“It was only ever yours to break anyway.”

His laugh is muffled when you grind yourself helplessly against his face. Your thighs are trembling from the position he’s put them in, and the couture dress you’d picked out for the occasion is now rucked up to your hips, one strap sliding indecently off your shoulder. You find yourself wondering through the daze about where your panties have gone. They’d been thrown somewhere over his shoulder, after Phainon had all but ripped them off you. 

Maybe onto one of the front seats, hopefully not onto the dash. You don’t know. You can barely think, especially not when his nose nudges against your clit again. A tremor ripples through the entire length of your body.

All you know is this: you are definitely late, car sex is more uncomfortable than the media portrays it to be, car sex is less uncomfortable with Phainon and you weren’t even supposed to be having sex in the first place—

“I can see your mind wandering.” Phainon presses a messy, open mouthed kiss against your dripping sex and glances up to drink in the way you squirm in his hold. He looks like the object of every debauched fantasy you’ve ever had, ivory hair mussed from your desperate tugging and lips shiny with your slick. “I must be doing something wrong, if you can still think of anything other than me.”

Before you can argue, he’s already lowered his head again — and then every thought of dissuading him flees along with your ability to speak. The sounds are obscene in the confined space of your car: the wet noises of him slurping at your cunt like a starving animal, the appreciative groan when your thighs clamp around his head. Your face burns with a heady mix of pleasure and shame as you writhe against the seat, hips pinned firmly in place by his large hands.

“Please.” The word is ripped from you before you even know what you’re saying. You can feel him smile against you, know the wicked shape of it like it’s branded into your flesh. “Please— ah!”

“Please what?” Phainon hums and your fingers fly up to tangle themselves in his hair. You need something to anchor yourself — you are a raft set adrift at sea, tossed about by the waves in an ocean of pleasure. “You need to use your words, sweetheart. How else will I know what you want?”

You can’t. You’re beyond words, reduced to a moaning, whimpering mess beneath his mouth. Fortunately, Phainon is kind enough to take your incoherence as an answer. Or maybe he’s just getting impatient.

His hands, which had been holding your legs up just a second ago, now slide down to spread your thighs even wider. Two thick fingers press insistently at your entrance. But he doesn’t push in, just teases even as you choke back a sob and try to rock your empty cunt down on them, too far gone to be concerned with things like restraint or shame.

“You’re so wet,” Phainon breathes. He sounds almost fascinated. You know you are, can hear the wet noises his fingers make as they slide through the mess you’ve made between your legs. Part of you imagines that some of it must have trickled down to the leather seat beneath you, and the thought makes your walls clench pathetically around nothing. He laughs, voice rough. “Always so good for me.”

His tongue flicks over your clit, fast and precise, and your entire body nearly bows off the seat with a gasp of his name. “Phainon!”

That’s all the invitation he needs. His fingers sink into you with no resistance, curling and stretching in a way that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. They find that spot in your with practised ease, and you barely hear the broken sob that escapes you. The world narrows to nothing but this: his talented mouth on your cunt, those long, elegant fingers crooking inside of you, and when he sucks at your clit again, everything falls apart.

Your back arches sharply and you let out a cry as you come all over the seats of your new car. Phainon’s scalp must be stinging from the vice grip you have on his hair, but he keeps going, seemingly determined to lap up every last drop of your release. He only pulls away reluctantly when you start whimpering from the overstimulation, pushing his head away from your twitching cunt with a weak hand.

When Phainon looks up at you again, his lips and chin are glistening. That, along with the satisfaction in those bright blue eyes, is almost enough to make a fresh wave of slick leak from between your legs. Almost.

You let your head fall back against the headrest, panting and trembling in the aftermath. You feel utterly ruined. There’s no way the two of you can show up at that upscale restaurant now, not with your dress rumpled so incriminatingly and that freshly fucked flush on your cheeks. You barely manage to remember that you’re supposed to be disappointed.

When you do, though, you reach out to swat at his shoulder. Phainon doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to wince. 

“I wanted to take you somewhere nice for your birthday,” you lament. You try to sound huffy, but it comes out more petulant than you’d like. Somewhere more romantic goes unsaid. So does without the sex, but that seems pointless now.

(I wanted to show you. That you mean so much more to me than just sex.)

But Phainon does not see your internal turmoil as you close your eyes, trying to catch your breath. Instead, his lips just curl into a soft, almost affectionate smile between your legs.

“I think I’m enjoying my birthday just fine,” he says. You feel him press a chaste kiss to the ankle you have hooked over his shoulder, the crook of your knee, your inner thigh and then your eyes fly open again. His own are dark and hungry as they rake over your half-naked form, completely spent and splayed helplessly across the backseat. Despite everything, you feel a shiver run through you.

His gaze falls on your lips next. They’re painted red, perfect and untouched, and you think you catch something resembling displeasure flicker there. It almost makes you wonder whether he’s going to bring his lips to yours, let you taste yourself on his tongue and smear your lipstick across your mouth. But he won’t.

It’s his rule — no kissing on the lips, not even for my favourite client, he’d reminded you, the last time you’d sought them out after he’d taken you hard and rough over the couch in your apartment. But I can make up for it in other ways. How about a kiss here? Or down… here?

It’s the same, today. Phainon leans down to place an unbearably soft kiss on your throbbing clit instead, then one on each trembling inner thigh. His smile is downright wicked when he adds, “Besides, I have something much sweeter in front of me, don’t I?”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. The second they do, though, you immediately start to withdraw your legs, something almost akin to panic flaring in your chest. “No. No. Phainon, I’ve already come three times. I can’t—”

He pouts, rubbing his cheek against the inside of your thigh. The sight is no less devastating, despite the number of times you’ve seen it. “But it's my birthday.”

You throw an arm over your face. A pang of guilt lances through you, sharp despite the haze of pleasure — you’d stolen him for yourself today, taking him away from the friends and family that he must have wanted to celebrate with. All because you’d been selfish, because you’d wanted to be the sole architect of his happiness. Helpless, you let your legs fall open again, and Phainon's eyes somehow simultaneously brighten and darken at the same time. 

“You’re so good to me,” he whispers, right before he buries his tongue in you with hunger too voracious to be a lie. 

And for now, you close your eyes and let yourself believe it.

Nearly every bad decision you’ve made in the past two years ties back to Phainon one way or another. The first one starts like this:

After being CEO for over a year, you think you’ve become a tad too acquainted with the high cost escapes afforded by your equally high paying stresses. The low hum of the exclusive wine bar is usually your most efficient reprieve, but today, it does little to quiet the anxious dread pooling in your stomach. You sit at the bar for what feels like hours, swirling the merlot in your glass without drinking. Instead, you just stare into its depths, as though answers might materialise there.

“I don’t think I can face them alone again,” you confess. Hysilens watches you with pale eyes that somehow manage to be piercing, amused and sympathetic at the same time, her ink dark hair spilling over one shoulder like a curtain. She’s changed out of her performance outfit into a backless halter, plum silk and lace in a shade so deep it appears black. “Another New Year’s dinner. Another round of ‘So, when are you settling down?’ and ‘Your cousin’s third child just started Harvard, you know’. I think I might actually scream. Or throw a glass at somebody’s face.”

Hysilens’s laugh is a musical cantabile that ends on a staccato. The two of you grew close precisely because of your mirrored upbringings: born with silver spoons shoved down your throats, raised in businesses instead of families. But while Hysilens had been bold enough to openly defy her parents’ career aspirations, you’d quietly distanced yourself by moving to Okhema after university and burying yourself in work — until you could claim you only had time to see them once a year.

Unfortunately, that once a year is drawing near.

“I’d pay to see a performance like that,” she muses, taking an elegant sip of her Pinot Noir. The pearls in her ears glimmer in the ambient light. “The shattered glass, an outraged aunt, your mother trying to smooth it all over with the decorum of an international diplomat — the synopsis already sounds more riveting than any of those operas I’ve had to attend.”

You groan, dragging one hand down your face and waving away a concerned waiter with the other. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Why not?” Hysilens says, utterly unbothered. You pause, eyeing her over the rim of your glass. She’s so beautiful, bold — everything you are not. Her voice cuts back in, cool and matter-of-fact. “But if you’re so concerned, then don’t go alone.”

You wish you could. Your mother has been growing more insistent lately, asking when you are going to meet someone, when you are going to settle down. She’s been dropping names with the subtlety of an elephant crashing through a china shop, sons of other families that she’s deemed suitably successful or pedigreed — men that you’ve done your best to sidestep. You have little desire to see any of them, and haven’t had the time or energy to pretend otherwise.

And you know what they say about you behind closed doors, anyway. Too difficult, too demanding, too uptight for a good time. Their words used to make you cry yourself to sleep in your bed, wondering whether you’d ever find someone to spend the rest of your life with. If there was just something… innately deficient, that made you unfit for such a relationship. 

Now, they only ache slightly, like old bruises that hurt when pressed too hard.

You brush it off with your best attempt at humour. “Oh yes. I’ll just conjure up a perfect, successful, family-approved boyfriend out of thin air. Why didn’t I think of that?” She laughs at your acerbic tone.

“No magic required.” Hysilens leans in, lowering her voice to a honeyed lilt. There’s a conspiratorial look in her eye. “You rent one.”

It takes a moment for you to process her words, and another to decide whether she’s joking or not. She can’t seriously be suggesting… “You mean an escort,” you say, more blandly than you feel.

“Not like that,” Hysilens says, waving a dismissive hand before she pauses. “Well, yes, like that, but… classier. It’s all very discrete, very high end. Plus ones for galas, stuffy family events, maybe even a little fun, if that’s what you’re looking for…” she bites back a laugh when she sees the look on your face, “... the works. You’re essentially hiring someone to perform with you. Someone charming, presentable, who knows how to play the part. A business transaction.”

Your gaze drops to the glass in your hand. Hiring someone to play pretend with you in front of your entire family… the idea is absurd at best, outrageous at worst. It’d never work. It feels like something that you’d read about in a tabloid, or one of those ridiculous socialite dramas — you can already imagine the scandalised whispers if anyone were to find out. And yet… yet. 

The thought lingers, insistent and all too tempting: someone to shield you from the prying questions of your overbeating relatives, to absorb the polite barbs and the nosy stares. One peaceful weekend. Just a small investment in your sanity.

You must be crazy for even considering this. “... professional?” 

Hysilens nods, moving to rest her chin on her palm. There’s a knowing smile on her face, and it’s a little rankling, as if she already knows what decision you’re going to make. “Mmhmm. No strings attached.” You exhale a slow sigh and let your shoulders slump, before you take a generous sip of your wine. 

“What’s the website?” you hear yourself ask.

A week later, against all of your better judgment, you find yourself sitting across one of these so-called escorts in some minimalist cafe. He’d been the one to suggest it, after the website had linked his profile with the requirements you’d listed, and the whole place is surprisingly… normal. You might have even considered it pleasant, if not for the nest of angry hornets you feel buzzing low in your stomach.

He arrives before you do and waves you over from a quiet, unobtrusive corner of the cafe, wearing a smile that could disarm a bomb in five seconds flat. Reluctant but unwilling to show it, you force down the urge to flee and instead square your shoulders, carefully picking your way between the round tables, the chattering patrons. You can feel his eyes on you as you slide into the seat opposite him. 

The profile picture on the website didn’t do him any justice, but you understand — he has one of those faces that even a professional camera wouldn’t be able to fully capture, anyway. In person, he’s effortlessly handsome almost to the point of offense, ivory hair tousled just enough to look natural and dressed in a simple black sweater that clings to his lean frame. The navy coat slung over the back of his chair brings out the vivid blue of his eyes.

So, this is Phainon.

He inclines his head to watch you shift in your seat, settling your clutch in your lap and curling your fingers around it. There’s no trace of the same anxiety thrumming under your own skin on his face — something that you can’t help feeling is a little unfair.

“Is this your first time?”

Phainon’s voice is light and pleasantly smooth. Not as deep as you’d expected, but… it suits him, actually. The question, on the other hand, is so blunt that it steals the professional greeting you’d prepared. “Is it that obvious?” you ask, wondering if it’d been plain enough to point out.

One corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. It’s not sharp enough to be mocking, more… perceptively amused. You find yourself taking note of that. “You’re carrying a particular tension. Like you’re expecting a trapdoor to open beneath you any moment.” Phainon gestures at you loosely with one hand, the curve of his lips gentling into something more reassuring. “There’s no reason for that. I won’t bite,” his eyes flash with amusement, “unless you pay me too, of course.”

You cough and reach for the iced tea you’d ordered, taking a measured sip to regain your composure. The condensation on the glass is blessedly cool against your skin. “No biting will be necessary,” you mutter, and when Phainon raises one eyebrow, continue quickly. “I just… well. I just need some help getting my family off my back.”

He laughs. It sounds surprisingly genuine. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, then. What’s the setting?”

“A New Year’s dinner with my family next weekend.” You resist the urge to let out another sigh, settle for tapping your nails against your clutch instead. It’s rather last minute, but this whole thing has been a last ditch attempt at preserving your sanity anyway, so. “Your mission is to be so charming and so believably in love that my relatives have no reason to ask about my personal life.”

You try to say it as brusquely as possible, to subvert how ridiculous it sounds out loud, but Phainon only nods. There’s a thoughtful look on his face, a stray wisp of white hair falling into his eyes that he brushes back mindlessly. “And who do you need me to be?”

It honestly catches you a little off guard. You don’t think that you were prepared for things to reach this far. You feel like you might’ve wandered too far into the fog, aimlessly groping about in the dark. “You’ll need to be someone with a… solid background,” you say slowly, studying his profile with careful contemplation. “Preferably from a family that’s respectable, but not too prominent. It’ll be troublesome if they start digging…” Phainon just lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. 

“They’re partial to their privacy, what can I say? And I’m a filial son.”

It takes you a second to realise that he’s playing along with you, following your lead. “Right.” You snap your fingers, leaning forward. “You have to be someone who’s very polite — my mother is very traditional, gets annoyed at people who act like they don’t have manners. You’ll need to be familiar with fine art, too. And you…” you trail off, only now properly noticing the youthfulness in his face, the sharp clarity in those blue eyes. “... you’re younger than I expected.”

Probably younger than you too, if you’re guessing right. The observation slips out of you, unvarnished. You half-expect Phainon to be offended, to retreat into the more rigid professionalism your new employees do when confronted with doubt. But he doesn’t.

Instead, his smile just deepens. “Is that a problem?”

For some reason, that response gives you more confidence than if he’d tried to bluster or compensate. “No. Just… Renaissance art?” You gesture vaguely with your hands, unsure. “Not exactly a trending topic among the kids these days.”

Phainon lets out another of those laughs, an easy, unhurried sound that you find yourself leaning towards. “I can talk for hours about the Sistine Chapel’s restoration controversies or the cultural impact of the Birth of Venus. University does wonders for teaching you how to expand your word count without saying anything of value.”

