NyarlaFluff

In short, Hal knew he was fucked, but for now, he was content to take what you were willing to give. It was better than having none of you.

He flies through your penthouse window with ease, the fancy security systems recognising him as a regular guest instead of a threat. The intense longing that had so long threatened to consume him bursting forth from his chest at the sight of you leaning against the counter.

He wraps his arms around your waist, one hand slipping under your shirt as his face drops against your neck. "Missed you," he mumbles, inhaling your scent deeply as his fingers brush against the underside of your boob.

"Hal!" You exclaim in alarm, grabbing his wrist to frantically stop his advances.

That makes him frown, lifting his head with a whiny retort prepared, only to freeze at a pair of judgmental blue eyes a few inches from his face.

Hal blinks. The kid, he belatedly realises, frowns even deeper. "Who're you?"

"Wha—Who am I? Who are you!" He retaliates.

"Hal!" You scold, making the man falter a little.

"I'm Dick Grayson, and that's my aunt you're feeling up." The kid huffs, giving Hal some serious stinkeye.

"Hal." He grits out in return when you elbow him in the side, "I'm your aunt's—" fuckbuddy, lover, not-quite boyfriend, "friend." He tacks on lamely.

"Riiiight." The kid drawls, clearly unconvinced. "Does Bruce know about this?" He sniffs imperiously, glancing at Hal's hand still lingering beneath your shirt with thinly veiled contempt.

That's when it registers, just who this kid is, the ward your brother Bruce had taken in. The one who'd seen his parents die. The one Batman now had running around in a brightly coloured suit, while you had a heart attack.

Ah shit. From what Hal had gathered, you cared deeply for the boy and his opinion, and this wasn't exactly a stellar first impression on Hal's behalf.

"That's a no then." Dick huffed, before a wicked grin covered his face, "Bruce is gonna kill you."

"Batman doesn't kill people." Is the immediate reply from Hal, like a little bitch. Not 'Bruce doesn't scare me' or 'I'd like to see him try,' no, instead, his mouth betrayed him.

"Yeah, but Bruce might."

"Richard!"

"As if he could."

"Harold!"

"What?! You can't be taking Bruce's side! I'd destroy him!" Hal pouted as Dick squawked in the background.

Rolling your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time in the few minutes (it seemed so much longer) since Hal's arrival, you turned in his arms. "Yes, you would beat Batman in a fight." Though your tone is mocking, your smile is fond, just for Hal's eyes.

The kid, Dick, lets out a gasp of betrayal, and Hal doesn't bother to hide his victorious smirk, even when you swat him on the shoulder.

To Dick's great chagrin and Hal's smug delight, you don't kick him out that night.

Instead, you settle into his arms on expensive silk sheets that Hal could never dream of purchasing. Like a real couple, his traitorous mind whispers as your fingers absentmindedly trace shapes across his heart.

"I missed you, too, baby. So, so much" You confess, voice barely a whisper, as if you're afraid Dick will hear. Or you're afraid to admit it to yourself.

Baby. Hal distinctly ignores the way his stomach swoops at the usage of the petname. He's a grown man, goddamnit!

Suddenly, he's immensely grateful for the dark that hides his burning cheeks. Hal's sure you must feel the way his heart pounds beneath your fingertips at the confession, but you're gracious enough not to say anything.

"I know this probably wasn't the reunion you hoped for," you cringed a little, forcing Hal to hold back something close to a coo at how adorable you were flustered, "but thank you, for... staying anyway."

Before he even registered the movement, Hal clasped your hand in his, bringing the back of your palm to his lips for a gentle kiss, "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

Your breath catches in your chest, heart pounding, and eyes a little traitorously wet. Before you can respond, and perhaps embarrass yourself even further, your door swings open.

"Can I sleep with you tonight? I had a nightmare."

Hal swears that in that moment, he's never hated a child more in his entire life.

You practically shove Hal off of you to sit up and pull Dick into your arms, "Oh, Sweetheart. Of course you can."

Hal valiantly bites down the squawk of protest on his tongue. This was a literal child, one you loved like your own, and he doubted you'd take too kindly to Hal bullying the kid.

"Was it about your parents again?" You murmured, threading your fingers through Dick's hair. He nods mournfully, greedily accepting your hug and nuzzling into your chest.

Just as Hal starts to feel bad at the reminder that the kid had watched his parents die, Dick throws a wicked smirk over your shoulder at him, and Hal's empathy dies a fiery death.

That little shit! Hal knew he was lying!

Oh, this meant war!

Maybe not now, but little Richard Grayson was not prepared for the can of worms he'd just opened. As if reading Hal's mind, the kid squints at him before silently mouthing words that he can just make out, 'game on.'

To which Hal did the mature thing and silently replied with a glare of his own, 'Bring it.'

Words that couldn’t dim the memory of his face smiling up at you in understanding and forgiveness, his final words a haunting utterance— “All will be well.” An elegy that tormented you with every waking step and brushed against your consciousness as you tried, and failed, to sleep. 

The shot burns, a pleasant pain, distracting, encompassing as the liquid works its way into your system, and you slam the glass down on the table. The bartender raises a brow, but ultimately pays you no mind as you ask for another, as long as you’re paying. 

A part of you longs for Hal. To have him hold you, protecting you from the outside world and all of its ugliness. Though a larger part of you is glad for his absence, that he’s not around to see the depths you’ve fallen into. 

The thought of Hal, of his inevitable disappointment, is enough to force you up and off the barstool, shrugging on your discarded jacket as you brave the outside world. A cool breeze kicks up, greeting you as the door rattles closed at your back. Hands in your pockets, you set off, feet mindlessly carrying you through the city, just another nameless person melting into the background. 

