argentique

argenti's #1 glazer. 20+

[redstonedust]

i understand (on paper) why companies are anti-piracy but its funny when random individuals are also strongly anti-piracy. like how does it negatively affect your life if someone you know downloads a cracked torrent of sims 4. you dont work for EA. EA isnt gonna pay you for this. you lose nothing. its fine. chill out.

[gojonigiru]

FAKE IT 'TIL YOU MAKE IT

You’ve been invited to your cousin’s destination wedding. Fortunately, the flight and accommodations are already taken care of. Unfortunately, showing up without a date isn’t an option. Asking your best friend, Phainon, to be your plus one seems like the perfect solution—that is, until your family assumes he’s your boyfriend.

⟢ FEATURES: phainon x f!reader, modern au, fake dating, fluff, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers, LOTS of denial from mc (i swear the first half of the fic is just her denying everything haha it’s sickening <- wrote it), possibly ooc anaxa, phainon being a tease

⟢ WORD COUNT: 14,306

⟢ NOTE: my writing was dog water (inconsistent) here i’m not gonna lie so please excuse it bwahahahah. you know what took me so long to finish this chapter? anaxa. he doesn’t really have a lot of lines but i don’t know how to write him without being too??? not anaxa???? good luck to me writing the next chapter because he’ll be there too x___x and yes, you’re not seeing things! there’s actually going to be a third part to this (maybe even a fourth too with the rate i’m going ,,,) bc i feel like i’ve been working on this for too long and i’m kinda sick of phainon nyahahaha /lh pls enjoy!!!

⟢ CHAPTERS: one┇two┇three

⟢ ALSO ON: ao3

PHAIKE DATING PLAYLIST <3

The coffee shop is empty.

The lights are still on, but there are no customers left—only the low murmur of voices behind the counter. Caelus, March, and Dan Heng are clustered together, clearly mid-conversation, when March is the first to notice you. Her eyes light up immediately and she practically vibrates where she sits.

“Boss Ma’am! Mister Phainon!” she chirps, waving both hands like she’s been waiting for you all day.

Caelus follows her gaze next, grinning the moment he spots you. “You guys got back early!”

Dan Heng turns last. “Welcome back, Miss.”

“Yeah,” you say, setting your bag down by the counter. “We wrapped things up faster than expected.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. Too early to be exhausted, but too late for customers. You look back at them.

“Actually,” you say, “you guys can head out early tonight. I’m thinking of closing up soon.”

March tilts her head. “Closing up early?”

You nod. “Phainon and I need to talk about some things.”

In an instant, Caelus’s grin sharpens, March’s eyes sparkle like you’ve just dangled the promise of premium gossip in front of her, and even Dan Heng looks curious.

“We can help clean first,” Dan Heng says almost too casually. “There’s no rush.”

“Yeah!” March hops off the stool. “We can finish up the remaining dishes and wipe everything down. It won’t take long!”

Caelus stretches, hands folding behind his head. “Might as well make ourselves useful before you kick us out, right?”

The other two nods in agreement.

“You kids don’t really have to—”

Dan Heng cuts you off, even softly shaking his head. “It’s fine, Miss,” he says.

March claps her hands together. “Oh! Before we start… do you guys want drinks?”

You glance at Phainon, who only smiles at you. You sigh. “Just water is fine.”

“I’ll have the same,” Phainon says.

March clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Only water? You old people are boring.” And then almost immediately, she brightens. “Coming right up!”

She darts toward the back, Caelus following behind her with enthusiasm and a dramatic salute sent your way. Dan Heng, on the other hand, trails after them more quietly. Their voices fade into the back, replaced by the clink of dishes and the sound of running water. And just like that, the front of the cafe is quiet again.

It’s just you and Phainon now.

You clear your throat. “Let’s sit,” you say, gesturing toward a table.

Phainon nods easily and pulls out a chair for you before taking the one across. He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the backrest.

“Okay,” you begin, folding your hands on the table like you’re about to negotiate a business contract instead of fake date your best friend. “Ground rules.”

Phainon rests his forearms on the table. “Alright,” he says, “I’m listening.”

“So, first of all—we need a timeline. If anyone asks, we’ve been dating for… not too long.” You grimace. “If we say it’s been years, my mom will interrogate me about why I never told her.”

Phainon hums in agreement. “A few months then?”

“Three?” you say immediately. “I think three is safe. It’s long enough to seem stable, but also short enough to explain why it’s not… public knowledge.”