As much as he plays it off, the ease with which he was able to pull those from the top of his head is astounding. Most people wouldn’t even be able to pinpoint works specifically within that time period, let alone have awareness of their modern day concerns. “You’re good,” you concede, letting a hint of genuine admiration leak into your voice. And a university student, too, you realise, a little belatedly. He shrugs, leans forward to rest his forearms on the table. The smile on his face draws you in without your realising.

“I’m worth my price,” he says, nonchalant. It doesn’t sound like a boast — just the statement of a fact. Then, his eyes glint with a darker, more serious light. “Ah, but before we get further, I do have one rule, though.”

You’re taken by surprise at this sudden shift, but nod anyway, letting your own professional demeanour rise up to meet his. “Go on.”

Phainon smiles, raises a hand to tap at the corner of his mouth. “No kissing on the lips,” he says. The words are clear and final, almost absolute. “Everything else is negotiable. Public affection, hand holding, a proprietary arm around your waist — whatever helps sell the story. But that’s a firm boundary for me.”

The stipulation is so specific and so starkly defined that it actually puts you at ease. It’s comforting to know that there will be no blurred lines or emotional ambiguity — this is a contract, one that comes with its own terms and conditions. You don’t know why Phainon is so particular about this one, but then again, everyone has their own proclivities. It’s a boundary that you’ll have no trouble staying within.

“Perfectly fine by me,” you say, and find that you mean it entirely. This is business, and therefore familiar. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Excellent.” And just like that, the serious edge is gone, replaced once more by a warm, conspiratorial smile. “Then, we have a deal.”

The New Year’s evening at your family’s estate in Styxia is, by every objective, a resounding success. 

The dinner had concluded itself as a stressful evening instead of an emotional war zone — a first in living memory. A large part of it had been due to Phainon, who turned out to be worth every last cent he’d claimed to be. He’d arrived precisely on time to meet you at the airport, bearing a gift for your mother that you hadn’t asked him to prepare. A rare first edition from the Grove poet, Calypso. You barely remember mentioning it during the hurried briefings you’d done over the phone, and his thoughtfulness had caught you by surprise.

She’d liked the gift, of course. And the moment Phainon had clasped your father’s hand, eye contact just confident enough without crossing into arrogance, you knew they’d be eating out of his hand before the night was through.

And you were right. By the time you’d left the estate after a ten course banquet and enough reiterations of it’s getting late, we really should go to be polite, your mother was already urging him to visit again soon — officially as her son in law — while one of your maternal cousins glared daggers from the mezzanine with undisguised envy.

The crisp evening air feels like a liberation of sorts when the two of you finally escape into the front yard. The second you round the towering laurel hedges that encircle the main building, all tension drains from your shoulders with a nearly audible sigh. It’s blessedly silent out here aside from the quiet chirp of the crickets, a welcome contrast to the constant hum of conversation inside.

Phainon breaks it first. “How did I do?”

You glance at him as you walk. He’s always been handsome — you’ve known that from the moment you first sat across him in that cafe — but tonight he’s nothing short of devastating, all sharp lines and silk under a navy suit and his hair slicked back with a calculated precision. And he’s looking down at you with that same secretive half-smile he’s worn all evening, as though the two of you are in the midst of sharing a private joke (which, you suppose you are).

You can still feel the lingering heat of his hand, large and steady on your shoulder as he’d leaned in to speak to your grandfather about raising arowana fish. A traitorous part of you wishes he’d do it again.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders instead. From the look on his face, Phainon already knows your answer but wants to hear it from your mouth. “You were amazing,” you admit, as the two of you walk across the manicured grass of the lawn. He’s more than earned it with his performance tonight. “Honestly, you could double your rate and I’d still pay it.”

It sounds like an exaggeration, but you mean every word. Phainon hadn’t just performed well — he’d navigated the minefield that was your dining table almost entirely without your help, and spent the whole of dessert discussing the intricacies of Baroque fresco restoration with your father. Each exchange had been so smooth, so measured, so perfectly handled — that you’d found yourself sitting back and watching him most of the time, nearly mesmerised.

And the way he’d played up the act of your lover — the slow gazes from across the room, the private touches on your shoulder, the polite yet possessive arm at your waist — why, you’d almost been fooled yourself.

His smile widens a fraction when the two of you stop next to your car. “That much?”

You let out a graceless snort, fishing the keys from your clutch and gesturing for him to hold out his hand. His eyes widen in genuine surprise when you drop them into his palm. You’ve had one too many glasses of that Bordeaux anyway, and from the way Phainon had been eyeing the car — a sleek, luxury sports model that you’d rented on a whim — you can guess that he’s itching to have a go behind the wheel.

It’s probably not the smartest idea to trust a man you’ve known for barely a week with something so costly. But tonight, slightly tipsy on the wine and the success of your night, you find yourself in a rare mood to be impulsive. “I owe you much more than your rate. I think my big aunt was just one sentence away from asking you about your sperm count.”

A laugh escapes Phainon at that — bright and almost unfiltered. It’s nothing like the polished laughter he’d used throughout dinner, and perhaps it’s the remnants of his performance still rubbing off on you, but you can’t help thinking that you want to hear that sound again.

“I know a fact or two about the declining rates of male fertility,” he confesses, a wicked gleam in those sharp blue eyes. “She would have regretted it.” The car door unlocks with a familiar chirp and he opens your door with a fluid gesture. “Come on. You look like you could do with a drink that doesn’t come with a side of familial interrogation.”

You pause with one hand on the roof of the car and raise an eyebrow at that. Now, that’s… “That’s not in the contract, though?”

He smiles as he rounds the hood to the driver’s side. “Our flight back to Okhema isn’t until tomorrow afternoon,” he reminds you as he slips into the seat. It shifts back to accommodate his long legs, and your gaze lingers a moment too long on the way the dark fabric of his trousers pulls taut over strong thighs. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. “I take the satisfaction of my clients very seriously. Beginning to end — it’s all part of the experience.” His fingers brush across the wheel with casual confidence, his smile sharpening. “So. Shall we?”

You’ll blame the wine for this later, the buzzing warmth in your veins muting your usual confidence. But right now, you find yourself agreeing with a nod.

It takes you a belated second to realise that you hadn’t asked if Phainon can drive manual, but then his foot is on the pedal and you learn that he does, and fast. To your surprise, he doesn’t take you back to the hotel bar, or any of the rooftop beer joints that you sometimes drop by when you’re in the area. Instead, he navigates your car with an easy familiarity through the streets of the city center until it’s turning down an unmarked alley that you’ve never noticed before. 

He pulls to a stop in front of an unassuming door, nestled between a shuttered bookstore and an antique shop with a yellowed window that looks older than the items on display. A single lamp above the door casts a weak pool of light over the spot as you step out of the car.

“Best place for a real drink around these parts,” Phainon says, his smile widening when you shoot him a questioning look. “Trust me.”

He leads you to the door, and you’re about to ask if he’s sure they’re open when he pushes down on a nailhead, embedded in the wooden frame. A second passes, and then there’s the sound of a bolt being turned, hinges squeaking, and the door swings inwards.

You’re immediately enveloped by the soulful croon of a saxophone from somewhere down the hall, the intimate warmth of the low lighting. The air is suffused with the scent of old wood and quality whiskey — a far cry from the expensive, subtle fragrances used to perfume your family’s estate — but you find that you don’t quite mind the difference. Phainon’s smile is crooked as he gestures for you to step inside, and you follow after him, trepidation curling low in your chest.

The space is small but beautifully appointed. Wine dark banquettes line the walls, and the handful of other patrons converse among themselves in hushed, comfortable tones. From a corner stage, the jazz quartet plays something mellow and whimsical, as if it knows that the night is only just beginning. Your gaze lingers on the piano as you pass. You’ll have to remember to recommend this place to Hysilens, the next time she has a performance in the area.

Phainon guides you to a secluded booth in the back, his hand grazing over the small of your back. He slides in across you with easy familiarity, sharp features softened by the amber glow of the lamp.

You take a moment to drink in your surroundings. “What’s this place?” you ask, running one hand over the plush velvet seats. Soft.

The corners of Phainon’s lips lift. “A place to reminisce or forget, depending on your mood.” His eyes drift across the room and he sinks back into the seat, visibly at ease here. “But the music’s always live, the ambiance always perfect,” he shrugs, “and they’re always generous when it comes to their drinks.”

A server appears by your table. Phainon doesn’t even glance at the menu — not that you see one in the vicinity, anyway. “Just a mocktail. Something bitter and interesting, if you please. As for the lady, a…” he pauses, giving you the space to name your poison.

You’re caught just a little off guard. “You’re not drinking?” you ask. After all the trouble he’d gone to, bringing you all the way here…

He slips something from his back pocket, and the car keys you’d passed him earlier dangle between his long fingers, silver catching the lamplight. “I’m in charge of getting you back to the hotel safely tonight,” he says. That professional smile is still on his face, but it feels slower, deliberate in a way that makes your pulse hitch. “And remember,” he adds, voice smooth and teasing, “I take my client’s satisfaction very seriously.”

You hide your flush behind a cough. Right. You suppose he’s taken it upon himself to play the part of your designated driver — or maybe even your chaperone, if you want to be cheeky about it. Either way, there’s less reason to be so restrained and more to enjoy yourself tonight, and so you order your usual: the best whiskey they have, neat.

The server disappears and returns just as quickly. He slides your whiskey over to you, and sets down some herbal concoction the colour of midnight in a tall, elegant glass for Phainon. You find your eyes lingering for a second too long on his long fingers when they curl around the stem, the movement of his throat as he swallows, and chalk it up to being a long night.

You’re a professional, you scold yourself. But that traitorous little part of you answers, so is he.

You turn your attention back to your own cup before your mind can wander too far into dangerous territory. The first few sips leave a pleasant burn in your throat — sharp and smoky with an edge that bites before it mellows. It’s good. 

When you set it down, Phainon strikes up a conversation. It’s a passing remark about the music at first, something casual, idle. But then he picks up on the fact that you know enough to point out the different chord inversions by ear, and before you know it, you’re spilling more than you intended: the way your parents had made you pick up classical piano as a child, and how you’d enjoyed it before the mindnumbing practice you’d been forced into had killed your love for it entirely. Much like most of your other childhood hobbies, you think.

“Do you still play?” Phainon asks, when you pause to allow the server to refill your glass. The question makes you hesitate. You suddenly realise that this is too deep, too fast — something that not even Hysilens has been made privy to. But it’s because she’s such an acclaimed musician, you try to justify to yourself. And the alcohol, of course.

(It's definitely the alcohol. That, and the way he seems to listen like your words actually hold weight, not just monetary value.)

  “Here and there,” you answer slowly. You have a grand piano in your apartment, because… well, simply because you could. “I’m not very good at it anymore, though,” you add, quickly. The words tumble out of you like a disclaimer. For some reason, you feel compelled to clarify that.

But Phainon just smiles. “Sometimes hobbies are allowed to just be hobbies,” he says, gentle in a way that makes the defensiveness in your chest ease a little. “I’d like to hear you play, one day.” It’s probably just a polite curiosity, but a flicker of warmth brushes through you at the suggestion, regardless. He doesn’t press, though, and the conversation moves on to something else.

You are not a fan of small talk. Primarily because you’re bad at it, and secondly because you find it unnecessary, most of the time. But here, the words seem to flow more easily, and now you find yourself wishing that you were better at it so that you could ask more about him without being intrusive. It’s easy to slip into the fantasy, to forget that the man opposite you is a professional whose job is to show clients a good time, and instead imagine that you’re just two people caught in a spark of genuine chemistry — where you are not too stoic, too cold or too rigid to hold a somewhat enjoyable conversation.

The music has shifted to a slower, more contemplative number by the time you’re starting on your third glass. There’s a low, pleasant hum sitting under your skin, and you find yourself leaning forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. “So,” your words slip out more easily than expected, “do you do this often?” 

He raises an eyebrow, so you elaborate. “I mean… bringing your clients to hidden speakeasies and plying them with drinks until they’ve forgotten how much they’re paying for your company?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since you’d stepped through the door, but you hadn’t actually meant to ask. The whiskey is making you more loose tongued than you’d planned, and you’re about to retract your question when Phainon simply laughs.

A smile flits across the corner of his mouth, and the lamplight catches the amusement in his eyes. “Only the pretty ones,” Phainon says, his voice dipping to match the intimate tone of the booth. It’s delivered with a practiced ease, but something entirely unprofessional shifts in your stomach — you blame the alcohol for that. “But yes, sometimes. There are some who pay for the pleasure of my company.” He shrugs, lifts his drink to his lips. “I like to make sure that they get their money’s worth.”

Your breath catches. This is just to satisfy your curiosity, nothing else… “And,” you say slowly, tapping a finger on the rim of your glass to feign at nonchalance, “how much do those clients pay for the… extended pleasure of your company?”

Phainon raises a knowing eyebrow but names a figure. Your jaw drops before you manage to wrestle your composure back into place.

“Good god,” you breathe out. “This isn’t some front for money laundering, is it?”

He throws his head back and laughs, the motion revealing the strong, elegant line of his throat. The sound washes over you, mulled and rich, much like the whiskey sitting warm in your stomach. It ignites something behind your sternum like a live wire. 

“It’s not,” Phainon says, a distinctly teasing undertone in his words. You drop your eyes to your glass again, hoping that the booth is dark enough to conceal the flush creeping up your neck. “But I assure you, my skills match my price.”

There’s a very confident glint in his eyes that makes your mouth go bone dry. It takes everything in you to refrain from asking what skills, and instead you find yourself scrambling for an alternative. “I find that hard to believe,” you manage as you lift your whiskey to your lips instead. The liquid does little to wet your parched throat, and when he cocks his head, you add, “unless your…” you gesture vaguely at his lap with your glass, “... is made of gold or something…” 

Dear lord, what are you saying?

Another laugh escapes him, but it doesn’t sound offended. This one is different, like spiced honey melting in your ears. There’s a palpable heat curling in the air between you now, thick and sweet, and he watches you over the rim of the glass you’re all but hiding behind. The intensity directed at you is something that feels wholly unfamiliar.

Subconsciously, your thighs press together beneath the table. Oh. Is that…

He’s a professional, you remind yourself desperately, almost like it’s a meditative chant. He’s a professional, you’re a professional, and you’d never intended to extend his services beyond that point…

But Phainon leans forward to close the small distance between the two of you, movement slow and deliberate. You can feel the solid warmth of his knee bump against yours beneath the table, and even that simple point of contact feels like it’s set your skin alight. You swallow hard and glance up. His eyes are dark with a promise that you can’t quite name, but every inch of your body wants him to keep.

Professional, professional—

“Would you like to find out?”

Fuck.