Away from prying eyes, your fingers brush against the ring you hadn’t donned since the incident. Since you’d let your partner die, a sardonic voice hisses in the back of your mind. The same voice that had always lingered in the recesses of your consciousness, you’re too slow, too stupid, not pretty enough, not good enough. Not for Hal and not for the ring. 

Your status in the Blue Lantern Corps had always been the one thing you’d never questioned. It felt right, felt like home, like your place in the universe had finally been realised. But now even that had been tainted, and for once, you didn’t have the energy to ignore the voice that loudly insisted the ring couldn’t have been more wrong, choosing someone like you. 

A scream cuts through the silent cover of night, the sheer terror interrupting your self-pity party. Instantly alert, you attempt to locate the source, taking off in an adrenaline-fuelled sprint when another terrified shriek cracks through the air. 

You round the corner just in time to witness the barrel of a gun wave dangerously close to a young girl's face, no older than 20, with tears in her eyes and a tremble in her legs that has you moving instinctively. Lashing out, you land a blow against the would-be mugger's face whilst you wrest the gun from his possession with a snarl. 

Perhaps the old you would have approached with empathy, compassion, hope. Yet as the gnashing, violent urge beneath your skin swells and bubbles over, you can’t help but think the old you died alongside your partner. 

Blood splatters across your knuckles, warm and staining your hands as you take your anger, hurt and frustration out on the scumbag who’d chosen tonight of all nights to become someone’s monster. The girl’s long since run away, taking the opportunity you’d given her, and you can’t blame her for that. Not when she’d been between the man who could’ve killed her and the half-feral rescuer who’d appeared from the shadows only to beat someone with an inch of his life. 

By the time you’ve finished, he lies unmoving on the concrete, blood seeping into the street and ruining your clothes. You barely notice, already too used to the never-ending feel of your partner's blood staining your hands. 

A faint whimper from behind tells you the criminal’s still alive, good enough for you, so you leave him there to rot. 

It’s not until you’ve fished your keys out of your back pocket with trembling fingers, leaning against the wooden door frame, that you realise with sobering clarity that the door’s already open. 

Slowly easing your way inside, you reach for the decorative, but no less heavy, bowl of keys resting atop the foyer footlocker. Only to immediately drop it when a frenzied Hal rushes out from your shared room and into the living space, “Barry, I swear, she’s not here—”

You both freeze, Hal’s countenance melting into sheer relief as he hangs up the phone, throwing it onto the couch behind him to reach for you with both hands, “Oh, baby, you weren’t answering your phone and— is—is that blood?”

You’re sure you must make for a distressing sight. Especially to your boyfriend, who hasn’t seen you for weeks. “It’s not mine.” Your voice is airy, hollow to your own ears, and guilt swirls in your chest anew as Hal’s face drops in distress. To your immense relief, he doesn’t ask, just opens his arms as an invitation. 

You don’t remember moving. All you know is between one second and the next, you’ve closed the gap, flinging yourself into his chest as your tears soak his shirt. “I heard. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

Your heart drops. Of course, he’s heard. Heard what a fuck up you are, Barry told him no doubt, and now he’s here to rein you back in. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not true.” He softly admonished, slowly shuffling you back to the couch, rearranging you until you’re huddled up against his chest, arms encasing you safely against his chest. 

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.” You scoff at him, a little bit of the toxic bitterness and hatred seeping out toward the last person who deserved it. 

“Yes, I do, because I know you, sweetheart.” He hums, unfazed by the minor outburst, “and whatever you’re thinking, I need you to cut that shit out right now.”

“Hal—”

“No, listen to me.” He pulls back enough to look you in the eyes, cupping your cheek with a firm hand so you can’t look away, “Whatever that little voice in your head is whispering? It’s not true.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re supposed to.” You whimper, “You weren’t there, Hal, you didn’t see—”

“I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.” You didn’t think it was possible, but Hal’s face fell even further.

“That’s not what I meant! I’m not blaming you!”

“I know, baby.” He’s quick to reassure you, guilt crossing his features momentarily, and you want to scream. Scream for causing him so much distress, for your dead partner, for everything. Instead, your lower lip wobbles, a sob bursting free before you can even try to stop it. Once that first cry leaves your lips, the dam bursts as you dissolve into great, heaving sobs. 

“It’s not fair, it should’ve been—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. Don’t ever think that.” There’s a frenzied look in Hal’s eyes as he cups your cheeks, fingers exerting the slightest bit of pressure against the back of your head. Not enough to hurt, but enough to catch your attention, to halt the disparaging thoughts in their tracks. “I don’t even want to imagine a life without you.”

The intensity of Hal’s sincerity makes you squirm, but he doesn’t let you look away. “I—The ring doesn’t work anymore.” You hadn’t meant for the words to slip out, but there’d been something in Hal’s gaze that tugged at the raw ache in your chest, that had been desperate for him to know but to still love you anyway. 

“It will.” He strokes your cheek softly, wiping the tear tracks away. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but this will pass. And I’ll be with you every step of the way, no matter how long it takes.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can, you know why?” You shake your head as he throws you a devastatingly soft smile, “Because I have hope, because you taught me how. The ring might not work for now, and until it does, I’ll have hope enough for the both of us.”

Unable to handle the devotion in his gaze any longer, you bury your face in his chest, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Hal makes no move to fight you, pressing a soft kiss on the side of your head, while he whispers soft reassurances.

Hal Jordan doesn’t believe in fate. He doesn’t believe in coincidences, or some mysterious force bringing things together. He’s more practical than that, or, he likes to think he is. Hal believes in will. In decision, in choices, in taking a knife and carving his own destiny into the fabric of the universe. 

He’s never been one to do what he’s told, and above all that, he’s never been one to stay in one place for long. You knew that going in.

