clutched your chest, struggling to breathe. In an instant, he was by your side, his usually stoic demeanor softening with concern. "You’re pushing yourself again," he said quietly, though there was no mistaking the worry in his voice.

He helped you settle on the bed, his arms guiding you with care. “Lie back,” he instructed, placing one hand on your chest to feel your strained breathing and the other on your back, rubbing slow, steady circles. “You need to relax. I know it’s hard, but panicking will only make it worse.”

His voice was calm, grounding you as he leaned closer, his presence reassuring. When your breathing steadied, he retrieved a small bowl of tea infused with medicinal herbs he’d prepared earlier. “Drink this. It will help soothe your lungs.”

You hesitated, and Dan Heng’s brows furrowed. “You need to stop being so stubborn. I’m not going to let you suffer when there’s something I can do to help.” His tone was firm but gentle, and you couldn’t help but comply.

Later, when he caught you skipping a dose of your medicine, he fixed you with a rare frown. “You’re not invincible, no matter how much you want to believe you are,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. But when he saw the guilt in your eyes, he sighed, his expression softening.

He pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I know it’s hard. But you’re going to get better. I’ll make sure of it. You just need to trust me—and yourself.”

That night, he held you close, his hands never leaving your back, the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

Aventurine’s eyes glinted with a mix of concern and frustration as he caught you clutching your chest, your breathing labored. “Now, now,” he said, his voice smooth but tinged with worry. “What did I tell you about overexerting yourself?”

He guided you to the couch, his hands surprisingly gentle as he adjusted your position to lean against him. “There, take slow breaths. I’ve got you.” His fingers worked expertly over your back and chest, the soothing motions designed to ease your discomfort. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like this, darling. It’s bad for my heart.”

When your breathing settled, Aventurine reached for the broth he’d prepared, its aroma rich and comforting. “Now, this is a special recipe,” he said with a teasing smile. “Made with love and a dash of sheer brilliance. Eat up, or I’ll be offended.”

Later, when you forgot to take your medicine, Aventurine’s usual charm gave way to exasperation. “Do you enjoy making me worry? Because you’re doing an excellent job of it,” he said, crossing his arms. But his frustration melted as he cupped your face, his voice softening. “Listen to me. I’ve gambled with a lot of things in my life, but I’m not willing to gamble with your health. Promise me you’ll be more careful.”

He pulled you into his lap, his hands resuming their comforting motions across your back. “You’re going to get through this, love. I’ll make sure of it. After all, I’ve never lost a bet when it comes to you.”

That night, he held you close, his warmth and quiet reassurances banishing your fears as you drifted off to sleep in his arms.

The absence of your breath hit him like a stone to the chest. His heart froze. For a split second, time seemed to slow as he watched, terrified that he would lose you. His sharp mind immediately began calculating the worst-case scenarios, his fingers twitching to shake you awake. But nothing—no sound, no movement.

His hands hovered over you before finally shaking you gently, his voice quivering for the first time in what seemed forever. "Hey, hey... breathe, breathe!"

When you gasped awake, he exhaled in a rush, his breath shaky. His heart thudded violently in his chest as relief washed over him. You were alive. You were fine.

But he couldn’t shake the dread that had lodged itself deep in his ribs. Despite the calm look on his face, his mind couldn’t stop racing. He stared at you for the remainder of the night, watching you sleep in that peaceful, unaware state. As dawn began to break, he found himself unable to sleep—not because he feared losing you, but because he couldn't unsee the terror that had coursed through him when you stopped breathing.

He would never admit it, but the incident made him rethink everything, even the reckless games he played. The only certainty now? His inability to rest until he knew you were safe again.

It was late when Ratio sat by your side, having just returned from a long meeting with the Intelligentsia Guild. His hair brushed against his face as he settled in, gazing at you with a slight frown as you slept. For someone so intellectual and confident, he didn’t understand the complexity of your fragile sleep. Perhaps, it was a flaw in his vast intellect—he had never expected something so mundane as sleep to become a battleground.

Then, in the dead of night, a horrible silence gripped the room. Ratio froze, his sharp eyes narrowing as he observed the stillness, his pulse quickening. His breath caught in his throat when you stopped breathing. His mind immediately began to calculate the problem. Could he revive you manually? Was there something he missed in his extensive research on physiology?