You aren’t sure what your reply to his question was or if you even responded at all, but the next thing you know is that you’re stumbling through the door of your hotel room, a strange mixture of nervousness and arousal buzzing under your skin like static. The drive back had been a blur of his hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow circles through the silk of your dress, and the heated promises murmured into your ears.

But now, in the hushed silence of your suite, you feel your alcohol-induced bravado begin to unravel when the door clicks shut behind Phainon.

He doesn’t speak just yet, simply shrugs the suit jacket from his shoulders and lets it drop soundlessly over the back of a nearby armchair. The loss of the formal layer leaves him in a dark silk shirt, with just enough buttons undone at the collar to hint at a sliver of creamy skin. It’s startlingly intimate. You turn away to stare at where the wall joins the television console like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. You’ve never felt so out of your depth before.

You can hear him moving behind you. It takes two strides — you counted — for him to close the distance between you, and then his hands are on your hips, turning you to come face to face with his chest. His touch isn’t gentle or even professional. It doesn’t ask for permission — simply claims it, and that just makes an embarrassing amount of heat pool between your legs.

Phainon’s eyes, normally a bright blue, are dark and intent as they scan your face in the low light. “Nervous?” he asks, voice a low hum. His hands slip behind your back, pulling you closer until you can feel the heat radiating off him, catch the intoxicating scent of his cologne on his skin — a sophisticated blend of smoked amber and crisp bergamot layered over something uniquely him. It’s dizzying.

“It’s the first time I’ve… done something like this,” you admit, the words coming out barely above a mumble. Hired someone for intimacy. Been this vulnerable with a stranger.

A slow, knowing smile touches his lips. He leans in until you’re practically backed up against the console, his breath warm against your cheek. “It’s alright to be nervous,” Phainon murmurs, and a shiver runs through you. “But I don’t hear you saying you don’t want it.”

His words feel almost like a challenge, daring you to deny the way your body is responding to his. They strip away the last scraps of your hesitation until only this raw, aching want remains. It’s the pinnacle of bad decisions, you know, but you’re already on a roll with them anyway. The admission escapes you on a shaky exhale.

“I do want it,” you whisper.

Phainon’s expression immediately drops into something more heated, more sultry, and you feel the hand on your back slide up your spine with deliberate slowness, until his fingers find the pull of your zipper. You stiffen at the sound of it easing down, but he distracts you with a kiss to your cheek, then another along the line of your jaw. A quiet breath escapes you, head tipping back on instinct, and Phainon takes the opportunity to scrape his teeth lightly across the hollow of your throat.

You shiver. Your hands lift subconsciously between the two of you, hovering and unsure where to land.

“You can touch me, you know,” Phainon murmurs against your fluttering pulse. You can feel each word against your skin, an intimate caress all on its own. “I’m all yours tonight.”

The words ignite something deep within you that you hadn’t even known existed. The thought of this devastatingly handsome, impeccably confident man belonging to you — even if only for one night — is enough to make you go weak at the knees. You fist your hands in the silk of his shirt, pristine fabric twisting between your fingers, and he hums approvingly. The sound goes straight to your core. “Just like that.”

Phainon returns his attention to your neck. His mouth is hot and swearing against you, tracing a path of wet, open mouthed kisses that leaves your skin tinging and your thoughts scattering. When he moves on to your shoulder, you feel him pause at the delicate strap of your dress. Before you can say anything, do anything, his fingers are already there, cleverly hooking into them and dragging them off your shoulders.

The cool air of the room hits your newly exposed skin. Your hands fly up to clutch at your dress, before you can expose yourself so fully.

A wave of self-consciousness crashes over you, like ice water. The contrast is too stark. He looks like something conjured from a dream, all sharp lines and effortless grace, and you are just… you. But Phainon looks, really looks at you with those dark, hooded eyes, as though you could genuinely be an object of desire, and you feel the grip doubt has on you beginning to slip.

“Come on.” Phainon’s voice is rough at the edges as he takes the shell of your ear between his teeth. A little gasp escapes you when he nips, and you nearly stumble, leaning against the console for support. The feeling of his hot breath ghosting across the sensitive rim has you shivering for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. “Don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The word is drawn out like a slow drag of smoke, decadent and dangerous, and it does something terrible to you. Slowly, reluctantly, you let your arms fall to the sides. Your dress slips down in a crumpled mess at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your soaked panties before him.

“So fucking beautiful.” The low, appreciative groan he lets out nearly undoes you on the spot with the sheer want in it. Phainon’s thumb drags over one peaked nipple, a teasing flick that has your breath stuttering in your throat. It’s been so long since someone else has touched you like this, and it feels almost foreign. You don’t know whether you want to shy away or arch more into his touch. “How do you want this?”

A moan escapes you when his other hand comes up to mirror the first, tugging lightly at your other breast. The ache between your legs throbs desperately, a need that feels almost unbearable. “I don’t… anything,” you manage to gasp, unable to think of anything but the feeling of his hands on you. You don’t have enough experience to know what might make for a good time, and it’s easier this way, to simply give in and let him take the reins of your pleasure.

Phainon pauses at your breathless response, and for a second you worry that you’ve said the wrong thing. But then his hands are on your hips again, steering you firmly. “To the bed, then,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise.

He guides you until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and then your back is meeting the soft duvet and you’re staring up at the ceiling. You barely have time to gasp before he’s following you down, pressing you into the sheets, and his mouth closes over the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Phainon sucks, hard and deliberate, and then an embarrassing whine escapes you when he shifts to let his teeth catch against your skin.

It should feel painful, and it does, but it melts into something hotter and sweeter — something that makes your lips part and your head spin. You’re fighting the urge to squirm, to press yourself against the solid heat of his body, when you suddenly feel the blunt pressure of his fingers against your clothed core.

An embarrassed sound catches in your throat, but Phainon only laughs. “So wet for me already?” Before you can even muster any sort of response, the heel of his hand presses down against you. The sudden pressure sends sparks down your spine, and you can’t the way your hips rock shamelessly against it, the keening sound that escapes from the back of your throat. “That’s it,” Phainon’s voice is an encouraging hum as he watches you grind down on his hand. “Show me how badly you need it. Make yourself feel good for me.”

If your face wasn’t already flushed, it definitely is now — burning with a mixture of heat and overwhelming embarrassment. Another whimper slips free as you try, but you are too inexperienced, the angle too awkward, your movements too clumsy. The thin fabric of your panties only makes it worse. 

“Please,” you beg, voice cracking and unsure what you’re even pleading for. But Phainon seems to know.

He pulls his hand away, and the sudden loss of contact pulls a broken whine from you. You shiver on the bed for a single, agonizing second, before his fingers are hooking into the waistband of your panties and dragging them down your legs. The feeling of cool air hitting your naked, throbbing core makes you flinch instinctively, a wave of vulnerability seizing you.

Before you can close your legs, however, Phainon’s fingers return. This time, there is no barrier as he strokes you there and you shudder at the contact, gripping mindlessly at the duvet beneath you. The wet, slick sounds of his fingers — sliding through the mess of your arousal, spreading you open — almost echo in the quiet of the room. You turn to press your burning face into your shoulder, unable to listen to the evidence of your need, of just how much he’s affected you.

But Phainon doesn’t seem to mind. “Need to stretch you out first,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and you feel yourself drip pathetically onto his fingers. He brings them down again, rubbing agonisingly slow circles at your entrance that make you whimper — before he starts to press one of them in.

You throw your head back with a cry at the slight, delicious stretch, entire body lighting up with overwhelming sensation. You’ve been penetrated before — clumsy, fumbling attempts with a situationship in your junior year, with your own fingers — but never like this, with you begging for it and slick dripping from your core. With a man who knows what he’s doing, who treats your pleasure as more than just an afterthought. His finger moves in and out slowly, testing your give, and you think your mind has truly melted. A broken sound escapes you as your hips lift off the bed, trying desperately to fuck yourself on hand.

Phainon licks his lower lip, blue eyes dark with a flicker of genuine surprise. “You’re so responsive,” he breathes out as you wrap a hand around his wrist to steady yourself. “I wonder what you’ll be like once I get my cock inside you.”

The thought makes you unbearably, achingly needy, and suddenly one finger isn’t enough. You need to be filled, stretched open completely until you’re sobbing with it. “Please,” you beg, but Phainon just shakes his head, squeezes your hip.

“Patience, sweetheart. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You try to protest, but then he’s adding another finger and you cry out. Fuck. The stretch is more intense this time, a burning fullness that steals the air from your lungs, but you can feel your body giving way around him as you continue to rock on his fingers. The sounds are more obscene now, too, with the wet, rhythmic squelch of his fingers pulling out and sinking back deep into your dripping cunt. “I’m a lot bigger than two fingers, you know.”

At this point, he could split you in half and you don’t think you’d care. “Please,” you beg again, the word almost a sob as you grind futilely on Phainon’s fingers, trying to force him to give you more. He laughs, a low, dark sound of pure amusement, but his thumb comes up to circle your neglected, throbbing clit.

The dual sensation — the slow, insistent stretch and the sudden friction at your most sensitive point — is your complete undoing. A broken, ragged moan tumbles from your mouth as your orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming as wave after wave of pure, mindless pleasure crashes over you. And when you finally come back to your senses, body trembling with the aftershocks, you glance up dazedly to see Phainon hovering over you. 

Slowly, he withdraws his glistening fingers from you, and before you can process it, slides them into his mouth to suck them clean.

You think you must be going mad, as you watch the way his tongue slides between those long digits to lick off every last trace of your release. “So sweet,” he rasps, his voice rough. Drunk on the sensation, you lean up, instinctively seeking his mouth with yours, wanting to taste yourself on his lips. 

But he just lets out a breathless chuckle, and the same fingers that had been in your cunt just seconds ago now press against your mouth. “Boundaries, remember?”

Right. A frustrated whine escapes you at the reminder, his denial. Driven by reckless impulse, you turn your head, fingers clumsily fumbling with the remaining buttons of his shirt to expose more of his skin. He watches with some amusement until you latch onto his shoulder too, copying what he’d done earlier. You bite down hard, too lost in the heat of the moment to wonder whether you’re doing it right or wrong.

Phainon hisses — a sharp, gratifying intake of breath — and the hand on your hip tightens to the point of bruising. “Easy,” he warns, but the command is undercut by the raw roughness in his voice. To emphasize his point, he grinds his hips against you and you go completely still, feeling the undeniable bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. 

Oh. Oh. 

He lets out a low, breathless laugh at your stunned reaction, dropping his head to flick his tongue over your nipple. You jolt. “Don’t worry, it’ll fit.” He punctuates each word with a searing kiss, trailing a whole line of them down your sternum. “I’ll take it slow with you.”

Phainon takes a step back to tug off the shirt, and your breath catches. His body is a study of lean muscle, broad shoulders tapering a narrow waist. But your eyes are drawn higher. It’d been hidden — first by the high neck of his sweater in the cafe and later, by the collar of his dress shirt — but now you see it, a bold, stylized sun etched into his skin in golden ink. It sits opposite the side where you’d bit him earlier, the beginnings of a mark already blooming from your teeth.

You wonder how hard you'd have to bite down to leave a mark there, instead.

His fingers make quick work of his belt buckle, and then he’s pushing everything down his hips in one motion.  Your mouth goes utterly dry at the sight of his cock. It’s already half hard and thick, flushed at the tip and he fishes a silver foil packet from his discarded pants, tearing it open with his teeth. You watch, transfixed, as he rolls the condom down his length with practiced ease and gives it a few rough strokes. The sight makes you clench around nothing, a primal need to be filled coiling in your belly.

Phainon steps towards you, all predatory grace and dark intent. His hands grip you firmly by the ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed with an ease that steals your breath, before they slide down to spread your legs wide. You’ve never felt so open, so exposed. 

And then you feel it — the blunt tip of his cock nudging at your soaking entrance, and that alone is enough to wrench a low, desperate moan from your throat. He stills, dark eyes searching yours. His voice is low and stripped of all its earlier teasing when he speaks. “You’re sure you want this.”

You think you’ll die if he isn’t inside you in the next minute. “So bad,” you whimper. “Please.”

At your response, Phainon groans low before he rocks into you with a slow cant of his hips. The first thing that you register is the stretch. He’s big, so much bigger than the fingers than you’d taken earlier, to the point that it almost feels as though he’s forcing the air from your lungs with each inch he slides into you. You can feel your cunt clenching around the thick head, and you think your mouth falls slack around a silent gasp as he presses in. His hands tighten on your trembling thighs, holding your squirming body in place until he’s fully sheathed in you.

He holds himself still for a moment, letting you feel every hot and throbbing inch of him. Your legs are shaking, and there’s a broken moan escaping your mouth as you try and fail to adjust to the feeling of being so overwhelmingly full. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Phainon murmurs, voice strained and eyes fever bright as he looks at you. His thumb rubs soothing circles at your ankle. “You’re doing so well, taking all of my cock like that. So wet, so fucking tight.”

The praise does something dangerous to you, unspooling some aching need deep in you that makes you forget everything but him. You rock your hips despite the burn and clutch at the duvet, the expensive cotton straining in your grip. Another plea escapes you. “Please… I want more.”

He huffs out a surprised laugh, but obliges you. With a low exhale, he pulls back almost all the way, and the slow, deliberate drag is exquisite as it is maddening. Before you can whine at the loss, though, Phainon thrusts back into you with a single, powerful stroke and you choke on air instead. 

He starts fucking into you with a slow, punishing rhythm, each thrust seemingly designed to unravel you completely. You can feel him inside, his cock dragging against every inch of you and coaxing out a pleasure so intense it makes your eyes roll back in your head. The noises that fall from your lips are so pathetic you can barely recognise them as your own. But Phainon seems to like the sound of them, when he tugs away the hand you’d shoved over your mouth, and so now the suite echoes with your filthy cries, each one punctuated by the wet,rhythmic slap of skin on skin.

“Yeah,” Phainon rasps encouragingly. His own breath comes out harsh, and you don’t think he’s looked more beautiful than in this moment — a faint sheen of sweat glistening at his collarbone and his gaze entirely focused on you. “Don’t hide from me. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He isn’t quiet, either. Phainon calls you beautiful, tells you how gorgeous you look taking his cock like this, how you fit around him so perfectly, that you feel so good. It makes your head spin. The praise comes in a steady stream, and takes you apart in a way that feels more than just physical. Somehow, he never seems to run out of words. You were the one who bought his night, but each murmured word, every possessive roll of his hips, reminds you just how completely he owns you in this moment. Here and now, you don’t need to be anything else but his.

Slowly, he speeds up the pace, and somewhere along the way, you feel his hands shift. Phainon grips one thigh, hoisting one leg over his shoulder with an effortless ease that leaves you reeling, and when he slams back into you, the new angle wrenches a broken scream from your throat. He’s so deep like this, so deep that you think that you can feel him in your throat. 