He smiles faintly, nodding. “Three months it is.”

“Second—” You bring up two fingers, “public displays of affection. We shouldn’t overdo it. It’ll look suspicious.”

“How much is ‘not overdoing it’?” he asks.

“Like… casual? Holding hands or maybe an arm around the waist is necessary. But—strictly—no kissing.”

Phainon looks contemplative. “Not even a peck?”

You stare at him.

He raises both hands in surrender. “Just clarifying.”

“No kissing,” you repeat, firm. “Absolutely not.”

It feels more like a reminder for yourself than for him, words coming out sharper than you intend, like you’re drawing a line using a permanent marker rather than a pencil.

Kissing is not casual—at least not when it involves you and your best friend who you most definitely do not have feelings for anymore. It’s not like lacing fingers together or resting a hand on someone’s waist for the sake of performance. And you already know yourself well enough to understand that you wouldn’t be able to file it under just pretend.

You’d think about it later—alone in your room, staring at the ceiling—and replay it frame by frame. You’d wonder whether it felt real to him or if he’d just been acting. You’d analyze the pressure of his lips, the tilt of his head, the breath between you. You’d probably memorize it and that would ruin everything.

You don’t think you can look at Phainon the same way ever again if that happens.

“Okay,” he says easily, softly.

“Good,” you say, quick. “Glad we’re aligned.”

Phainon doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks thoughtful. “Alright,” he says. “No kissing.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes your ears burn. You clear your throat. “Next—pet names.”

His brows lift slightly. “We’re also making up pet names for each other?”

“Yes,” you say, and you hate that your voice comes out a little firm. “Couples have them all the time. I think it’ll be weird if we don’t.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Okay. Let’s test some out then.”

That sounds like a terrible idea, but— “Fine,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel fine. “You go first.”

He doesn’t hesitate, “Baby.”

You inhale wrong. “Absolutely not,” you cough out, choking on absolutely nothing and everything at the same time.

He tilts his head. “Too much?”

“Way too much! That’s— no. I feel like our fake relationship would get exposed immediately if I tried calling you that.”

“Alright.” He taps his chin. “How about ‘babe’?”

You deadpan. “That’s even worse.”

“Worse?” His mouth curves first—slow and crooked—and he ducks his head slightly, like he’s trying and failing to contain his laugh. “How is that worse?”

“It just is!” you whisper-shout. “I would rather walk barefoot across gravel. I would rather fake my death.”

He finally bursts into laughter, and you hate that he’s enjoying this. You really do because he’s not even trying to hide it.

His shoulders shake a little, and he has to look down for a second like he needs to compose himself. When he looks back up at you, his mouth is still curved and the corners of his eyes crease again—those small lines that only ever show up when he’s genuinely amused. And as much as you want to be annoyed—because he’s teasing you and you’re trying to have a serious discussion about fake dating boundaries—you can’t ignore the stupid, traitorous flutter in your chest when you hear him laugh and see him smile at you like that.

You cross your arms to compensate, like that will physically contain the ridiculous skip under your ribs.

“I don’t see what’s funny,” you mutter, even though your voice lacks bite.

He exhales, and the sound does nothing to help. He’s laughing right in your face and you think you shouldn’t react like this. But there’s something about the way he does it—like he finds you genuinely entertaining. And you hate that your body responds to that.

You hate that you have to look away for a second because if you don’t, you might start smiling too.

“Stop laughing,” you grumble.

“I’m not,” he says, even though he’s biting back another laugh.

Liar.

“Okay,” he says once he finally reins himself in, though there’s still a smile tugging at his mouth. “Your turn.”

You narrow your eyes. “My turn to what?”

“To practice calling me using pet names.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Last I checked, there are two people in a relationship. You can’t veto all of mine and not contribute. That’s not how this works.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he continues, “If we’re going to be believable, we both need to practice.”

He stares at you, just a little expectant. That little tilt of his head, the soft look in his face, the way his lips curl slightly—it’s like he’s daring you to refuse. And you realize: you can’t say no to that face. Not that face—not the one that looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, like he’s waiting for you to cooperate, like it would break his heart if you didn’t. Not when he’s smiling that infuriatingly soft smile that somehow makes your chest flutter despite every warning bell in your head screaming at you to stay logical.

“Fine,” you mutter, finally relenting, because trying to resist that expression feels like punching the sun. You swallow, immediately wishing you hadn’t admitted defeat. “…Idiot.”