In a panic, he rushed to your side, shaking you firmly. "I—I don’t understand this. You—"

A gasp escaped your lips as you jerked awake, eyes wide with confusion. Relief flooded him instantly, but he couldn’t help the flurry of thoughts that began to invade his mind. He was too intelligent for this. He had to solve this. Immediately. No amount of books or academic achievement had prepared him for this.

You, still groggy, noticed the frantic look in his eyes. "What’s wrong?"

His lips parted to explain, but nothing coherent came out. He had no words. Just the tight grip on your hand, the fierce need to ensure your breathing never stopped again. The remainder of the night was spent beside you, his mind whirring with logical explanations, though no solution seemed quite right. As dawn came, he found himself unable to sleep. How could he, when his brilliant mind was no longer sure of something as simple as human breathing?

The quiet hum of the night was soothing, and Sunday had allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation as he rested next to you. The celestial aura that surrounded him flickered softly in the moonlight, but as he watched you sleep, a feeling of unease began to coil in his chest. His wings twitched gently as the stillness of the room settled in.

Then it happened. The unnerving silence.

For a moment, it felt as if the entire universe had held its breath. His eyes shot open, golden irises wide as he searched your form for any sign of life. His own breath caught in his throat when he realized you had stopped breathing entirely. His wings fluttered in an anxious rhythm, and a rush of panic rose up his spine.

"Please," he whispered, voice shaky, as he gently reached out to shake you awake. "Breathe, please breathe."

Your eyes fluttered open, your gaze dazed and confused, but the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over Sunday was palpable. His wings, trembling slightly, folded tighter around his body as he took a deep breath of his own.

"I… I didn’t realize," he muttered softly, his voice holding an unusual weight of vulnerability. The weight of the fear he’d just felt. For the first time in a long time, he felt deeply human.

Sunday couldn’t fall back asleep. His mind was too restless, haunted by the thought that he might have lost you, even though he had no true explanation for why you’d stopped breathing. The thought of being powerless over something so fragile made his celestial demeanor falter, leaving him restless and wide-eyed as the night passed by.

Blade’s eyes were narrowed as he lay on the bed next to you, watching over you with a detached sense of vigilance. Though his existence had long been consumed by revenge and a cold desire for his own demise, there was something about you that remained a quiet sanctuary, something he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.

But as the night deepened, a sudden, terrifying silence cut through the air like a blade. His eyes flashed open in an instant, his entire body frozen in place. His heart slammed against his ribcage as he watched you, utterly still. Too still.

His mind raced. No… He could feel it. You’re not breathing.

Without thinking, he was by your side, shaking you violently, desperate for any sign of life. His hand trembled, the broken sword beside him forgotten in his panic.

Then, you gasped, eyes flying open as you caught your breath. The world shifted back into place, but for a moment, Blade’s soul felt like it had been ripped open. The terror in his chest was inexplicable, something he couldn’t fight or shove away.

"Don’t ever do that again," he growled, his voice rough, but the sheer desperation in his tone betrayed him.

You looked at him, confused but still dazed from sleep. He was already pulling back, his eyes dark with something unspoken—something almost resembling fear. Blade, the immortal, the weapon, the destroyer—was afraid. And for the rest of the night, he lay awake, staring at you with unsettling intensity, unable to unsee the brief glimpse of what losing you would truly feel like.

As the night dragged on, Blade couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, too haunted by the prospect of loss. And so, he remained wide awake, the quiet terror of that moment embedded in his bones.

You’d collapsed. Thyroid storm. ICU admission. Time-sensitive complications.

You hadn’t told him.

Which, he supposed, was only natural. You always played things close to your chest—guarded, stubborn, and independent to a fault. Just his type. Just his curse.

By the time Aventurine arrived at the hospital, his trademark grin was noticeably absent, replaced by a sharp set to his jaw and eyes that flickered between worry and anger. Not at you—never at you.

At himself. At fate. At the idea of loss.

“Room 416,” the receptionist said. “Visitor limit—”

He didn't wait. He slipped past with a crisp wave of his credentials and an almost bored tone, the same voice he’d use to bluff a billion-credit deal. But this wasn't a game. Not this time.