So why, why when you’re laying in your bed, watching him button his jeans to leave, do you have the urge to ask him to stay? It’s humiliating, really, the way the feeling gnaws at your chest. The way your fingers reach out to him on instinct, the way the words catch on your tongue.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Hal winks, flexing for you. 

You snap back to reality, blinking at him slowly. The fading evening sun is out to get you with the way it has his skin glowing, illuminating him in godly light. It threads through his hair, catches on the lighter streaks and turns them gold.

His shirt hangs haphazardly from his hand. “Hello? You still with me, or was I that good?”

His cocky words break you free from your trance. “As if.”

He tugs the white fabric over his head, hiding his abs and the marks you left on them. It’s unfair how easily it settles against his skin, how it fits him in all the right places.

“And here I thought I was special.”

“You—” The words catch in your throat. You are special. A deep breath, and then, “don’t flatter yourself, Hal.”

The words are stiff, awkward, lacking that usual playfulness that comes so easily. Hal clocks it immediately, eyebrows raising, hands stilling where they tug down the hem of his shirt.

“Everything alright?”

It’s the concern that gets you, the warmth laced behind his words. He cares about you, of course he does. You don’t spend this much time with someone you don’t care about. It’s the nature in which he cares about you that’s hard to decipher. 

You’re friends, yes. Something more, obviously. For a year now, it’s a weekly occurrence that one of you ends up in the other’s bed, clinging to each other to escape the world. But it’s this—the leaving in a haste, the playful banter that never goes anywhere deeper—that leaves you dazed.

Questions rise to your throat as quickly as they die. What am I to you? What is this? Do you feel as broken up about this as I do? 

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Just tired. Think I need a nap.”

“So I did do a good job, got it.”

You toss your pillow at him, Hal easily catching it in his hand and laying it over his side of the bed. You cringe. His side of the bed. 

Hal says his goodbyes, leaving you with a kiss on the cheek and a lazy salute the way he always does. You rub your cheek after he leaves, stuck sitting in your bed. Hal Jordan may very well be the death of you.

The air in the Watchtower is tense following the meeting, everyone stewing in their silence and going their separate ways. An argument between Hal and Bruce had left everyone on edge, the former storming out of the room.

You wait a few minutes to follow, the room clearing out before you feel comfortable enough to trail after him. You find him in his room, angrily pacing around while he tugs on his hair.

“Hal?”

“What?” The word is harsh and cutting, the frustration from his fight with Bruce clearly still lingering. Catching himself, he takes a deep breath, “what is it?”

The door closes softly behind you. “Are you sure this is a good idea? This mission, I mean.”

“What, are you worried about me?”

It’s the way he smiles when he says that that tugs on your heart strings. The way something lingers behind it, a quiet question he’s begging you not to answer.

“Kinda,” you admit, finding yourself sitting on the edge of the small, standard-issue bed. “I have a bad feeling about this, I feel like-like you’re in over your head.”

His smile flickers and dies. “I’m never in over my head.”

Wrong thing to say. Your nose scrunches on instinct, your head spinning as you try to find the right words. You know deep down for all that bravado, all that fearlessness, there’s something beneath it. A deep seated insecurity that’s slipped through the cracks during his stolen moments with you.

“Promise not to die on me?”

He’s come to rest on the bed next to you, the side of his knee touching yours. It’s such a small gesture, miniscule in the grand scheme of things you’ve done together, but still it has your heart jumping into your throat.

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.” 

He rests his hand on your thigh, tingles burning their way up your spine. You swallow, and for just one moment, just this moment, allow yourself to have him more than you do. Allow yourself to feel for him more than you should.

You kiss him, lips fumbling awkwardly to find his. Hal takes it in stride, moving against you the way he has so many other times. The world falls away from under you until all that’s left is you and Hal. No Watchtower, no missions, no colleagues to hide from. 

And then he’s pulling away, costume suddenly on. “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”

“Ha—”

He’s gone before you finish saying his name.

Fate’s always been a funny thing to you. This moving, breathing force that ties people together through red string and irony. This intangible thing that can only be explained through feelings of dread and an inexplicable pull.

And looking at Hal Jordan, unconscious and injured, fate has a cruel sense of humour.

You’re exhausted, eyes dry and heavy sitting by his bedside. You’d been asleep when you got the call, Barry Allen’s hushed voice beckoning you back to the Watchtower. You’re not sure you’ve ever moved that fast in your life.

Barry had been outside the infirmary doors to greet you, pacing back and forth, his blond hair a mess. He’ll live, he’d said. He’s still Hal, unfortunately, but he’ll be just fine after some rest.

You cracked a smile at that, Barry leading you into the infirmary to see him. The sight of him left you winded, hot tears burning in the backs of your eyes. After giving you a big hug and telling you to call if anything changes, the man had left you to sit at Hal’s side.

So here you were, hours later, fatigue plaguing every bone in your body while you prayed to every god you could think of for Hal to wake up. Don’t worry about me sweetheart, his words ring in your ears.

Fucking liar.

The only thing worse than seeing Hal hurt is the gnawing regret, the words unsaid that linger around you like ghosts. The questions that have plagued you lately, the ones you hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to ask, burn at the back of your throat.

You’ve just made it through the L’s on your list of gods when there’s a groan followed by the sound of sheets shifting. Hal opens one eye at a time, the infirmary dark except for the IV in his arm and the dim lamp beside you.

 “What time is it?” He rasps.

You fight desperately against your tears of relief, your chest feeling a thousand kilos lighter. You open your phone, checking the time as if you hadn’t been staring at the clock for the better part of the night.

“It’s about six in the morning,” you say. “How–how are you feeling?”

He winces as he pulls himself into a sitting position, the wound on his side clearly bothering him. “Like I got hit by a bus.”

Given what Barry had told you about the nature of his injuries—mild head trauma and cracked ribs—you figure that’s an apt description.