A dazed, delirious thought flickers through the haze. This might be a problem. You cannot imagine ever letting anyone else touch you after this, not after Phainon has ruined you so thoroughly, so exquisitely for anyone else.

His thrusts are relentless now, hips snapping against yours in a punishing rhythm that steals all of your breath and reason. You’re babbling, a string of unintelligible, reedy noises pouring continuously from your mouth, and you can feel your arousal dripping down your thighs, your ass. Everything is too much — the stretch, the friction, the overwhelming feeling of him — and yet somehow not enough. It’s like a bottomless greed has awakened in you, one that you’ll never be able to fulfill unless Phainon is buried to the hilt in your cunt. 

You claw at the sheets. “I— I’m close,” you barely manage to whimper, the words strangled and desperate. In response, Phainon nips at the crook of your knee, and your back arches off the bed again.

“Good,” he murmurs, his own voice rough. The hand that had been anchoring your hip drops down to circle your sensitive clit with a devastating precision. “Come for me.”

His command is all it takes. This climax puts the previous one to shame — your vision goes white around the edges, and the scream that rips from your throat will most definitely leave you hoarse in the morning, but none of that matters when pleasure tears through you like a white-hot supernova. It’s like every cell in your body is being remade. Your body convulses around him, your cunt spasming around his cock helplessly, as though it still cannot get enough of him. 

Somewhere above you, you hear Phainon let out a guttural groan, and you feel a brief pang of regret. That you are too far gone to memorise the way he looks when he comes, his hips jerking hard against yours with an exhaled curse.

You can feel him spill into the condom, as you slowly float down from your high. For a long moment, the room is silent aside from the ragged sounds of your breathing, and then Phainon is pulling out of you. A pitiful whine escapes you at the sudden emptiness, and he leans down to press a soothing kiss to your sweat slick shoulder. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says, his voice a low promise against your skin.

Too boneless to do more than offer a faint nod, you listen as he disappears into the bathroom. The quiet pad of his footsteps is followed by the sound of the tap running. You lie there, utterly spent, until he returns with a warm, damp towel that he uses to clean up the mess between your legs. 

You shiver when it brushes over your still sensitive flesh, and Phainon soothes you with a wordless hush. His touch is gentle, almost exceedingly careful, and for some reason, it feels more intimate than whatever the two of you had done just moments ago. Exhausted, you let your eyes close, surrendering to the heaviness pulling at your eyelids and the feeling of his hands on you.

When you open them again, the blankets have been drawn around you and your head is on a pillow. Your eyes flutter, heavy with a bone deep exhaustion, and you search the room. 

You find Phainon standing by your bed, already in his briefs. The sharp lines of his body are softened in the low light. He’s setting something like a water bottle on your bedside table, and glances up when he realises that you’re awake.

“Go to sleep,” Phainon says, voice quiet but firm, a gentle command. His mouth twitches upwards. “We have a flight to catch tomorrow, remember?” He turns, probably to gather the rest of his clothes from the floor.

All of a sudden, the bed feels too big, too cold. The memory of his weight and his warmth are still clouding your mind, your rationality, and you find yourself reaching out to grasp loosely at his wrist before you can stop yourself. One last indulgence, before the two of you fly back to Okhema and go your separate ways, never to see each other again. “Sleep in my bed?” you ask, and when he hesitates, add a quiet, “please?”

He has his own room — you'd booked one for him down the hall, back when you’d still thought you could be professional about this. Phainon looks at you for a long moment, blue eyes flickering down to your hand and then back to your face, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Finally, he exhales a quiet, almost resigned sigh, and nods. 

You release him. He rounds the bed and slips under the covers next to you, his body a warm, solid line in the darkness. Phainon does not pull you close, but his presence is enough — more than you’ve had in years. The bed doesn’t feel too big anymore, the silence not so heavy. For tonight, you’re not alone.

And with that, you fall asleep.

You wake up to the soft rustling of fabric and an empty bed. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you push yourself up on your elbows, glance around. The morning light is streaming through a gap in the curtain, painting a strip of your hotel room in brilliant gold. You sit up a little straighter and suddenly, you’re acutely reminded of the pleasant ache between your legs, a vivid reminder of the night before. 

Phainon is already awake. He’s standing next to the armchair where his suit jacket is neatly folded, half dressed in his trousers from last night. His torso is lean and bare and gilded by sunlight. And when he bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, you catch a glimpse of that tattoo again, flaring with golden light as it catches the sun.

He must feel your gaze, because he straightens up and glances over his shoulder. His hair is charmingly dishevelled, features softer in the morning light, but his blue eyes are already clear and focused as he crosses over to the foot of your bed.

“Morning,” Phainon says. His voice is a little rough with sleep, and he offers you an easy, practiced smile. “I let you sleep in. The flight’s at noon, but we should leave in an hour to beat the traffic to the airport.”

He slips on the shirt, head dipping as he does up the buttons one by one with those clever fingers — fingers that you now know are capable of bringing you to your knees. Something crawls up in your throat — another bad idea, another impulse you should know better than to indulge, and yet… You bite on your lower lip, fingers curling in the sheets. “I’ll head back to my room first, to finish up my packing. I’ll meet you in the lobby once I’m done.” 

The collar of his shirt is a little crooked, and Phainon takes a moment to adjust it. The dark, rumpled fabric somehow still manages to look devastating on him, and he flashes you a brief smile before he turns to go. To leave. And perhaps you’re nothing but an idiot, lonely and pathetic with nothing but enough money to throw at your problems, and…

In a brief burst of spontaneity, residual alcohol-fueled impulse, poor decision making or perhaps all three at once, you find yourself asking before you can stop yourself. 

“How much?”

Phainon pauses with a hand on the handle, glancing back with one eyebrow raised. You drop your eyes to the sheets of the hotel bed, chewing at the inside of your cheek. It’s a certain kind of shame, to have to buy this delusion of physical intimacy. You don’t know if you want to see the expression on his face — pity, calculation or worse, understanding.

“How much,” you repeat, sure that your face is burning, “would it cost to make this… a more permanent arrangement? For the long term.”

Phainon smiles, and it’s more blinding than the sun.

"I found it!"

You turn just in time to see a familiar white-clad silhouette crest a small rise. Phainon's hair is half-wild and tousled over his forehead—presumably the result of the balmy wind rising from the coast—but he doesn't seem to pay it much mind as he jogs over. The soles of his boots crunch over stone and dry scrub until he comes to a stop in front of you, panting lightly but grinning wide.

"I found it," he repeats, more clearly this time. You raise a brow.

"You found it?"

"I did. Just a short distance north of here, actually." Phainon hunches over as he confirms, both hands bracing on his knees to catch his breath before glancing up at you again. His blue eyes are bright behind his sweat-damp fringe. "It's crumbling somewhat, but definitely recognisable." His grin widens. "See? Told you there was nothing to worry about."

That's easy for him to say, when he isn't in charge of navigation. Still, perspiration beads along the line of his brow, sliding down the curve of his jaw. You retrieve your waterskin. It's heavy in your hand, probably filled about three-quarters or more. You hold it out to him.

"You've been gone less than an hour," you say.

"Hm?" Phainon's smile falters slightly as he takes it from you. "Am I such poor company you were hoping I'd be gone longer?"

You ignore his quip. "We've been scouring this area ever since sunrise."

"I… suppose so?"

"And yet the moment we split up, you find it within three quints?"

"Ah." Phainon pauses mid-swallow at that, his lips curling into a grin around the waterskin. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather impressive."

You give him a decidedly unimpressed look.

He wipes at his dripping mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem as though you suspect foul play."

"Merely considering the statistical improbability."

His eyes brighten.

"Does that mean you're impressed?"

Trust Phainon to spin your words into something flattering. "No, it means I'm questioning whether you found the correct landmark at all."

"Wow. I return bearing triumph and victory only to be received with doubt and suspicion. I thought you'd be more relieved."

You are relieved—more than you appear to be, probably. Back in the days of the Era Bellica, the city-states of Amphoreus had been connected by proper stone-laid roads that had sustained trade in the region for centuries. But after Loukas fell to the Black Tide, the road that once led there had followed: first into neglect, then into ruin—slowly reclaimed by Georios over the years. What remains of it now is little more than fractured stone, its purpose long since crumbled back to dust.

Navigating by these centuries-old maps hasn't been the easiest undertaking, too.

"Alright, fine," you concede as Phainon returns your now empty waterskin. "I suppose I can confirm that we aren't lost, at least." And that you haven't been leading the two of you in circles for the past three days. Forget Phainon; you wouldn't let yourself live it down, if that were the case.

Phainon shrugs easily.

"Getting lost is just another term for scenic detour." His tone is expressedly serious, though the curl of his mouth and the quick flick of his eyes in your direction betrays him. "It's all a matter of perspective. Wouldn't you agree?"

You pinch your nose for good measure. Normally, you wouldn't pay getting lost much mind—you could always wait for night to fall, take your bearings from the stars—but Phainon's time is too valuable to be wasted tramping aimlessly across the Jerichan countryside. There are more important duties than safeguarding you waiting for him back in the Holy City, and the sooner you retrieve the documents Lady Aglaea sent you for, the better.

It's this thought that has you moving quickly to roll up your maps. "When we get back to Okhema, remind me to buy you a dictionary," you say dryly, paying additional care to their fraying edges. Phainon cocks his head, curious.

"What for?"

"So that you can start looking up the definition to words."

His laughter rings out amidst the scorched, dreary landscape. "That was rude." Phainon tries to sound affronted, but it's no use when he's smiling so widely. "Oh—and speaking of detours, I spotted a settlement to the west earlier." He hooks a thumb over his pauldron. "I couldn't make it out clearly, but it looked to be a small town. Not too far from here, I wager."

His offhanded tone tells you this is leading somewhere more. You narrow your eyes at him, feeling like a fish just shy of closing its mouth around a line.

"…And?"

"I was thinking we could stop by and ask the locals for directions." Phainon pauses just long enough for you to consider the suggestion before adding, "Perhaps get a drink to cool down too, while we're at it."

You eye his overly innocent look, his spread hands. "You're remarkably predictable, you know?"

"I'm nothing if not reliable."

"This isn't another one of those occasions where you've already decided and are now generously allowing me to pretend I have a say?"

Phainon puts up both hands as though you've accused him of a grave crime. "Preposterous," he insists, despite the faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I'd never attempt to manipulate you so blatantly. Naturally, we'll go wherever you decide."

"Mm, I'm sure…"

He's playing that little game of his again—mildly exasperating for you, endlessly amusing for him. Once, Phainon's habitual deference to you had kept you perpetually on edge—a trait so distinctly out of place on an alpha it'd bordered on unsettling—but now, it's become little more than a familiar song and dance after so many journeys together. You fight the urge to swat him with your maps—they're far too precious for that—and instead focus on tucking them carefully into your satchel.

When you glace up again, Phainon still has yet to say a word. His eyes seem to be smiling now, too.

You sigh.

"We could," you say at last, in an attempt to frame your words as ambiguously as possible. Phainon's grin widens.

"We could."

You shoot him a sideways look and start down the rocky slope without him. Phainon's laughter trails behind you like a loose ribbon caught in the wind. It takes him all of three strides to catch up, anyway, and you click your tongue as he falls into step beside you—Mnestia and their favourites—and resist the urge to quicken your pace.

The settlement Phainon spotted turns out to be a small town of sorts. A modest scattering of buildings sits tucked into the shelter of a hillside slope, humble homes with whitewashed walls reminiscent of those in Okhema, clustered around a central agora. And fish are everywhere—laid out on wooden boards, strung up to dry beneath shallow eaves. It's an common sight for a seaside community.

Next to you, Phainon wrinkles his nose as he passes by a particularly ripe market stall, before he hastily smoothens his expression back into one of polite interest. You hide your snort behind your hand. One of the few benefits of being a beta, you suppose.

Only a few townspeople are out in the sun at this time of day, and the pair of you draw a handful of watchful looks as they go about their business. It's only to be expected as strangers in a small municipality—it doesn't look as though this town gets much in way of visitors at all. The first establishment you come across is a simple tavern with a low loft built above it, and its door creaks faintly when you push it open.

A girl jolts from one of the tables by the entrance. She's young, by the looks of it—roughly your age if you had to hazard a guess—with a stained apron around her waist. Despite this, she blinks owlishly at you and Phainon as you enter, moss-green eyes flickering over your dust-caked boots and travel worn clothes before darting to the man at your side.

Her posture straightens almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. She startles again, cheeks colouring, and hastens behind the counter.

Phainon steers you over towards a vacant table beneath an arched window. Sunlight spills across its wooden surface through the shuttered slats.

"Try not to frighten any of the locals," he teases, the ghost of a grin on his face as he pushes you into a seat. "I'll take a look at what they have."

He's gone before the protest can even find its way to your lips. Left to your own devices, you sigh and lean back in your chair to take stock of the tavern. It's not too crowded—several groups of older men sit scattered about round tables nursing cups over low conversation, while a portly woman in the far corner shells a steadily growing heap of legumes into a wooden bowl. The air smells faintly of brine and watered down wine.

More than that, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back.

When your eyes search instinctively for Phainon once more, you find him leaning over the counter, seemingly engaged in easy conversation. It comes as little surprise—people have a way of warming to him quickly. Lady Aglaea likes that about him. Whatever they're talking about is too muddled to make out amidst the low buzz of the tavern, but you catch the way she stumbles over her words, the faint pink creeping into her cheeks as she speaks.

Omega, your mind supplies unhelpfully before you can stop yourself.

The Grove's research insists that there are no meaningful differences in appearance between alphas and omegas, save for reproductive anatomy. Theory, however, rarely survives contact with reality. You dislike relying on outdated and narrow-minded stereotypes—alphas are territorial and domineering, omegas gentle and naturing—but such ideas rarely arise without some basis. Besides, betas like you are completely pheromone-blind. Navigating society would be impossible, otherwise.

You occupy yourself with staring at the sun-baked streets just beyond the window. A few minutes later, Phainon returns, a large cup in each hand.

"I got us kykeon," he announces. Your fingertips brush when he slides one over to you. "Here. Drink up."

You hum your thanks and take a sip. The taste is both familiar and not at the same time: watered down barley with a hint of local herbs, creamy with goat's cheese but finishing with a briny tang. You take your second mouthful more slowly, parsing the flavours as they settle across your tongue.

"It's… a little salty?"

Your comment comes out more inquisitive than you intend. Phainon smiles as he slides into the seat opposite yours, his coat tails brushing across the wooden floor. He seems amused by your reaction.

"They add seawater to the drink." He lifts his own cup to his lips. "It's a specialty here."

"Oh? According to who?"

"Leona."

Phainon nods over his shoulder at the counter. Leona. You turn her name over in your mind once, then twice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's already on a first name basis with her.

"You're making friends quickly."

He doesn't rise to the bait, disappointingly. "She was very friendly. Very helpful, too."