You were unconscious. Machines buzzed and clicked. The beeping of the cardiac monitor was too fast, too erratic.

He sat down, wordless. Slipped off his gloves.

His left hand clenched unconsciously behind his back.

A tell. A crack. The gamble was too steep this time.

“You didn’t tell me,” he whispered after a long silence, brushing a stray hair from your sweat-dampened forehead. “Were you scared I’d run? Or… were you scared I’d stay?”

He sighed and leaned in, pressing his lips gently to your temple.

“You really think I’d fold that easily, sweetheart? No. You don’t get to leave the table yet.”

His voice was still honeyed, still sly. But it shook.

“I didn’t bluff my way to the top of the IPC just to lose you to a damn heartbeat.”

He stayed until morning, adjusting your blankets every hour and muttering odds about your recovery like he could outwit biology itself.

He never left the room. Not once.

And when you finally stirred, groggy and weak, your eyes flicked open just enough to see his silhouette by your side.

“You really shouldn’t gamble like this,” he murmured with a tired smile.

“But... lucky for you, I never lose where it counts.”

Lighter was in the middle of a rooftop spar when Piper found him.

“Hey, Champ.” Her voice was too tight. “It’s [Name]. They’re in the hospital. Thyroid storm. It’s… bad.”

He froze mid-motion. The wind caught his scarf. His hands—calloused, battle-worn—suddenly felt useless.

The next thing he knew, he was running.

The hospital lights were too bright. The antiseptic smell reminded him of field clinics and dead friends.

His fingers twitched as he paced outside your room, heart racing like he was about to step into an arena—but this wasn’t a fight he could punch his way through.

He didn’t go in at first. He couldn’t. Not with the machines breathing for you. Not with the sterile whispers and your skin so pale it scared him more than any battlefield ever had.

When he finally stepped in, it was quiet. Only the sound of monitors and his own trembling breath.

“You idiot,” he muttered, pulling a chair close. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

His sunglasses remained on, but his voice cracked.

“You should’ve told me. I could’ve—hell, I don’t know—done something. Got Caesar to check your meds, or had Lucy make you tea every damn day. Or just—been there.”

He held your hand—carefully, reverently, like it might shatter. His own was scraped and scarred, still stained from earlier fights. But he wasn’t the one who looked broken right now.

“You promised me a rematch,” he said softly. “You can’t tap out yet.”

The next morning, when your eyes fluttered open, you caught the sight of his head resting beside your arm on the mattress.

Your lips moved, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t leave.”

He smiled—just a little. “Told you. The Champion might perish... but he doesn’t lose.”

Ratio was delivering a lecture at a symposium when the message came.

He read it once. Then again.

The calculations in his mind ceased. Numbers scattered. Equilibrium shattered.

Thyroid storm. Hospitalization. Unstable vitals.

His next words to the stunned auditorium were uncharacteristically brief. “I apologize. There is someone more important than this talk.”

He arrived at the hospital faster than anyone could’ve predicted, his presence slicing through the air like a razor. Staff tried to stop him. No one succeeded.

The door to your room opened with a soft hiss. He stepped inside, slow and deliberate.

You looked fragile in the bed, all wires and weakness. His first thought—illogical and emotional—was how could someone so bright look so dimmed?

He approached, not with panic, but with terrifying clarity.

“Your basal metabolic rate was destabilized. Tachycardia. Agitation. Systemic collapse.” His voice was clinical—then broke. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sat beside you, his alabaster mask discarded.

“I monitor a thousand variables a day. I solve equations that baffle star-systems. But I missed this. I missed you.”

His fingers brushed yours, barely touching. “You feared becoming a burden. You are not. Do you understand?”

He leaned in, forehead resting gently against your arm.

“I would rather wrestle with the laws of entropy than live in a universe where you are absent.”

When your hand twitched in response—subtle, weak—his breath caught.

“I will not let this equation end in loss,” he whispered. “You are not a theorem to be solved. You are the constant that gives my work meaning.”

He stayed, reading every chart, recalibrating your vitals with surgical precision. But when you woke, it wasn’t the data you saw.

It was his eyes. Focused only on you.

And for once, Ratio had no facts.

Only feelings.