“I was worried.”

“I know.”

His nonchalance grates on you. You sink down in your chair, your heart sinking even lower in your chest.

“I mean, tonight. When you got hurt.” You risk a glance at him, “I was worried.”

It’s as though he’s sensed the emotional turn the conversation is about to take, using all of his strength to steer it the other way. He cracks a smile, “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

“I know, I just…” Missed you?  “I was worried.”

“You don’t have to be.” He stretches all of his limbs like a cat, yawning, “I always make it back.”

A bitter mumble. “Except when you don’t.”

He freezes, that easygoing smirk melting right off of his face. He’s not sure he’s heard you right. “What?”

The frustration that’s bubbled under your skin for so long comes to the surface, having caught a ride with the relief that flooded you when he woke up. It rises to your throat like bile, stings at your eyes like tears.

It tumbles out before you can stop it. “What are we?”

He gets it now. The sudden change in your tone with him, the vacancy in your stare, that look on your face like you have something to stay. He understands now. Guilt wracks him, filling his veins until it’s all he’s made of.

“What?”

“Us, this. I—you must be feeling it too, right?” You force away your tears, force yourself to be steady. “I feel like I’m going crazy, Hal.”

The knife in his chest twists. The room before he left, the way you’d kissed him, the way you’d worried for him. How stupid he’d been to not see it, how stupid he’d been to think you could go on doing this without getting attached.

How stupid of him to get involved, knowing this is how he’ll lose you.

“I care about you, but I—” A rare moment where Hal considers his words instead of diving in head first. “You know I would never hurt you, right?”

Oh. Oh no. No sentence, nothing good in the history of ever, has started with those words. You brace yourself, arms falling around your body, because no one ever says that unless they’re about to hurt you.

“I thought you knew what this was, I-I didn’t think you felt that way!” His stomach churns at your inability to look at him. “I don’t…it’s not—”

Betrayal lingers in your bones. All of the tenderness, all of the moments spent together, the words spoken through late nights and early mornings, it had all meant nothing to him? 

“It’s not what?” You snap.

He tugs at his hair, trying to find the right words to say without crushing your soul entirely. He sees the tears that pool in your eyes, the way you desperately try to swallow the lump in your throat. He did this to you, with his carelessness, with his inability to settle down.

“I don’t want what you want,” he says finally. “I don’t feel the same way.”

He sees the exact moment the hope in your eyes is snuffed out. He can feel the shift in the air, the sudden cold, the detachment. He sighs. Time of death: 6:13am. 

You rise to your feet, wiping at your wet eyes. “Okay.”

“‘Okay’?” He repeats. “So we’re good?”

You take a few steps towards the door, your hand hovering over the handle. It’s just metal, just a door, and yet it feels like so much more. Like a portal to a world without this hurt, without Hal Jordan.

“No.”

Hal’s stunned, not sure if he can remember a time you’ve spoken to him this way, if this bitterness is something new or something that’s evolved for him over time. 

“No, we’re not good.” You tug open the door, “and I hope I never see you again.”

You slam it shut behind you, ignoring Barry Allen’s concerned face when you do.

Two months. That’s how long it takes to untangle the threads of your life from Hal’s. You move further away from him, throw yourself into work, and do your damndest to scrub every trace of the lantern from your life.

It helps that Hal’s been gone since that night, disappearing without telling anyone where he was going. You’d been concerned, initially, the remnants of your feelings for him leaving you wondering if he was even alive. But then Dinah Lance had showed up at your door with a bag of takeout and an offer to join her team, and all thoughts of Hal Jordan went out the window.

Barry Allen’s been a constant in your life, too. He’d taken you home that night, having heard the last bits of your conversation with Hal and seen the devastation on your face. Barry lingered after that, taking you out for drinks and letting you rant about the stupid man who’d broken your heart.

To some degree, he’d known about your relationship with Hal. He caught the longing glances and heard the occasional detail from his friend. He just never saw what was happening beneath the surface, never thought Hal could break you so thoroughly.

The night he’d seen you cry, Barry had pledged to punch Hal in the face the next time he sees him. He just never thought that day would take so long to come. 

“You’re hurt,” Barry frowns when you meet him outside the restaurant. Instinctively, he reaches for the small cut on your forehead. “What happened?”

Your hand reaches it first, shrugging him off. “This? It’s nothing, just something that happened with the Birds.”

“You and Dinah,” he shakes his head, holding the door for you, “kind of a terrifying pair, if you ask me.”

You duck into the restaurant, a weekly staple for you and Barry. “Me? Terrifying?”

“Yes, you.”

He bites his tongue while you speak to the host, following along in silence to your table. Barry shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair and settling into his seat. He’s fidgety today, a bundle of nervous energy.

“You can run faster than the speed of light and you’re saying I’m the scary one?”

He shrugs, investing himself into the laminated menu laid out in front of him. You narrow your eyes. You’ve been here no less than half a dozen times over the past few months, Barry knows the menu like the back of his hand. He twists his ring around his finger, your frown grows deeper.

Something is wrong.

You frown. “Is everything okay?”

“Me?” His head snaps up, too quickly, too unnaturally. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”

“You’re a horrible liar, Barry.”

His nose crinkles, cheeks pinkening. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d want to talk about,” he drops his voice, eyes darting around the room like someone might be listening, “him.”

Your stomach drops, fresh anxiety replacing the lining. “What about him?”

Barry cringes, bracing himself before he speaks. “He came to see me today.”

“He’s back?”

And suddenly, two months and several hundred miles of distance doesn’t feel like enough. You’re not sure any distance could ever be enough to sever the ties that bind you to him. Fresh nausea rolls over you. 

“Yes, but I—he—” Barry sighs, “you guys should talk.”