You note the way the serving girl continues to steal glances in Phainon's direction, even as she pretends to busy herself behind the counter. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the object of her attention seems to remain oblivious.

"I don't doubt it."

The topic ends up drifting, as it often does, back to the road ahead. Between measured sips of kykeon and the low murmur of the tavern, you fall back into the familiar rhythms of conversation—distances to cover, landmarks to confirm, the steady arithmetic of time and terrain. By the time the discussion turns to the restocking of your dwindling supplies, the two of you are bent over the maps spread out across the table, heads lowered in concentration once more.

"Distance wise, continuing down the coastal path would be the quickest route." You tap at a long, thin line that cuts across the land. It chases the curve and bend of the coast, forging upwards. "But Leanor's maps mention a river that swells in summertime when ice from the nearby mountains melts. It might be too wide for us to cross now."

Phainon's eyes track your finger dutifully as it traces across the topography of your maps, thoughtful and alert. Navigation has never been his forte but he's always eager to learn. You're about to point out a possible crossing farther downstream—a bridge you've seen mentioned in several of Kremnos' war annals—when a large hand suddenly plants itself between the two of you, thick fingers splayed across the vellum.

"Excuse me."

The two of you look up simultaneously at the interruption. Towering over your table is a heavyset man, tufts of dark hair bristling at his temples. His gaze sweeps over you and Phainon like a bear sizing up potential prey. For someone who's just asked to be excused, there is little way of apology in his expression.

"It's not often we get new faces around these parts, especially with the Black Tide spreading nearby," the man says, in manner of a greeting. His voice is a low rumble in the back of his throat. "What brings the two of you to this place?"

There's a wary note in his voice that he makes no effort to disguise—confrontational, almost tipping over into hostile. You've heard that tone enough times to become familiar with it. Most often, from the more aggressive alpha members of the Okheman council, when a debate isn't going the way they prefer. Lady Aglaea does a far better job at restraining herself, but sometimes you still catch the instinct beneath that water-tight composure slipping through.

A few patrons at the tables nearby pause mid-drink, heads lifting to catch the cloud of pheromones that must be flooding the air. Your own breathing quickens traitorously in turn.

Phainon, however, doesn't respond outwardly to the challenge. His posture stays relaxed and his expression neutral, though you notice the faint tightening of his hands and feet, like a blade settling into its sheath. Then he smiles, disarmingly polite.

"We're just passing through on our way to Loukas," Phainon replies. His tone skirts the edge of amiability while remaining uncowed. "We're on business for the Flame-Chase."

The mention of the Flame-Chase seems to have snared the man's attention. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Phainon. The suspicion in them is tempered by cautious interest.

"Loukas, you say? The Prison City?"

"The very one."

"It's nothing but a ruin now. The place is overrun with the Black Tide." He pauses. "Ain't that dangerous?"

Phainon inclines his head in acknowledgement. "We can handle ourselves," he says simply, without arrogance or boast. It's as though simply stating a fact. The man considers his claim for a long moment, carefully taking in the broad shoulders and untroubled confidence, before he lets out a grunt.

"Sorry about that," he says, and this time the apology sounds more genuine. "Like I said, we don't see many new faces around here, and the ones that we do are usually up to no good. You two are Chrysos Heirs?"

"Only him," you say, and he nods.

"Of course." Before you can ask what exactly that is supposed to mean, the man shifts his attention back to Phainon. "I'm the owner of this tavern here." Your eyes track the movement as he offers Phainon his hand—a brief clasp, palm to palm, the scent glands there brushing in passing. "I overheard you talking about restocking for your journey ahead."

A polite if blunt way of admitting he'd been listening in. Phainon seems to be frowning faintly, though he conceals it well. But he makes no mention of it and so neither do you.

"We were discussing the matter, yes."

The barkeeper seems to hesitate at that. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, the fingers of one hand twisting in the ties of apron. He looks as though carefully weighing his next words.

"I'd like to offer to supply you with whatever you might need, Chrysos Heir," he says, eventually. "If you'd assist us—the people of this town—with an issue."

You and Phainon exchange a brief glance. The two of you are in no dire need of coin—the Goldweaver supplies you with more than enough to cover your travel expenses—but it can't hurt to hear out his concerns if it affects the entire town. Phainon seems to reach a similar conclusion, because he leans forward, fingers lacing over his knee.

"What's the problem?"

The barkeeper drags a hand over the back of his neck, then sighs. "There's an old temple down by the coast," he begins. "It used to be dedicated to Phagousa, but it was abandoned ever since the Ocean Titan disappeared. I'd like for you to take a look at it."

Abandoned. Not an uncommon fate for shrines tied to fallen divinity, especially since the Daythunder Knight had first felled Aquila. Phainon's curiosity seems piqued, regardless.

"Is there a reason you're so concerned about this particular temple?"

The barkeeper nods reluctantly after a moment. "It's the source of this town's Soul-Purifying Spring."

Now that makes your eyes go wide. You can count the number you've seen on one hand—the rest are either dried up or long destroyed in wars of centuries past—so you never thought you'd stumble across one by accident. They're nowhere near as powerful as the fragments of Phagousa's chalice, but still, as a relic containing the power of a Titan…

Phainon glances over at you, not quite comprehending.

"This, uh, Soul-Purifying Spring is…?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the barkeeper beats you to it. "It's spirit water," he explains. "Blessed by Phagousa herself—the pride of our town." His chest puffs out a little as he says it, though a mote of worry lingers in his eyes. "The water flows from beneath thetemple grounds and into a fountain in the agora." His jaw tightens. "Or it did, until about a couple of years ago."

"You didn't send someone to investigate earlier?" you mutter, incredulous. The barkeeper's eyes dart to you, almost as though he'd forgotten you were there in the first place. The question seems to catch up a beat later, and he lets out a quiet huff.

"We did. But the younger lads we sent said they saw movement in the inner chambers—creatures resembling Black Tide monsters—and didn't dare venture further." He grimaces. "We're fishermen and salt traders, not fighters."

Phainon nods slowly, contemplative.

"I see."

When you glance over, Phainon's expression has gone thoughtful. The mention of Black Tide creatures has clearly caught his attention—he'll want to investigate, temple obligations or not. The sages at the Grove would value any information you can offer; accurate predictions mean better resource allocation, faster evacuations, more lives saved.

Across from you, the barkeeper straightens, pride and worry warring visibly across his face. The latter wins.

"So," he says, the edge in his voice faltering to a reluctant appeal, "would you be willing to help us, Chrysos Heir?"

He does not look at you as he says it. It has been quite clear, since the beginning, that he's seen only Phainon as someone worth addressing—the leader, the decision-maker, the alpha, the fighter—and you as little more than accompanying afterthought. It doesn't bother you very much. If anything, you might even prefer it this way. You've grown accustomed to standing just outside the centre of such exchanges, and besides, you already know what Phainon's answer will be.

Or, you thought you did. Instead, Phainon tilts his head. His ivory fringe slips into summer blue eyes, unreadable for the space of a breath, before he smiles.

"Oh, I'm not the one you should be asking." He glances at you, a brow raised. "I'm not in charge, here."

The map corner you'd been fidgeting with slips from between your fingers. You look up, bewilderment creeping in. The barkeeper's eyes meet yours, equally perplexed.

"Your companion?" Faint disbelief colours his voice.

You cut a sidelong look at Phainon only to find him already watching you. There's no trace of his usual lightheartedness in his eyes, although he maintains it in expression. You purse your lips, unsure what he's playing at, brows drawing together warily.

Drop it.

He doesn't. "My companion is the one with unparalleled expertise in ancient temples. I'm only here to swing my sword around and look intimidating."

You find yourself wishing that the two of you were in private company—then, at least, you would be able to freely elbow Phainon in the ribs. But if you were, then there would be no need for this entire conversation in the first place. Precisely why you prefer ancient ruins to most people…

After a silence that drags long enough for it to become uncomfortable, the barkeeper finally clears his throat. He turns to you.

"…Then," he starts, clearly deciding that the matters of the temple takes precedence, "will you take a look at our temple? At least find out what's blocking the spring?"

You bite back the sigh that threatens to slip out. You can already feel the shape of the detour settling into your originally intended route, your schedule, as persistent as the unwavering gaze coming from your left.

"…We will."

The discussion that follows finds its way back to Phainon despite his earlier insistence otherwise, but you find yourself unbothered—moreso than usual. Instead, you stare out of the window and sip at the remainder of your drink as they talk logistics and directions, more occupied with the odd discomfort that seems to have lodged itself in the back of your throat.

The barkeeper finally excuses himself to fetch a few things from the storeroom upstairs. The second he disappears out of the back door, Phainon pivots in his seat to face you, half-empty cup of kykeon raised high.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected," he muses. His easy charm has settled back as though it never left. "Here I thought you didn't care much for detours—"

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Hm? I haven't the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to."

He looks too pleased with himself for your liking. Self-righteous fool. Mindsets like the barkeeper's are hardly uncommon, especially in more rural areas like this one. Perspectives on betas range far and wide depending on region, but they rarely stray far from the same conclusion: that betas exist somewhere outside of the neat social order built around alphas and omegas.

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise.

Something tells you that trying to explain this to Phainon would only make him double down, though, so you refrain. "It didn't bother me," you clarify, instead. "You didn't need to do anything."

"Oh?" Phainon leans forward, setting his elbows on the table to properly meet your gaze. "It bothered me, though."

You can't help but feel as though you've been here before. It's a conversation you've had one time too many. At least he isn't playing ignorant any longer. It doesn't suit him.

"Betas don't have scents. It's normal to be overlooked."

He arches a brow. "Is that so? I look at you all the time."

That silver tongue of his. He's going to give someone the wrong idea, one day. "You're abnormal. You don't count."

Phainon laughs at that, head tipping back just enough to reveal the dark band of his choker, stark against the pale line of his throat. "People often read too much into secondary gender. They see what they want to see." His chin shifts to prop itself atop his knuckles as he regards you, half-smiling. "It saves them the trouble of having to think any further."

You spend a moment attempting to decipher whatever meaning is veiled behind his words before giving up. It might be easier to reason with a mule, you think. At least it can't talk back.

"Next time, just answer on both our behalfs and spare us the unnecessary exchange."

Phainon shrugs. "If you insist, I'll keep that in mind."

Conversation seemingly over, Phainon leans back to take a longer, more leisurely sip of his kykeon. His chair tilts precariously on its rear legs. You watch him for a whole five seconds, frowning before you speak again.

"You won't, will you?"

His smile sharpens into a grin.

"No, I won't."

The barkeeper returns just as the two of you are finishing your drinks. He hands Phainon two maps—one, a simply guide marking the route down to the temple, the other, a rough charcoal sketch of its interior. The latter is clearly drawn by an untrained hand: its lines are smudged, proportions skewed, and it's not of much use. Fortunately, you've picked up in your time exploring the ruins along Milios' coasts. As long as the structures don't differ too drastically, it shouldn't pose too much of an issue for you.

The two of you are halfway out of the door when a voice calls out from behind.

"W—wait!"

The shy serving girl from earlier—Leona, if you remember correctly—hurries over. Her steps slow as she nears. She fumbers with a tightly wrapped bundle in her hands for a moment, fingers curling bashfully over the knot at the top before she holds it out to him. The faint scent of something warm and freshly baked permeates through the undyed linen.

Phainon looks genuinely startled. It's almost cute, how receiving unsolicited favour still catches him off guard.

"Apologies, this is?"

"S—Some bread," she stutters, ducking her head. It does nothing to hide the blush spreading over her cheeks, the colour of ripe nectarines. You wonder briefly if she smells just as sweet. "For, um, h—helping with the Spring."

Phainon looks at it. You think you catch a glimpse of some indecipherable emotion flickering behind the blue ocean-depths of his eyes, before it's quickly replaced by a courteously apologetic, pinned-together smile.

"That is very kind of you." His hands lift, hovering over her offering but not quite touching, as though he's unsure how to properly respond to her gesture. "But I couldn't possibly…"

"No, no, I insist—"

Titans above. Whether Phainon is simply being polite or deliberately obtuse is anyone's guess, and you're rapidly running out of the patience required to discern which it is. The two of you will be here all until nightfall if he keeps this coyness up, and besides, food is food. There's no reason to hesitate.

Before he can protest again, you step between them and intercept the bread. She startles, hands jerking back to her chest, eyes going as wide as silver coins as she stares at you.

"Thank you for your generosity," you force yourself to say, inclining your head in a courteous, if somewhat brief, bow. "We'll make good use of it."

Her gaze flicks to you, lips pursing. She appears almost indignant for a second before her expression dissipates into one of reluctant resignation.

"…Of course."

You don't wait for the exchange to continue. Turning around, you stride out of the tavern with the hurried sound of Phainon's footsteps quick at your heels, and back into the harsh afternoon light.

The temple of Phagousa is older than you expect.

Built directly into the cliffside, the entire structure is more carved than constructed. The limestone façade is darkened with centuries of exposure to salt and wind. It'd taken you and Phainon about an hour to reach the coast, and then another three quints to spot, its silhouette almost swallowed by the Parting Hour's shadow. By then, the darkening sky had only made your descent more treacherous, and Phainon had insisted on gripping your hand tight as he led you down the flights of crumbling stairs.

Now, what remains of the portico you're standing on juts outward over the sea. When you'd peered over the edge earlier, you could just barely make out great chunks of white marble beneath the foam swirling atop the waves. It's as though the entire structure is slowly crumbling into the ocean that had once defined its worship.

"So," Phainon calls out after several minutes of wordless pacing. "Your professional opinion?"

You glance up from a pair of heavy, rusted hinges. Your travel companion seems to have made himself comfortable atop a fallen column, one leg tucked beneath his thigh while the other kicks idly at the broken ground. He's also tucked the end of his cape into his belt—the wind would have a field day with it, otherwise—though it does little to spare his hair from being blown every which way.

He looks like he's just stepped out of a hurricane, or came out wrestling barehanded with Aquila and lost. Phainon frowns when he notices you glance to the side, his lips moving.

What?

"You look ridiculous."

Phainon's brows pinch together in visible confusion.

"Whaaaaat?"

You cup your hands around your mouth, raising your voice to be heard over the rushing of the wind.

"I said, this entrance is blocked!"

"Ohh!"

He hops off the fallen pillar easily, stepping over the scattered rubble to join you. You gesture towards the massive double doors you'd been examining as he draws nearer—more than twice your height and several wingspans across.

"The hinges are completely rusted through." You brush a hand along the weathered stone, and a thin layer of salt crystals come away on your fingertips. "Even if we did manage to get through the locking mechanism—which doesn't seem to be working either, by the way—the doors themselves wouldn't budge."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," you echo dryly, if only to humour him.

Phainon lifts his head to study the door. His hands are planted squarely on his hips, as though he's sizing himself up against it.

"Even if I put all of my strength into it?"