He gasps dramatically. “Hey, that’s not nice!”

He leans back slightly, hand pressing to his chest like you’ve wounded him, but the performance is completely undercut by the crinkle of his eyes.

“I gave you nice pet names,” he continues, voice full of mock offense, “and you insult me?”

“It’s affectionate!” you insist.

“In what world?”

“In ours!”

Then he laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him. “You’re annoying.”

“And you love me,” he says easily, grinning. “My turn again.”

Your brain stumbles.

What?

You? Love him? You absolutely do not.

Well… you do. You obviously do because he’s been your best friend since high school. Because he used to sit next to you during class and slide you snacks when you forgot lunch. Because he knows the exact tone of your voice when you’re about to cry and the exact tone when you’re pretending you’re alright. Because he’s seen you at your worst and stayed.

But that’s it. That’s all there is to it.

It’s not—

It’s not the kind of love that—

You do not love him like that.

You don’t blush because you’re in love with him; you blush because he’s teasing you. Anyone would blush because it’s embarrassing. He’s weaponizing pet names and telling you that you love him like this is some kind of experiment and you are simply reacting like a normal human being under psychological pressure.

You love him because he’s familiar. You love him because he’s safe. You love him because he’s been around long enough to feel permanent. And that’s normal—it’s reasonable and absolutely not romantic.

And yes. Okay. Fine. There was that phase—that one embarrassing and completely short-lived high school crush.

You were sixteen. He had just started wearing his sleeves rolled up for no reason. He laughed at something you said during chemistry class and you thought about it for three days straight. You overanalyzed the way he texted. And you wondered—briefly—what it would be like if he ever looked at you different.

But that was years ago! It was small and harmless—the kind of crush that happens when you’re around someone all the time and your brain decides to experiment with feelings just to see what sticks.

And nothing stuck. You got over it. You moved on.

You dated other people. You lived your life. You stopped thinking about what it would feel like if he ever laced his fingers with yours or whether he’d ever call you pretty in a serious voice. That phase passed quietly without drama, so that’s proof, right? Proof that this—whatever this is right now—isn’t anything.

You don’t have feelings. You’re not secretly holding onto something unresolved. You’re not waiting for him to notice you. You’re not hoping he means it when he says things like that.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts and feelings that you don’t even notice he’s moved closer until you feel a light touch against your cheek. You jolt.

Phainon’s fingers are there, brushing gently against your skin. “What’s wrong, lovely?” he asks, voice low and soft as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Lovely. The pet name keeps echoing in your head.

What is he doing? What is actually wrong with him???

You stare at him.

He’s closer than before—close enough that you can see the tiny crease between his brows; close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. His expression is no longer teasing—it’s searching. He studies you for a moment longer, then his thumb brushes lightly along your cheek again almost absentmindedly.

“Hey,” he tries again. This time, he taps your forehead with a knuckle lightly. “Is my girlfriend still with me?”

He says it so easily and casually like it fits in his mouth—like it belongs there with him.

You are aware of your pulse in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips. You are aware that he is still leaning toward you, still close enough that you can see the tiny details on his expression. You are aware that your face feels so hot it’s almost uncomfortable.

My girlfriend. He called you his girlfriend.

Your mouth opens slightly, but your thoughts scatter in every direction. You can’t tell if you’re embarrassed or shocked or something worse. You can’t even tell if this is still a joke or if he’s just committing to the bit with terrifying confidence.

He studies you for another second, then concern flickers across his face.

“Did I break you?” he asks.

You blink once. Then twice.

You are, in fact, broken.

Your brain is trying to process that this is all just pretend. He’s just doing and saying things for practice. But the way he’s looking at you doesn’t feel like practice.

It feels like—

“I hope I’m not interrupting!”

You jump so hard your chair scrapes against the floor.

March stands a few steps away, tray in hand, eyes wide and sparkling in a way that says she absolutely thinks she’s interrupting something. And Phainon is still leaning over you, though he eventually pulls away like he wasn’t in a rush to move in the first place. And as if nothing strange just happened, he turns to March with an easy smile.

“No, you weren’t interrupting at all,” he says, light and unbothered. “Are those our drinks?”

“Yup!” she chirps. “I made iced tea instead because while water is healthy, it’s so boring!”

She sets the glasses down and two straws, but her eyes flicker between the two of you. The look on her face says she definitely saw something.

“There you go! Call for me if you guys need anything else!”