“Talk? Talk? After everything, after all this—” You look up at him in utter disbelief, gesturing around the room. “—you think we should talk?”

“I know, I—”

“You were there Barry, you heard what he said, and I-I can’t believe you’d say that after everything.”

You grab your jacket off of the back of the chair, storming out of the restaurant.

Barry comes by later that night with apologies and your favorite dessert. A peace offering, he says. One that you’re more than willing to accept after your initial Hal Jordan-induced meltdown comes to an end.

The days that follow pass quicker, laced with constant nerves and an impending sense of doom. You don‘t sleep as well, your days with the Birds feel less rewarding and the very thought of returning to that Watchtower, knowing he’s there, ties your stomach up in knots.

By some miracle, or emergency, really, Dinah and Ollie manage to coax you back to the Watchtower. You can feel his presence the minute you enter the room, and you don’t need to look to know he’s staring at you.

You avoid his gaze, sticking to Dinah’s side like glue. Her and Ollie settle in next to Barry, the blondes creating a sort of protective barrier on all sides. Barry grabs your elbow, and your attention, offering you a reassuring smile.

“This’ll probably be quick,” he says quietly. “And then we can go for food or something.” “Food,” Dinah agrees from your other side. “I forgot to eat before we came here.”

Your chatter dies down slowly, the meeting commencing. Batman’s gruff voice fills the room, pointing to pictures on the screen. You try your best to pay attention but it’s hard when you can feel Hal looking at you like he’s plotting the next way to ruin your life.

You bounce your leg under the table, trying to burn off some nervous energy. Barry lays a careful hand over your knee, thumb rubbing the seam of your pants reassuringly. The burning feeling of eyes on you seems to fade and finally, for the first time in two months, you manage to look at Hal Jordan.

He’s not looking at you anymore, his gaze locked onto the hand Barry has on you. He looks nauseous, sickly, even. His undereyes are dark and hollow, his hands shaking slightly. He’s shaved and cut his hair since he’s been back, but the remnants of a lost man remain. You can’t cut away that haunted look in his eyes.

You don’t feel the joy you expected to feel at the pathetic sight, the air in your lungs stilling instead. A familiar feeling comes creeping in, fanning the flames that once burned for him, that once threatened to consume you.

You cast your gaze ahead and push your feelings aside.

He catches you on your way to the bathroom.

The meeting had ended, everyone mingling, but your nerves had gotten the best of you. Five minutes alone, that’s all you asked. Just a handful of time to yourself to catch your breath, to get your head straight and snuff away your feelings. Dinah had offered to come with you, joking about being your bodyguard.

The minute Hal’s fingers had closed around your wrist, you regretted not taking her up on that. 

“Don’t touch me.”

His voice is dry, devoid of that usual fight. “I—sorry.”

He drops your arm, folding his own behind his back like a soldier waiting for instruction. He shifts his weight between his feet, a telltale sign of his nerves.

“What do you want, Hal?”

The words stick to the back of his throat, his knees suddenly weak. He doesn’t know where to start or what to say. He’d had it all planned three hours ago—see you, talk, tell you what he needs to say. And then he saw Barry with his damn hands on you and that plan went out the window.

“You and Barry seem…close.”

You scoff. “Is that what this is about? Seriously?”

“I’m just asking—” “Jesus, Hal.” You shake your head, taking a step back from him. “You’ve been gone for two months, and I don’t know if you remember, but it wasn’t like we were exactly best friends when you left. You have no right, none, to ask about my love life.” “That’s not—”

“Fuck off.” You walk away, locking yourself in the bathroom before he can see the way your hands have started to shake. The foundation you built over the past few months wavers, threatening to crumble from under you. And the resolve you had, that certainty you were over him? In two minutes, Hal had chipped away at that, too.

It takes a lot of coaxing from Dinah, and ultimately a threat to break down the door, for you to come out of the bathroom. Your tears had dried a while ago, but the possibility of seeing Hal had left you tethered to the bathroom.

You peek your head out of the door. “Is he still here?” She quirks an eyebrow, “do you think I’d let him live if he was?” Good point, you think, and inch your way out of the bathroom and back into society. Dinah clamps a hand over your shoulder, guiding you down the hall.

“He asked me about Barry,” you say. 

“God,” she groans, “of course he did.”

“I told him to fuck off.”

She laughs, “and that’s why you had to hide in the bathroom for thirty minutes?”

“No, I was hiding because—” You blank, unsure of what to say.

“Because you hate him?”

And hearing it out loud has something heavy settling in over you. You stop in your tracks, looking up at her with that hopeless look you’d had in your eyes the night she came for you.

“Because I don’t.”

Hal is everywhere after that. Every mission, you’re partnered up with him. Every debrief, he’s there, sitting across the table with that haunted look in his eyes. Fate is playing tricks on you. Offering you two paths knowing they both lead the same place: all paths, it seems, lead to Hal Jordan.

He doesn’t talk about where he went the two months he was away, or what he saw to have him so spooked. People talk, theorize as they usually do. He was on a bender, he had an affair with a space princess, he was hiding in Batman’s basement.

The people who do know don’t say much. Barry, the other Lanterns, Bruce. Their silence speaks volumes, and the knowing glances that follow tell you they know more than they’re letting on. 

Your missions with Hal are usually filled with silence and longing gazes. You can’t talk about your relationship before he left or your life after. He refuses to talk about where he went, or how he’s been living with a friend because he lost his apartment.

So you settle into silence.

Walking up the rocky hill, your joints aching and your throat clogged with dust, the heat is almost unbearable. Hal pants behind you, equally as winded from your long trek. You’d insisted—begged—him to just fly on his own, but Hal, stubborn as ever, had refused.

Hope swells in your chest when you reach the top of the hill, seeing the flat clearing that marks your extraction point. It’s a small area, less than 10ft in either direction, the edge opposing you giving way to a massive ravine.