You open your mouth, a confirmation hovering at the tip of your tongue only to pause. You've witnessed him perform feats that border on absurd—tearing apart several of Strife's corrupted Titankin with his bare hands, and lifting an anvil for the Grand Craftsman that you'd estimated to weigh about the same as a young dromas. Of Phainon's strength, you have no doubt. But even so—

"These doors can weigh up to about eight hundred Attic talents each." You lift a hand to rap your knuckles lightly against them for emphasis. They might be corroded and weakened from the seawater, but they're still made of solid stone. "They're mounted on internal pivot mechanisms that let them swivel open when properly unlocked. Not even ten Mountain Dwellers would be able to force them open otherwise."

Your gaze lifts.

"Besides, even if you succeeded somehow, you'd probably bring the entire temple down on top of us."

Phainon cranes his head back to follow your line of sight. He winces when he sees the crack stonework overhead, the fissures webbing across weathered lintel.

"I'd prefer not to make an acquaintance of Thanatos just yet," he agrees, though his gaze lingers on the doors for a few seconds before he glances at you, sidelong. "I suppose you know another way in?"

"Interesting assumption."

He just shrugs, still looking at you. "You don't seem too bothered by the main entryway being completely blocked off."

You cross your arms across your chest, raising a brow. What an astute observation. You're not entirely certain you appreciate being the subject of it. Turning on your heel, you nod towards the temple's shadowed depths.

"There's most likely a secondary entrance somewhere inside. Come on."

Phainon follows you past the portico and along the corridors of the peristyle. The howling of the wind gradually dwindles behind you until it fades to a distant whistle. Even in a state of abandonment, the temple's once-glory is evident—bronze basins filled with water line the walls, faded murals stretching across the inner corridors. Most of them depict Phagousa's infamous undersea banquets in jewelled shades of ultramarine and turqoise, their scenes brimming over with unrestrained indulgence and revelry. Her chalice gleams gold betwixt her pale fingers.

You gesture idly at one of the panels as you pass. "Mid-Bellican, most probably. It looks like the pigments were mixed with crushed mother-of-pearl. See the way it shimmers? Some scholars think it was meant to mimic the way light refracts beneath the sea."

Phainon listens with rapt attention. His gaze drifts from one mural to the next with open fascination as you speak. Once, you would have grown self-conscious the moment you realised you were rambling—a habit you'd unknowingly developed after wandering ancient ruins alone for years—and promptly cut yourself off mid-explanation. But over time, you'd come to recognise that Phainon's interest in the topic was genuine.

Now, it's often this sort of idle conversation that fills the silence during your long journeys together.

"How can you tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That it's Mid-Bellican." Phainon's brow furrows as he stares down one of Phagousa's many painted forms, as though she might yield the answer under sufficient scrutiny. His eyes are the same shade of blue as the waves glimmering along the murals. "I tried reading that compendium you mentioned, but I don't think there was anything about era-specific pigments."

You're faintly surprised. You'd only referenced it in passing while explaining about a Skyfolk Pavilion—you hadn't expected him to actually seek it out, much less read it.

"Oh. It's more of an inference on my part, actually. Mid-Bellica is the period where large-scale trade roads first began to appear, and Pyria was the only major exporter of maritime goods back then." A wry edge slips into your voice. "Coincidentally, it's also when Kremnos started lauching its first military campaign against the Seaside States."

You'd only added on that last part as a passing remark to yourself, but Phainon's head lifts.

"Castrum Kremnos?"

"Roads built for commerce also make it very convenient to transport siege engines and war supplies. Soldiers, too." After a moment's hesitation, you add, "I'm sure Lord Mydeimos would be more familiar with this topic than I am. You can ask him about it, if you're curious."

It's common knowledge in the Holy City—Phainon's longstanding rivalry with Kremnos' crown prince. You'd heard the stories of how they'd clashed for ten consecutive days and nights the first time they'd met; how an insignificant farm boy from some nameless, remote village had come within a hair's breadth to the heir of a nation forged by war for war. Now, both of them fight shoulder to shoulder for the Flame-Chase. Fate truly works in mysterious ways.

Phainon barks out a laugh at that. The sound travels down the length of the empty corridor, echoes back strange and distorted. "I could ask him, I suppose. Though I'm not certain if he'd entertain me…"

He scratches at the back of his head, a sheepish look spreading across his face. You send a faintly puzzled look his way.

"Aren't the two of you friends?"

He makes an odd expression at that. "We're on friendly terms. Mydei would probably disagree on the word 'friends'…" He trails off, frowning, as though the right description eludes him.

You return your gaze to the walls. You've heard other rumours as well—speculative whispers and tavern gossip about a bond that seems to run deeper than mere camaraderie. They're of no substance, of course, and you briefly consider mentioning them before you think the better of it. A pairing of two alphas is uncommon, but hardly unheard of.

Besides, whoever Phainon may or may not be involved with is none of your concern.

You quicken your pace. Your fingertips graze cool stone as your eyes scan the walls. If you listen closely enough, you can just manage to make out the faint trickle of running water… right about there.

"Allies? No, that's not quite it. Brothers-in-arms? Comrades?" Phainon hums under his breath. "Hmm… I guess comrades would be—"

"Here." You come to a sudden halt, and Phainon very nearly walks straight into your back. Only his quick reflexes save the two of you from colliding at the very last second. "Found it."

The two of you are standing before yet another door, though this one is significantly smaller. Inlaid within its surface is a series of concentric rings crafted from alternating gold and aquamarine, and at the very top, two carved fish. A shallow runnel spills from their mouths, trickles over stone. There's a clear resemblance to the door at the main entrance, though this one is, thankfully, far better preserved.

Phainon takes one look at it and sighs.

"Yet another one of those unsmashable doors?"

"There are only so many of these left across all of Amphoreus," you say, eyeing him as you return your attention to the door. "Please refrain from the urge to destroy every ancient relic you come across."

He sputters behind you.

"I was only asking!"

You turn away to hide the twitch of your lips. "Anyways, the inner sanctum should be behind this door." You drop into a crouch, tracing one finger along the carved grooves in one of the outer rings. It's bone dry, dust gathering along its tracks. When was the last time anyone made use of this entrance? "The grooves need to be aligned so that water can descend to the bottom. This might take a while."

You get to work in silence. The stone is cool beneath your palms, and each movement produces a soft, grinding click as ancient gears stir after years of disuse.

The mechanism quickly proves more intricate and challenging than you'd initially expected—the channels align and subsequently diverge, and one incorrect adjustment causes all the pooled water to drain uselessly into the sides. Things would be much easier if you could feel the flow of water like the priestesses of Phagousa back in your hometown did, you lament to yourself. Still, the lock is engaging enough, and it doesn't take you long to slip into a state of focus.

All the while, you feel a gaze resting intently on your back.

"I had a sudden thought," Phainon says.

"Don't hurt yourself," you reply absently, without looking up.

"Ha ha, very funny." Phainon ignores your jab and presses on. "Where did you learn to do all this?"

"All this?"

"All this… temple-related business." You pause, peeling your eyes from the mechanism. Phainon has positioned himself against the wall to watch you work, arms crossed loosely over his chest while one shoulder rests against stone. "You didn't study at the Grove, right? None of the schools there teach anything remotely similar, anyway."

Caprists, Erythrokeramists, Helkolithists, Lotophagists, Nodists, Venerationists, Nousporists. Phainon comes from the last and newest of them, if you remember correctly. Hyacine and Lady Castorice had, too.

You turn back to slide another ring into alignment. A thin stream of water trickles a little further along one of the grooves.

"Why the sudden curiosity?"

"It's hardly sudden. I've been trying to get to know you better for over a year now, in case you haven't noticed."

You huff out a breath that might pass for a laugh at his admission.

"And how is that going for you?"

"Terribly." You hear the sulk in his voice without seeing it. "Getting you to speak about yourself is harder than squeezing water from a rock."

He's one to talk. Phainon does speak—often, in fact,and to a remarkable degree—yet for all the words he offers, he reveals very little of substance about himself. Not deliberately, you think, because the man standing behind you isn'tone to withhold any part of himself if it would benefit another. And yet, somehow, conversations with him always turn outwards: to his hometown, to other people, anything that isn't quite truly about him. You're not certain if he's even aware of this habit himself, despite his considerable self-awareness.

Most of it is misplaced, anyway.

You decide to humour Phainon for once. "I didn't."

He perks up immediately, like a dog being thrown a bone.

"Didn't?"

"Didn't study at the Grove." Water slips along a newly aligned path, pooling in a crevice. Phainon remains silent but you can feel the curiosity radiating off him in waves. "The village I was born in was located in an area fraught with natural disasters, so they worshipped all three Titans of Foundation. The surrounding cliffs were littered with the ruins of their temples. I used to spend hours as a child playing there and talking to the gods, pretending they could answer me."

"Woah. You started out young."

You smile faintly at the sincere amazement in his tone. "I guess so."

"I remember running around Aedes Elysiae all the time with Cyrene too, when I was younger. We'd stay out past Descent Hour and our parents would find us sleeping in the wheat fields." The timbre of his voice softens. You don't have to turn around to know that there's a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. He always gets nostalgic whenever he talks about his home, and you briefly wonder what it must be like to miss your birthplace so fondly. "I bet you got up to all kinds of mischief too," he adds, the tail-end of a laugh snaking its way in.

"I did. The village elders used to make us kneel on Georios' temple steps as punishment." At the movement of another ring, a thin stream of water slips along the outer circumference. Oh, you're getting somewhere. "I almost missed it, after everyone started presenting."

"Oh. What happened?"

Phainon sounds a little more measured now. You don't spare much thought to it, mind and fingers occupied with the mechanism in front of you.

"My friends started attending courtship dances to find mates, or serving in the temples." Or at least that's what they'd said—but you'd always suspected that the truth was far simpler, and far less kind. "My village was small, so I was the only beta there at the time. They didn't kow what to do with a defect like me." You move another ring, and the water continues its slow descent down the door. "I stuck around for a year or two before I left to explore on my own. That's how I ended up in Okhema."

You keep working the door. When the silence stretches on for longer than you expect, you turn your head again, bemused.

"Phainon?"

Even in the dim light, you can just make out the tight set of his jaw. He's… unhappy, you think. About what, though, you can only guess. Hyacine once mentioned that Phainon's scent reminded her of summer warmth—vanilla and neroli and fresh linen left out to dry, sunlight distilled into something you could put in a bottle. You wonder distantly how that might change when soured by displeasure.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that."

You blink, suddenly pulled from your musings. "Like what?"

"Like calling yourself defective." The words leave him in a rush, like he's been holding his breath. "Or anything remotely similar, actually."

"I am, though," you reply, more matter-or-fact than argumentative. "No scent glands or receptors, remember?"

A troubled look flickers across Phainon's face. His gaze darts over you, a migratory bird unable to settle—like he wants to say something more but cannot find the words. Eventually, he settles on, "You should have come to Okhema earlier. If you had, you would definitely have been accepted into the Grove. The sages would have been fighting over you."

You turn back to the door, snorting softly. Almost there.

"That's so silly. I'm just a nobody."

"You're not," Phainon insists. His footsteps draw closer. You can almost imagine the stubborn set of his expression even without looking. "We would have been friends."

The notion is so ridiculous you don't even bother dignifying it with a proper response. Phainon isn't just any alpha—he's highly regarded, well-built, intelligent and good-looking to the point of envy. To make matters worse, he's kind and respectful. Omegas would have flocked to him in droves. And you… you would have remained precisely where you always do—at the periphery, unnoticed and unremarkable.

No, you want to say. We wouldn't have been.

"Professor Anaxagoras would have liked you, I think. He's always taken an interest in other betas," Phainon continues without waiting for your response, unfazed. "He used to ask the strangest questions during lectures, the sort that would send half the class struggling to figure out what he meant. Sometimes he would just up and leave in the middle of them, too."

"Wow."

"His lectures could be rather esoteric, but I think you would have gotten him. You could have woken me up, too! I kept falling asleep during classes, and the professor would call on me at the worst possible moments."

"…Perhaps."

"Though the Nousporists' cohort was rather small at the time, so you might not have been very impressed by it…" Phainon hums, as though genuinely considering the thought. "Which school do you think you would have gone to?"

"The Venerationists, most likely." The answer slips out without your meaning to, and you pause. "…what are you doing, Phainon?"

Phainon holds your gaze. There is nothing overt in his expression—no usual teasing smile, no easy deflection—yet the attention in his eyes feels strangely intent. The sort of look that makes you suddenly aware of yourself, as though he's not merely looking through you but at you. You shift slightly, a strange unease stirring beneath your skin wherever his gaze lands.

Right before you can look away, Phainon drops his gaze first. "Nothing. Just wondering what it would have been like, if the two of us had been students at the Grove together. Oh!" He ducks his head to riffle through the satchel tied to his belt, fumbling for a moment before producing a pastry—some of the flatbread the serving girl had given him earlier. "I just remembered that you like this. Snack?"

Normally, you'd reach for pita without second thought. Now, there's something making you hesitate.

"…My hands are dirty."

Phainon beams. He holds it up to your mouth, excuse rolling off him like water off a duck's back. After a brief moment of reluctance, you lean forward and take a small bite.

It's good. Warm and airy and soft. You don't know why that's annoying you so much.

Between growing bites of flatbread and several more rounds of trial and error, you finally manage to coax the rings into proper alignment. When the last one slides into place, the water at the top finally begins to flow unimpeded, racing along the newly connected grooves to pour into the narrow channel at the base of the door. The mechanism within the stone whirs, so low you can feel it grating in the back of your skull. Faint blue light seeps through.

Soundlessly, the doors part.

You exchange glances, and Phainon reaches up to pluck one of the torches from its sconce. The two of you step through the doorway. The firelight flickers across the walls, revealing rows of pockmarked recesses—probably where jewels or inlays once rested, long since pried free. The work of temple robbers, most likely. Your footsteps echo softly as the passage opens into a small, gilded chamber.

Mounted upon the far wall is a massive fish-shaped gargoyle carved from pale stone. Its lips are parted over a shallow basin that looks bone dry, its surface cracked and dulled with age. It's as though the poor creature has been begging for water for years.

"That's it," you murmur, starting forward.

Phainon's hand closes around your upper arm before you can take more than a few steps. "Wait."

There's a sharp undercurrent in his voice that makes you halt at once, hands instinctively withdrawing to your chest. He's already still, head tilted ever so slightly to listen. You follow his line of sight despite seeing nothing.

And then, you hear it.

It starts off faint—so faint you could almost mistake it for breath, or a trick played on your ears by your hypervigilant mind—almost like what you would imagine whalesong to sound like. But this sounds less of a song and more of a wail. It echoes through the corridor in slow, undulating waves, rising and falling like the tide, gradually getting louder.

Getting closer.