You don’t bother to scope the area for threats before sitting down on the cliff’s edge, letting your legs dangle over while you look on to the world ahead. The sun is just starting to sink, the sky tinged pink at its departure.

Hal settles in next to you, leaving a generous distance. “This is stupid,” he throws a pebble over the ravine, “why even call for an extraction? I can fly.”

It tugs at your heart to remember the times there wasn’t so much distance between you, when you worked well together on missions and let yourself rest with him afterwards. Nowadays, you can’t wait for the mission to be done so that you can get away.

“Because not all of us fly, Jordan.” He cringes at the sound of his last name. It’s a low blow, really. A desperate scramble for you to take some control of the situation, to once again solidify the cold shoulder you’ve given him.

“Yes but I fly, I’m strong. I can fly both of us.”

“If you want to leave,” you gesture to the open sky, “by all means.”

He frowns, shoulders slumping, and makes no move to leave. The sun sinks lower, the sky shifts to pink and then orange and then purple. The heat of the day starts to melt away, replaced with a gentle night breeze. It would be a perfect night if not for the man sitting next to you.

“Do you have plans after this?” He glances at you, “like, with anyone?”

You scoff. “You mean with Barry?”

He chews at his lip. His silence means yes.

“You’re unbelievable. Why are you so obsessed with me and Barry?”

“Because I left for two months and now you’re fucking my best friend!”

“For fucks sake, Hal, we’re just friends!” Your head snaps to the side, eyes narrowed on him with thinly veiled anger. “And I don’t fuck people I only view as friends.”

“Oh.”

Hal casts his gaze away, he doesn’t deserve to look at you right now. Instead, he focuses on his hands, on the calloused skin over his fingers, He looks to the horizon, to the darkening sky. He’s been here before, seen this before.

He twists the ring around his finger. “We watched a sunrise like this once.”

The memory doesn’t come to mind. You blink, shooting him a look out of the corner of your eye. It’s one second of vulnerability, one second spent where you’re not hating him. And for Hal, that’s enough.

“I don’t remember that,” you say dryly. “Must’ve been someone else.”

Hal focuses on the stars blooming in the sky. “Yeah, must’ve been.”

There are some things in life that have always just made sense, like the universe designed for them to be together. Dalmatians in firehouses, peanut butter and jelly, and formerly, you and Hal Jordan.

You’d felt a pull to him from the day you met, something in him sparking something in you. Every night spent together only made the flame burn brighter until it was unbearable, threatening to consume you. And then it was killed, pronounced dead in the Justice League infirmary. 

Your chemistry died with it, and every mission with Hal since, has been stiff. Awkward. He’s overbearing, hovering too close to you during fights and getting in the way. You’re mistrustful, not counting on him to have your back the way that you should. The way that you used to.

It’s late in the Watchtower, the cup of coffee in your hands half-finished and completely cooled. The plush office chair you’re sitting in does little to ease your aching body, Hal’s presence doing even less to ease the nerves that chew on your stomach lining.

After four hours, the computer is only three quarters finished analyzing the USB you’d plugged into it. It’s already been a long night and at this rate, it’s only going to get longer.

“He’s fucking with us, right?” Hal groans, spinning in his chair, “surely we don’t actually have to sit here all night and watch it.” You nod, lips pulled into a tight lipped smile. “Do you want to be the one to explain it to Bruce if something goes wrong?”

“...no.”

The mechanical whirs of the machinery cut through the silence that grows between the two of you. You’re never quite sure what to say to Hal, if you should even say anything. 

Hal’s just as surprised as you are when you’re the first one to speak.

“Are you…doing anything later?” His head perks up like an excited puppy being offered a treat. “Sleeping, probably. Why?”

“Sleeping alone?” And Hal’s heart sinks at the underlying question, the silent intonation of hurt. That hopelessness reaches out and threatens to drown him again.

“Always alone, lately,” he grumbles.

“I find that hard to believe.” “It’s true!” He raises his hands in surrender, “I’m a changed man.”

“That’s even harder to believe.” Tension, a new norm for the two of you, thickens the air. 

Hal does another spin in his chair, head tipped back lazily. He gestures to the computer, “why don't you take a crack at that? See if you can speed it up.”

“Me?” You shake your head, “why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re the one that’s good with…” He trails off upon seeing the strange look on your face. Brows drawn together, mouth twisted in concern. He breathes, snapping himself back to reality. 

“Hal, is-is everything okay with you?” You lower your voice, “you’re not losing your memory from old age, are you?”

“Old age?!”

His reaction makes you laugh and Hal would be lying if he didn’t treasure the sound like the last day of sun before winter falls. 

“Do you…can I buy you a drink?”

Your laughter stops, winter comes.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He frowns, “it’s just one drink. Come on, please?” “Hal…” And his resolve breaks. He rises to his feet, getting up to leave before you can break the rest of him. “Sorry,” is all he says.

You don’t see Hal for almost a week after that, and part of you wonders if maybe it’s a sign. If not seeing him means that chapter of your life is finally done.

The shower water is hot on your body, washing away the dirt and blood from your late-night venture with Dinah. Having been too tired to head to your own place, she’d invited you to crash in their guest room. 

You hear voices when the water stream in the shower dies down, the dripping from the tap interrupted by voices downstairs. Mopping up the water on your body with the towel Dinah left for you, you tiptoe your way to the door.

With your ear pressed against the lavish veneer, you can just barely make out Dinah’s voice.

“Absolutely not.”

Hal Jordan’s voice has you freezing in your tracks, the warm water on your body turning to frost. “Why not? Give me a good reason and I’ll leave.”

“For one, if you don’t leave, I’ll make you.”

“She will,” Oliver shouts, sounding further away than the other voices.

“Dinah, please. Five minutes, that’s all I ask. Don’t be—ow!”

You’d be lying if his sudden cry didn’t bring a smile to your face. The voices go quiet and you finish dressing, pulling on a clean pair of clothes you’d left here forever ago. 

You’re barely out the bathroom door, steam pouring into the hallway like smoke, when Oliver catches your arm. “Before you go down there,” he starts.

“Hal’s here, I heard.”

“Dinah smacked him” You laugh, “I heard that, too.”

Oliver retreats down the hall, presumably headed to their bedroom. You march on in the opposite direction, making your way down the stairs. It’s gone quiet now, which can only mean two things: he left, or Dinah killed him.

There’s no dead body when you enter the foyer, so clearly it’s the former. You hate the way your heart sinks just a little at his absence.

Hal’s unconscious on your welcome mat when you get home. A bottle in his hand, snoring, his body unphased by the cold night air. Digging your keys out of your bag, you poke him with your shoe. He stirs a little, eyelids twitching. Good, not dead at least.

Opening the door with a click, you watch as he slumps further, knocking his head against your doorframe. His eyes snap open, lashes fluttering while he deciphers his surroundings. His cheeks pinken and he relaxes a little at the sight of you.

“You—you’re home,” he slurs, and the heavy scent of alcohol stings your nose.

“Jesus, Hal,” you sigh, offering him a hand up. “What are you doing here?”

He takes it, putting just a little too much weight on you as he uses your body to lift himself up. You stumble, chest colliding with his, his arm reaching out to steady you. It’s instinctive, an all too familiar position for the both of you.

You peel yourself away from him, taking a big step back. “You didn’t answer the question.”

He stumbles in after you, wrist flopping awkwardly as he goes to slam the door. You pinch the bridge of your nose. He can barely stand.

“Missed you,” he slurs, “always missing you.” He pitches forward, knees failing, but you’re there to catch him. Ducking under his arm, you manage to keep him up long enough to get him to the couch. Hal’s not much help, mumbling something about a wedding into your ear and dragging his feet.

You abandon him on your couch, the man slumped over uselessly, before coming back with a bottle of water. He manages to grab it—at least he’s good for something right now—and downs half the bottle in one go.

“You shouldn’t be here, Hal,” you say softly. “We’re not—I don’t feel the same way.” Liar, the weight in your chest screams, but Hal doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know the way your heart beats for him, that even through the layers you’ve used to shut him out, you still yearn to touch him again.

“The wedding,” is all he says.

Your brows furrow in confusion, a hand reaching for him before you pull back. He’s not yours to touch anymore. You scan his face for any sign of him being high, red eyes or a loopy smile. You clock none of that.

He’s just Hal. Drunk, incoherently babbling Hal.

“The wedding?” You question.

He looks up at you, brown hair falling in his face and half-obscuring his eyes. “The wedding,” he says again. “You love—you would’ve loved it.” “Who’s wedding, Hal?” You hate this, playing into what he’s saying, hanging onto every word like you’re still hopelessly in love with him and just wanting him to love you back. Really, you should be going to sleep and leaving him on your couch to rot, but just as you draw up your knees to stand, he speaks.

“I hated watching you get married to another man.”

Your heart stops beating. “Hal? I’m not—I’m not married, you know that.” His eyes go vacant for a moment, jaw clenching in that way it does when he’s said something he shouldn’t have. The way it does when he spits venom in an argument, or when he tells you he doesn't love you the way you love him.

“There were flowers,” he says, “Frangipani. Your favorite.”

“Hal I-I think you should go to bed.” You look at him seriously, “you’re drunk, you’re not making any sense. Just—sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”

He frowns, deep and sad. “You mean it?” “Goodnight, Hal.” 

You flick off the lamp, quietly leaving the room before he can say anymore. 

You’re all geared up for your mission, costume on, weapons stocked, when you pull Barry aside. 

“What’s going on?” He has that curious look in his eyes, the blue glistening with worry. “Is everything okay?” “I think…” You glance around, making sure no one’s listening in. “I think something’s wrong with Hal.”

“Oh?”

“He keeps…saying these things that don’t make sense. I thought it was just forgetfulness but then he started talking about my wedding, and all of these things that didn’t happen and—” The look on Barry’s face tells you everything. A flash of guilt and a mix of shame answering your question before you have time to ask it. Your eyes narrow, you take a step forward, cornering him.

“I don’t—he hasn’t told you yet?” “Told me about what?”

Barry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hal said he would tell you.”

“Hal says a lot of things.” “Believe me, I know.” He rests a hand on your shoulder, “it’s nothing you need to worry about, alright?” “Barry—” “Just trust me, okay?” You open your mouth to say his name but then the speedster is taking off, a trail of lightning in his wake. You stare at the spot he was just standing, dumbfounded.

What could possibly be so bad, so top secret, that Barry himself can’t even tell you? The question sticks to the back of your mind.

It’s a cruel trick of fate that you’ve ended up here, back in this damned infirmary, with Hal at your side. 

You’d been distracted on your latest mission, your conversation with Barry lingering in the corner of your head until it was all you could focus on. You got sloppy, every fight, every decision, worse than the last until finally, something gave.

A searing hot pain in your shoulder, blood trickling down your chest. You don’t remember much aside from the pain and the dizziness that followed. Hal had run to your side, had scooped you up into his arms. You passed out some point after that, but the look on Hal’s face is burned into your mind.

You open your eyes to the dim light of the infirmary, the scent of sanitizer and copper burning your nose. You’ve been in here enough to recognize the patterns on the roof immediately, the familiar burn mark that had come from Clark years ago.

An IV is in your non-wounded side, your injured shoulder now bandaged and cleaned and resting against the pillows. You stir, shimmying your way up the cot until you’re in a half-sitting position.