"Abyssal sea sirens," Phainon echoes your thoughts. A pale glow gathers in his left hand, outstretched, his greatsword materialising within his grasp. The flickering flames catch in his eyes as he holds out the torch to you, and he smiles briefly, reassuring. "Stay behind me, alright?"

"I don't have a death wish," you mutter, but you take the torch anyway.

The words have barely left your mouth when monsters spill into the inner sanctum—amorphous, ink-dark shapes resembling all manner of marine creatures, illuminated by an eerie, violet glow. Titankin of Phagousa, gone mad in their search for the broken pieces of her chalice. They're nothing more than mindless Black Tide creatures now.

Phainon surges forward to meet them, a dam bracing against a rising swell head-on. Never before did you think that you would describe fighting as beautiful, until you'd watched Phainon fight for the first time. His greatsword cleaves through the tide in brutal, sweeping arcs, silent grunts slipping past his teeth with each strike. You remain pressed against the wall behind him, torch gripped tightly in your useless fingers. The rupturned Titankin crumble into brittle fragments that clatter against the stone ground.

He makes quick work of them. The sirens wail—thin, distorted echoes that ripple through the chamber—but their voices have since lost whatever power they once held. Their warped forms shatter beneath his blade until the ground is littered with lifeless stone husks, their eerie glow fading into nothing.

Only when the last of them breaks apart does the tension in Phainon's stance finally ease. He turns back to you almost immediately, the weapon in his hand dissipating into a scatter of fading light.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

You don't know why he bothered asking. Not a single Titankin made it past his guard. The torch in your hand wavers slightly, its light dancing across the slopes and planes of his face. The corners of your mouth dip into a frown when you catch sight of a thin scratch along his cheek.

"…You're bleeding."

It's minor, more the result of stray fragments than any real injury, but golden ichor still beads along the side of his face, the colour of ripened wheat under sunlight. Phainon lifts a hand; it comes away smeared on his fingertips.

You reach for your satchel. "I have a—"

"No need." He waves it off with a short laugh and, when your frown deepens, quickly continues. "We should hurry. There might be more sea sirens still lurking in the temple."

A protest lingers at the tip of your tongue, but he's not without sense. Yet the irritation remains. Phainon has always been like this since the first day Aglaea introduced you both—so quick to dismiss himself, his own well-being, as though he is the least important thing in any given situation. You're just about to give voice to the thought when your gaze suddenly lands on the fish gargoyle behind him.

A sudden idea sparks in your mind.

"I have an idea," you say, grabbing Phainon by the sleeve of his coat. "Come with me."

Phainon quirks a brow at you, clearly bemused, but he allows himself to be tugged over to the basin without protest. You drop his sleeve and turn your attention to the gargoyle, leaning forward to peer into the pipe hidden within the fish's mouth. The interior is cast into shadow, pale stone worn smooth by centuries of running water. At the moment, it's tragically dry.

You slide your hand into its maw. Your wrist and forearm disappear past its thick lips, shoulder twisting with the awkward angle. After a few seconds of rooting about the back of its throat, your fingers meet something solid.

It's clogged with debris, most likely. You're not certain how it got there, but the more pressing matter still stands: you don't know how to get it out. The channel is too narrow to properly dislodge by hand, andyou have no way of checking how far the blockage extends. If only you could get the water flowing once more, even for just a moment…

You exhale softly, withdrawing your hand to press a palm against the carved gills.

"Are you going to…?"

Phainon leans in almost unconsciously. It's as though the sight never grows mundane to him, no matter the number of times he's witnessed it. You push aside the sudden distraction of his attention, his proximity, focusing instead of recalling the words you've long committed to memory.

"O Oronyx, Lord of Time, Weaver of the Evernight Veil…"

For a brief instant, the air itself seems to still. A second of silence, and then a faint rattling begins to echo from deep within the pipe as the grains of Oronyx's hourglass flow back upwards. It's followed by a sputtering gurgle, the sound of trapped water attempting to force its way through, and Phainon bends over the rim to peer up into the fish's throat just as the final clump of debris collapses into another pocket of time.

Water rushes out in a sudden rush. It bursts from the gargoyle's mouth in a powerful stream, directly into Phainon's face. He sputters.

You drag him out of the way in alarm, but it's too late. Phainon stands before you, mouth slightly agape and completely drenched from head to toe. Water streams from his hair in steady rivulets, darkening the white of his coat to a dull grey, dripping from the tails. He blinks the wetness out of those too blue eyes before they fall on you. Your teeth catch your bottom lip on instinct, bracing yourself for the irritation that is sure to follow.

"I—"

Instead, Phainon just starts laughing.

"Was this the idea you had in mind?" Phainon manages between sputtering giggles as he scrubs a hand over his face. You hastily step forward to help without thinking, and he lowers his head to meet you halfway, eyes slipping shut while you wipe at his forehead and cheeks with your sleeve. A faint pang of guilt rises in your chest all the same.

"Ahh—no. Water blessed by Phagousa is meant to possess restorative properties…" A trace of embarrassment slips into your voice. "Apologies. I wasn't expecting the water to just surge out like that."

"No worries. It was my fault, sticking my head there like I did. Woah." Phainon's eyes flutter open again when you withdraw your hand. He lifts his own to touch the cut along his cheek—or rather, where it'd been. He rubs over the spot a few times, brows raised. "Restorative properties, you said?"

"The ancient texts say its supposed to soothe the soul. It mends minor wounds and cleanses the body, too."

"Well, I've definitely been cleansed." Phainon smiles around a humoured exhale, pushing back the damp hair clinging to his forehead. The two of you watch the gargoyle in silence for a moment. Water gushes now from its mouth in a steady stream, the sound of it echoing gently through the enclosed chamber as it pours into the basin. From there, it must flow down to beneath the temple grounds, and eventually, the Soul-Purifying Spring in the town.

You linger just long enough to ensure the flow remains steady, before turning to the exit.

"Let's get out of here."

That night, the town celebrates.

The people have strung up burning lamps along the perimeter of the square, their flames reflecting in the now rippling waters of the Soul-Purifying Spring. While the air still clings to the heat of the day, the temperature's dropped together with the setting sun, just enough to be pleasant. A pair of brewers had cracked open a cask earlier in the evening, too—vinted with water from the Spring," they'd proudly declared.

Now, that amber liquid swishes in your cup as you idle at the edge of the agora. Water spills endlessly over the lip of the fountain, as though it'd never ceassed flowing in the first place.

"I'm glad to see you stayed," a familiar voice says.

You look up just as Phainon lowers himself onto the diphros next to you. His own cup is grasped loosely between his slender fingers, eyes glimmering like cut sapphires in the firelight. There's already the beginnings of a flush high on his cheeks—the combined result of drink and spending the past hour fending off a crowd of admiring townsfolk. They'd swarmed him when you'd returned from the temple earlier, and it'd been almost amusing to watch his increasingly frazzled—and futile—attempts at redirecting the praise while you observed from a short distance away.

"It's not as though I had much of a choice." You return your gaze to the fountain, lifting your cup to take a measured sip. The honey brew is a tad smokier than what you're used to but goes down remarkably smooth.

If it had been up to you, you would have long retired to the rooms the townspeople had provided for the night. Or at the very least, spent the remainder of the evening sorting through the supplies they'd given you. As it stands, the townspeople had unsurprisingly insisted that Phainon join their celebrations. Phainon had all but begged you to join.

Well, the atmosphere is lively enough, and spirits are high. The drink is good, too.

"It's only right that you're here. You did most of the heavy lifting." Phainon leans over to nudge your shoulder with his. He seems to have shed both his pauldrons and his coat, leaving him only in his lighter underlayers. It makes him look more unburdened, you think. Less like the Chrysos Heir of Okhema and more like any other young man simply enjoying the evening. He glances sideways at you, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes. "You vanished rather efficiently earlier, by the way."

"Easy to do when you don't have a scent. Watch."

You thrust out your free hand, wriggling your fingers in his face before you let it fall back into your lap. Phainon stares at you, clearly bemused.

"What was that supposed to do?"

"It's how I disappear. You can't see me any longer."

He stares down at your hand, then back up at you. The corner of his mouth twitches inelegantly.

"Oh, dear. Where did you go?"

"Precisely."

Phainon manages one—no, two sharp exhales through the nose, before his restraint breaks.

The sound of his laughter rings through the air, soon joined by the soft pluck of stringed instruments. A few musicians have brought out what seems to be lyres while someone starts an upbeat rhythm on the castanets. The music falls into a jaunty tune. It doesn't take long for the townsfolk to begin drifting towards the fountain, forming a loose circle around it for a dance.

It doesn't take long for someone to notice Phainon, either. The serving girl from the tavern spots him from across the square. She breaks away from the dance circle to make a beeline straight for him, catching him by the sleeve before he can react.

"Please, join us for a dance, Sir Phainon!" Her smile is still abashed but wide with expentance. Her early shyness has clearly been dispelled by drink and festive atmosphere. "You musn't refuse!"

She doesn't so much as spare you a glance. There are a pair of ribbons braided into her hair now, twin ends trailing down her shoulders. Silk, cornflower blue. Phainon blinks, visibly flustered by the sudden attention.

"Ah, I'm not sure if—"

"Everyone is excited to meet you," she continues brightly, tugging at his arm. "They want to hear more about that massive sword you carry!"

"I'm really quite terrible at dancing, so—"

"That doesn't matter! The fun of it is in the mingling, isn't it?"

She manages to displace him a few inches closer to the fountain, and Phainon glances back at you helplessly from the half-crouch he's risen into, his eyes a silent plea. He is, you've come to realise, remarkably terrible at saying no on his own behalf. Any other time, you would have found it faintly amusing, almost endearing, even. But now…

You banish that thought before you can finish it, tilting your cup at him with a raised brow. Go on.

Phainon hesitates, seemingly torn. Then, abruptly, he changes tactics.

"Come with me," he says. The blue of his eyes softens in the firelight as he looks back at you. He holds out a hand, fingers outstretched in invitation. "Just one dance."

"I don't dance."

"Neither do I. You can learn with me." There's something almost beseeching in Phainon's tone now. The same sort of careful persistence he's been directing at you for weeks, perhaps months now, that you've never allowed yourself to interpret. You drop your eyes back to the cup in your hands. "It'll only be for a little while. Please?"

"Don't worry about her, Sir Phainon," the serving girl interjects, already starting to pull at his sleeve again. "She'll be fine here."

"But—"

"You heard her," you cut in evenly. "I'll be fine here. Don't keep everyone waiting, Phainon."

Phainon's expression falters for just a brief second—something frustrated and unreadable flickering across his face—before it vanishes, like a trick of the firelight. When he turns back to the serving girl, he's traded his disappointed countenance for a polite, gentle smile, and he allows himself to be pulled over to the fountain. The dancers part readily to make room for him.

The music quickens, lapses into a vivacious triple-beat. You watch them circle the fountain without really observing, sipping idly at your honey brew. Phainon's not a practiced dancer—or any sort of dancer, for that matter—his feet shuffle awkwardly, the effortless grace he shows in combat entirely absent here. The serving girl spins him beneath the lamplight anyway, their feet moving in tandem across the painted flagstones. Her intent is unmistakeable in the way she moves—the subtle lean of her shoulder towards him, the light brush of her palm against his as she guides him through a turn. An invitation to scent, to mingle.

You lower your gaze to your cup. The drink is good—strong, heady, the taste of honey lingering uncloyingly on your tongue. And yet, for all its sweetness, it is a poor consolation for the situation you've put yourself in.

Phainon's voice carries easily across the square, and your attention betrays you by honing in on that sound with frustrating precision. It's as though some part of you has become irrevocably attuned to him without your permission, despite your knowledge that such a thing would be biologically impossible. And yet, you seem to notice him all the same.

He laughs again. You don't look up, raising your cup once more to drain it instead.

It's easier than putting a name to the emotion stirring inside your chest.

The two of you set off the next day as planned at the break of dawn, the sun hanging low in a sky the colour of overripe plum. The townsfolk are still fast asleep or only just beginning to stir, worn out from a night of dancing and revelry in Phagousa's honour that had stretched long past Curtain-Fall Hour. The road to Loukas stretches north, further than your eyes can follow, though the map assures you that the terrain should be mostly forgiving—wide paths, gentle inclines, a little more than the occasional ridge to break the monotony. An easy stretch of travel, all things considered.

Despite this, Phainon is drinking more water than usual.

Not excessively enough for you to remark on outright, but enough to noticeable. The two of you stop by streams and rivers more frequently than you're accustomed to, his water skin seemingly always emptying before yous. You also catch him wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand more often than should be necessary. The repetitive motion makes you frown.

At first, you manage to brush it off. Perhaps he simply had one cup too many last nights—he's always been terrible at holding his alcohol, and it wouldn't be the first time he's felt its aftereffects longer than he should have. But when the same behaviour carries into the next day, and then the one after that, that same reasoning begins to wear thin at the edges.

You confront him eventually one afternoon, rounding on him beneath the shade of an olive tree.

"Phainon."

"Yeah?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Hm?" He glances over, blinking once, then twice. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You don't look fine."

"That's not a very polite thing to say."

You gesture at the waterskin he's holding to his lips, ignoring his attempt at humour. "That's the third drink you've had in the past quint."

Phainon pauses as if to consider it. "I'm thirsty?"

"You're also sweating more than usual."

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't, with how the weather's cooking us alive."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes to Aquila. You don't know why you even bothered with questions—he'd give you the same answer even if impaled through the gut by a Titankin's arrow. You settle for studying him out of the corner of your eye instead. His complexion is slightly off as he continues to drink from his waterskin, a faint flush high on his cheeks that bleeds down his neck and beneath the collar of his undershirt. Aside from this, he seems lively enough to walk it off, so you decide to let it go—for now.

The road continues to wind steadily north. Along the way, you insist on longer breaks in the shade, inns over roadside camps. But despite your deliberate efforts to slow your pace, Phainon's condition only seems to worsen.

He comments on the heat more frequently. He's also taken to tugging absently at the collar of his shirt, whether he's in the sun or not, fingers dragging roughly over the sun-mark at the side of his neck. And yet, no matter how many times you bring it up, Phainon dismisses your concern with the same, stubborn insistence—I'm fine, just a little under the weather, it's nothing unbearable.

The more you push, the more determinedly Phainon shoves back. That much is predictable. But what really concerns you is the inexplicable shift in his temperament. Usually, Phainon is the one to converse with strangers—the obvious choice between the two of you—with his charisma and genuine warmth. Now, you're not so sure. At times, his replies have come out more clipped than yours—an achievement in itself—and he's even begun interrupting your conversations on occasion, something you have never known him to do.

You give him a pass the first time, then the second. He's unwell, and therefore more irritable. But the third time he does it, cuts short yet another harmless exchange for directions, your patience finally wears thin.

"Phainon!" you hiss, rounding on him once the confused traveler is out of earshot. "What are you doing?"