Hal’s head snaps up. “You’re awake.” His eyes are bloodshot, hair messy and sweaty. His costume is gone, replaced with the same civvies he always wears—white t-shirt, blue jeans, work boots. 

“What—” You clear your throat, your voice dry from lack of use. “What time is it?” “Late, really late.” He rises to his feet, stepping closer to your bed to get a closer look at you. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

The air thickens with weeks worth of tension. Hal rubs his thumb against his palm, blinking slowly, trying to will the words to come to mind. But not even his ring can give him the right words to say, not right now.

He takes a deep breath. “Is this how you felt? That night, I mean.” Bile rises in your throat, the monitor connected to your index finger beeping with the rise in your heartrate. Hal glances at the monitor, clocking the sudden change.

“No,” your voice breaks, emotion seeping through the cracks. “No, I actually loved you.”

Loved. Hal’s ears ring with the word, and though he’s been told—by himself and others—in a million different ways how badly he fucked up, how much he sucks, hearing it from you hurts the worst.

You cut off his thoughts. “Where’s Barry?”

“He had to step out, but I’m here—“ “I didn’t ask for you.”

And maybe it’s the hint of emotion in your words, or the way every second spent this close to you without touching you sends his stomach spiraling, but Hal can’t help himself. The words slip out like they’ve longed to for so long, the things he wouldn’t let himself feel rising to the surface.

“And you think I did?” He tugs on his hair, “fuck, do you think I wanted this? All of this?”

Your eyes widen, you sit up fully in your bed. “Nobody is forcing you to be here, Hal. You can leave if you hate me so much.”

“I can’t!”

You blink, shocked at the sudden outburst. You’re used to Hal’s yelling, to the constant arguments. But this, this bleeding of emotions, wearing his heart on his sleeve, it’s new to you. Uncharted.

“Can’t you see that? I can’t! You’re—you’re fucking haunting me.”

“Haunting you?”

His shoulders slump, forearms braced on the side of the bed. He dips his forehead between them. “Yes, haunting me.” “I’ve barely been near you, how am I—how could I possibly..?”

“I left,” he says plainly, “to get away from you. I thought—I thought if I could just get off the planet for a little while, maybe I could figure out a way to make things right.” You tilt your head in confusion, that earlier fight fading with every word he says.

“But I fucked up, I got caught in a wormhole and it–it sent me to another world. A lot of other worlds.” And suddenly things start to make sense, the puzzle pieces that had been in front of you this entire time lining themselves up. That haunted look, the cryptic sayings, the sudden forgetfulness.

“I left to get away from you but in every world, in every last one of them—” He wipes a few tears miserably on the back of his hand. You’ve never seen him like this, all miserable and broken, falling apart in front of you.

“It was you, it was all you. It—“ His voice cracks, “in every goddamn universe, I was with you. Always you.”

“Hal…” “I watched us get married. I saw you up on that altar, marrying me and I just—I had to wonder.” He looks at his palms like they’re stained with something ugly, “what is so wrong with this version of me that I couldn’t seal the deal? That I’m the one Hal Jordan in the multiverse that doesn’t get to be with you?” He’s fully in tears now, keeping his head down so that you can’t see the way they burn trails into his cheeks. His hands shake slightly, muscles in his back pulled tight in his frustration.

“The wedding,” you say finally. “I thought—I thought you were just drunk. You mean to tell me this whole time…?” Your own nose stings with the threat of tears. All of this time, all of this heartbreak. You’d assumed he’d left to give you space, to go on some bender. Never did you ever consider he was doing it for himself, that this was as painful for him as it was for you.

“I had the chance and I fucked it up.” His eyes finally meet yours, “and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that you got stuck with the one me in the universe that fucks everything up.”

Instincts take over, your body on autopilot as you reach for his hand. He twitches at the contact but then his palm is swallowing yours whole, latching on to anything he can get from you right now.

“I wanted to fix it. When I came back, I came to fix it.” He squeezes your hand, “But you seemed so happy without me and I-I don’t want to take that way from you.”

Not without you, never without you. The words fill your mind but not your tongue, you’re left entirely speechless by his sudden confession, wondering how many different versions of you he must have seen in the months he was gone.

“How many?” You ask.

“What?” “How many worlds?” You keep your tone even despite the lump in your throat, “how many versions of us?”

“Hundreds,” he confesses. “If not thousands.”

You suck in a breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling heavy.

“I’ve seen a thousand versions of you and this one—this one is my favorite.”

You break. Everything you’ve locked up and hidden away, everything you pushed through in an attempt to try and forget him, everything floods you. The dam is broken, the tears finally come and in your haze, you find yourself reaching for the fabric of Hal’s shirt.

Hal lets you manhandle him closer, your teary face stuffed into his chest. His arms go around you automatically, fitting against your body the way they’re meant to, the way they always have.

His scent helps calm you a little, his body heat and strong arms pulling you back even when your tether is broken. You sob against him for a while, breathing shakily until you finally come back to yourself.

“Hal,” you start.

“I love you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

“I-I know I fucked up, I know I didn’t say it before but fuck, sweetheart, I love you. I love you so much.”

He stares at you hopefully, expectantly. His heart is in his hands, presented to you on a silver platter, yours for the taking.

“Please say somet—” You cut him off by smashing your lips against his, using the collar of his shirt for leverage. Hal’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into you, giving himself to you in a way he hasn’t been able to before. You feel the difference now. The sudden devotion, like you’re the altar he’s come to worship.

“I love you too.” Hal sighs in relief, taut muscles finally relaxing. “Does this mean we can finally get that drink now?”

“Only if you tell me about these other me’s,” you tease. “Surely there’s one that’s a Green Lantern, right?”

“God, if only you knew the half of it.”

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It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.