Phainon blinks before stiffening. His gaze still lingers in the direction the man you'd been speaking to left, eyes faintly narrowed. They drop to you when you plant yourself squarely in his line of sight, though, the sharpened edge of his expression faltering before he manages to paste a half-convincing smile over it.

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

You drag a hand through your hair and back, frustrated. You can't believe that you, of all people, are the one telling him this.

"You can't give people death stares for helping us."

His lips press into a thin line. "I was just watching him. He was standing too close to you."

"He was looking at the map I was holding."

A complicated expression mars Phainon's delicate features. His normally pleasant countenance falters, hands working into fists before he tugs at the edge of his coat.

"…He was trying to scent you," he mutters.

Now that takes you slightly aback. Scenting. It's always been a foreign concept to you, part of a world you've never and will never be able to understand. When you think back to the exchange, though, the man had been standing rather close, one hand resting lightly on your elbow as he leaned in to glance at your maps. At the time, you'd simply dismissed it as simple curiosity.

Had he been trying to scent you then? The thought of a stranger doing so without your notice is… uncomfortable at best. But that's not the point right now.

"Even if he was, it shouldn't matter to you." You cross your arms, heels digging in stubbornly. "I'm just a beta. Scenting doesn't mean anything—"

"It does!"

The force with which those words leave his mouth startles you both. Phainon falters almost immediately, brow knitting. A faint tremor runs through his hands before he curls them into tight fists at his sides.

"It meant that he wanted—" Phainon cuts himself off abruptly. His jaw tightens even as the rest of him seems to shrink in on himself. Vanilla and aternoon sunlight and sharp neroli. It's as though he can't decide whether to double down or swallow the thought back into his mouth entirely. "It meant that he was… interested."

In you, goes unsaid.

You stare at him, barely comprehending the words. You're still attempting to wrap your head around the intensity of his previous response. He's never raised his voice—not like that, at least—before.

"Oh. O—Okay…"

Phainon meets your uncertain look for a long, drawn out moment. There's a volatile tempest behind those too blue eyes, a whirlpool of emotion churning until the tension in his expression suddenly gives way.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I just—I don't know why I did that either. I just…"

Phainon trails off, helpless. All his earlier defensiveness seems to have crumbled like poorly constructed stone fortifications, leaving him strangely disoriented. It's a jarring sight. Phainon normally carries himself with the effortless sort of confidence that makes everything seem easy. Seeing that certainty stripped from him is…

He tugs at his collar again, lower lip catching briefly between his teeth—an anxious tick you've come to recognise in him. All in all, Phainon looks downright miserable.

It's impossible to remain upset. You sigh, the last of your irritation dissolving in the face of his distress, and reach out to squeeze his wrist.

"It's okay," you say. You try to be gentle—you don't know if you manage. It's almost akin to soothing a spooked oryx—jittery, skittish, and all too ready to bolt. "But you're starting to worry me. If this, whatever this is, gets worse, we'll go to the healer the first town we come across. Alright?"

Phainon inhales an unsteady breath through his teeth. For a moment, you think he might still protest—the delay in the mission, that he can still go on—but he doesn't. The tension in his shoulders linger for a beat longer before he finally releases it, fingers curling loosely around your own.

"…Alright."

You wake the next morning to the insistent glare of morning sunlight.

You refuse to open them at first. They're unbearably heavy, as they often are after sleeping rough on the road, and you turn on your side with a groan in a futile attempt to hide from daybreak. Alas, sleep refuses to take you back into its embrace, the growing warmth and brightness too persistent to ignore.

You lie where you are for an indefinite span of time, half-awake but unmoving. The camp is oddly silent.

"Phainon?" you mutter, voice still thick with sleep. No response.

A faint crease forms between your brows despite the lingering grogginess. You push yourself up onto one elbow, lips parting midway between a frown and a yawn.

"Phainon?"

Still nothing.

That's strange. The sun is bright enough to pierce through the foliage—it must be well past Entry Hour now. Phainon usually wakes you before then, if not with a warm hand on your shoulder then with the sounds of him tearing down the camp, despite his best attempts to be quiet. You're almost certain he couldn't sleep in even if his life were to depend on it.

So, the only reason you could be waking up to sun instead of his usual, overly cheerful greeting is—

You kick off the threadbare blanket covering your legs and scramble to your feet. Your heart lurches into an uneven pound all the way up in your throat. The worry only eases somewhat when your eyes find his bedroll, with a familiar, Phainon-shaped lump beneath the loose drape of his coat.

You hurry over regardless, too impatient to pull on your boots. Loose sand and grit shifts beneath your feet.

Phainon is seemingly fast asleep, his back turned to you rising and falling steadily with each breath. You crouch next to him and grasp his shoulder, gently rolling him over with the intent to shake him awake.

Instead, you find him shivering.

Phainon's face is tight with discomfort, even in sleep, complexion flushed under the morning light flitering through the trees. Loose tendrils cling damply to his temples and the nape of his neck. Concerned, you press a hand to his forehead at once and a small moan slips past his lips as he leans instinctively into your touch, hands curling against his chest.

He's burning up. Your hand drops to his cheek, then to his neck. He's feverish everywhere, skin clammy with cold sweat.

You reach up to shake him. "Phainon," you repeat, more urgenly this time. "Phainon, wake up—"

His fingers close around your wrist. Before you can react, Phainon tugs, and you pitch forward with a startled gasp. The next thing you know, you're half-sprawled over him, one hand braced beside his head while the other remains caught in his grasp. His fingertips are searing points of heat against the skin of your inner wrist. There is only the distance of a hand's breadth between the two of you, and this close, the fever radiates off him like heat from a charcoal brazier, seeping through the damp material of his undershirt.

Phainon blinks down at you, gaze fevered and heavy-lidded. If he's aware of the compromising position he's put the two of you in, he doesn't show it.

"It's hot…"

You swallow hard at the peculiar quality his voice seems to have taken. Focus. The nearest town is still some distance away, and you don't know if Phainon can even stand, let alone walk there.

"Can you—"

You don't get to finish your sentence. Phainon drags you closer still, his other arm sliding around your waist. You're too disoriented to respond, mind empty of everything except the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his hand spread at your lower back. His face buries itself in the crook of your neck with a quiet noise that sounds almost like a whimper, the tip of his nose pressing against your jaw before tracing down your jugular, breath hot and moist against the sensitive skin there and you—

"Phainon!"

You wrench yourself back on instinct, one hand flying to your neck. Your entire face is hot. It's unmistakeable, what he'd been trying to do. Seeking for a scent gland there—where they would typically be on an alpha or omega—on you.

No one has ever tried to scent you there before. Not your own family when you were still young and unpresented, and not any of the few beta partners you'd taken into your bed since. The strangeness of it all leaves you more rattled than it should.

"You…" If you had any subsequent words, they fail you now.

Phainon clutches at his coat as he sits up fully, fingers digging like claws into the fabric as though it's the only thing anchoring him. It looks as though some awareness is returning to him, but his gaze is still unfocused, pale lashes trembling as he blinks. He shivers as though seized by a sudden chill.

'Sorry—" he starts, one hand coming up to clutch weakly at his collar. He tries to muster a smile but fails. "I—"

"Don't apologise."

"Sorry." He apologises again immediately before he cringes, shoulders curling inward. "I… I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what happened, I just…"

"I said don't."

You're struck with the sudden, almost absurd desire for Phainon to make a joke. Some ridiculous, inane remark that would have you hitting his shoulder and him grinnng playfully at you. It doesn't feel that long ago that the two of you were bickering over landmarks and maps, trading verbal jabs with familiar ease. How did things turn south so quickly, without warning?

If only you could bottle the water from that Soul-Purifying Spring. How inconvenient that it loses its potency once removed from its source. You purse your lips around a frustrated sigh.

"We're heading to town," you announce before Phainon can say any more. You're not in the mood to hear any more undeserved penitence from him. "Sit here. We'll leave once I'll pack up camp."

"But I—"

The look that you throw at Phainon shuts him up. He must really be feeling unwell, because he doesn't even try to insist on helping. Instead, he sits where he is, the lower half of his face pressed into his coat's collar as he watches you stamp out the remains of the fire with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

By some stroke of fortune, a merchant with a mule-drawn cart pass the two of you on the road to town. He takes one look at Phainon and immediately reins in, concern spreading across his face before you even have to ask.

"Thank you for stopping," you say, unable to keep the tight worry from your voice as he clambers down from his cart. He has a round face, soft eyes, a pleasant sort of smile that lingers as he takes in the two of you. His gaze flicks between you and Phainon.

"Your partner?" he asks curiously, as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking.

"Oh—no, no. A friend."

The merchant nods easily and helps you load your things onto the cart. Phainon, however, seems to want nothing to do with him—each time the man comes too close, Phainon lurches away weakly, expression tightening like he's caught whiff of something unpleasant.

"Phainon," you whisper when the man moves to the front to soothe his mule, impatient with the delay. "What is with you?"

You feel more than hear Phainon swallow against your shoulder, fingers tightening in your sleeve. When he answers, his voice is small and muffled.

"…His scent."

"What about it?"

"It's making me nauseous."

Now, the man doesn't smell particularly pleasant—judging by the faint briny scent clinging to him, his line of trade is probably in fish and the like—but nothing that should warrant such a strong reaction. You frown, dismayed at his lack of courtesy and how much his condition seems to have deteriorated.

"You can't just say that he smells bad." It feels almost absurd that you have to say this at all. But Phainon just shakes his head, the movement tight.

"Not—Not his smell." He pauses, grimacing, as though struggling to find the words. "It's his scent." You're only slightly bewildered. What's the difference? "It's not that he smells bad, it's just that I can't—"

"I can ride at the front, if it makes him more comfortable."

Phainon's hold on your arm tightens to almost a vice grip. The way his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve is almost… possessive, if you had to put a word to it. You ignore that line of thought to turn to the merchant, a hurried apology already on your lips, but he only waves it off gently.

"Don't worry, I understand." He offers you a reassuring smile. "I'm an omega, after all."

You're not entirely sure what that is supposed to mean, but you don't have the luxury of mind to dwell on it. You help Phainon into the back of the cart as the merchant climbs onto his mule. The moment you settle on the thin straw mat that's been laid out, Phainon slumps heavily against you, the heat of his body seeping through both your clothes and his.

He's far too warm.

You manage to fish your waterskin from your satchel, soaking a handkerchief against your palm before pressing it carefully to his forehead. Phainon exhales softly at the contact. His head lolls whenever the cart rocks and sways along the uneven roads, eventually settling on your shoulder.

You almost think he’s fallen asleep when he suddenly pipes up, voice faint and slurred.

"I'm sorry..."

“I told you, don’t apologise.”

"Sorry..."

You huff out an exhale. "You sound like you're dying," you mutter instead, because it's easier than giving voice to the hundred other emotions you're feeling at the moment.

There’s a brief stretch of silence after that, broken only by the creaking of the cart and the uneven rhythm of Phainon's breathing. The wheels of the cart turn over the dirt road. He speaks again.

"The dancers by the founatin…"

You sigh. "Stop talking and go to—"

"I had fun dancing with them."

Something heavy in your chest sinks, a millstone vanishing beneath the dark water.

"Oh."

A pause. You can feel Phainon swallow where his face is half-hidden against your shoulder.

"…I wanted to dance with you, too."

"…Oh."

Phainon doesn't say anything more after that. He seems to have drifted off, breathing slow and uneven where it brushes the side of your neck. The sensation prickles faintly like warmed needles everywhere his breath touches. You fix your eyes on the road stretching out behind the cart and pointedly refuse to dwell on it.

"Seems to be a pretty bad one," the merchant says. You look up to see him glancing back at the two of you from the front, swaying with each slow plod of his mule. His warm brown eyes are soft with sympathy. "Take good care of him, eh?"

Your gaze drops involuntarily to the man next to you. His pale lashes lie against fever-flush cheeks as he sleeps, lips parting around each exhale.

"I will."

He doesn't have to tell you that.

you shift, hungry for more, and he settles between your thighs, the thick head of his cock catching against the slight dip of your cunt. he ruts up again, pressing just hard enough to start to spread you open, even through the fabric. you hiss out a breath and jolt when it's swallowed down by the afterimage of lips against yours, a cool tongue dipping into your mouth.

phainon kisses you with an eagerness that makes your face heat. he wants, you think, and you're not sure you remember him wanting before. it was always what was best for others—for you. as if he'd put away his own desires, locked them tight into a space behind his ribs.

you turn your head, chest heaving. you get an nip on the jaw for it, but you scowl at him. (you think.)

"one of us has to breathe," you tell him.

he doesn't seem bothered by your reprimand; there's frost dragging down your neck. you part your lips, but he rolls his hips again, spreading your legs further around the bulk of him.

when you glance down, there's a wet spot near the waistline of your shorts. it grows bigger as phainon thrusts against, the fabric darkening.

you shove at phainon as best you can—hitting thin air at least twice—and his weight lifts, somehow coming across as reluctant.

you sit up. your bed is dipping at your feet; he's kneeling, he's waiting for permission. but you're focused on the little gleaming bead of fluid that's starting to drip down, barely outlining the head of his cock.

you reach forward without thinking, dragging your fingertips across it.

it's thicker than pre, you think. you can't quite make sense of it.

you pop your fingers into your mouth.

you don't even have time to process the feel of it before phainon's weight is on you again. you yelp as you hit your mattress, pinned beneath him, his hands desperate, sinking into the plush of you.

he licks into your mouth as he presses you down. you can feel the heft of his cock; he ruts against you as if he needs it. needs you.

he palms your tit, skimming over your nipple. the sensation is blunted by your shirt, but it's still a flint-strike thing, just enough to start to catch.

he thrusts against you hard; eager. you cant your hips to meet him. you move with him as best you can. heat starts to curl up your spine, sparks to kindling.

you pant into his mouth as he bears down on you. your underwear is sticking to you, the wet fabric clinging to your cunt.

phainon ruts against you faster, almost desperate. you can't match him. you give in, spreading your legs wider to give him more space. his cock finds the seam of your cunt even through your shorts, pressing it apart just enough to make you want more, more, more.

"phainon," you gasp, trying to buck into him.

he jerks against you.

the chill registers first. the damp comes next. his weight settles heavy on you, but only for a moment. he rolls off when you bat at him, though he stays close, the soft cold of him radiating against your side.

you sit up and slip a hand down. his cum is thick, the texture strange, almost goo-like. it webs between your fingers, glimmers oddly. it starts to roll down your fingers, honey-slow. you spread them to watch the strings of it snap.

the rest of it is starting to soak through your shorts. you shiver as it does, glancing down.

your shorts are a mess.

"that better not stain," you grumble.

a hand grabs your ankle. before you can protest, you're flat on your back again.

a cool mouth settles against the curve of your thigh, sucking gently. it almost feels repentant.

phainon noses his way up to the warmth between your legs. a promise of making it up to you.

and he does.