“Thanks. We will,” Phainon replies.

March presses her lips together like she’s physically holding something in—the smile on her face trembling—before she turns away. The look she throws over her shoulder is way too knowing. Then she pivots toward the back with suspicious speed, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process. The door swings shut behind her a little loudly.

You just know she’s about to tell the others and reenact whatever she thinks she witnessed. You exhale slowly.

“Oh, you—”

You cut in before Phainon can finish. “We should stick to calling each other by our names,” you say, because if you don’t, you’re worried he’ll casually drop another pet name that will fry your brain.

He pauses. “Oh.”

For a second, you think maybe you sounded too intense. Maybe you should’ve laughed, or framed it as a joke—at least something rigid—but the he chuckles like it’s nothing.

“Alright,” he says. “Are you okay now?”

And you answer, quick, “Yeah.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You sure? You looked a little…” He hums, searching for the word. “…out of it.”

You were not “out of it”. You were internally combusting because he casually said girlfriend like it was a regular noun and not something that rearranged your internal organs. But instead of admitting something as embarrassing as that to him, you say, “Yes. I’m fine.”

He studies you like he’s deciding whether to press. Then he shrugs and takes a sip of his iced tea. “If you say so. So what next?”

Right.

Focus.

“How about…” You pause, buying yourself a second to shove your pulse back into its cage. “How we got together? My mother would ask something like that.”

“Oh, yeah. She definitely will,” he agrees easily. He takes another sip, then adds, “Your mom’s a little nosy.”

That makes you laugh. It slips out of you, light and fond and helpless. “She is, isn’t she? She likes to gossip a lot.”

Phainon grins. “Looks like you’re actually fine then.”

Your face warms. “I just told you I am.”

“Well,” he says lightly, “can’t blame a guy for worrying about his girlfriend.”

There it is again—that word. It lands so casually in his mouth like he’s just saying “coworker”. Like he’s saying “friend”. Like it doesn’t echo in your head three times before settling somewhere dangerously soft in your chest.

Why does he seem so unaffected by it?

Is he really just good at pretending? Is this just method acting to him? Or is this what it looks like when you’re normal about things? When you don’t spiral every time a word brushes too close to something you buried years ago?

Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’re the only one assigning weight to syllables. Maybe he’s just playing along like he promised. Maybe you’re the one making it weird.

You drag your gaze down to your glass.

Ignore it. Ignore him. Ignore the way your heart did that small, traitorous skip.

Focus.

You clear your throat. “Since we’ve been friends since high school, we can just say feelings developed gradually. Like… one of us finally said something eventually.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Which one of us did?”

“You?” you answer, though it comes out uncertain. “I think you’re the type to confess first.”

“Am I?” There’s something in his voice you can’t quite put into words, and you catch yourself trying to pin it down.

Was it a drop in his tone, a pause before he spoke, or the way the syllables stretched a little differently than usual? You can’t tell and that’s the problem—you feel it, but your mind has no word for it. It feels unsettling and strange because you’ve known him for so long that you think you could read him. You’ve built years of familiarity on that certainty. But ever since you asked him to be your plus one… something shifted.

One day you were just friends who understood each other without trying. The next you’re sitting across from him wondering why you can’t tell what he’s thinking anymore.

Before, you could look at him and just know. Now when you look at him, you second-guess.

“Well…” You fiddle with your straw wrapper, folding it in half, then again, then tearing it straight down the middle. “You’re definitely better with words than I am. And you’re braver.”

And that part isn’t even exaggeration—it’s just fact. He’s always been the one who speaks first. The one who raises his hand. The one who fills the silence instead of letting it swallow him whole. While you… you’ve always needed a minute.

He laughs, soft and almost pleased. For a moment, you wonder if you just imagined everything earlier. “That is true.”

You look up at him flatly, mostly because you need something neutral to hide behind. “You didn’t even try to deny it.”

“Why would I?” he replies easily, leaning back in his chair. “You said it yourself already.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real weight behind it.

“So that’s our story?” he asks. “I confessed first?”

“Yes.” You nod, hoping the movement feels more convincing than you do. “You confessed first.”

There’s a small pause, just long enough for you to think the topic has passed. Then you hear him hum, thoughtful. “And what did I say?” he asks lightly.

Your brain short-circuits. “…What?”

“If I’m the one who confessed,” he continues, “what did I say?”

You stare at him, waiting for the grin that usually follows a setup like this. He just looks back at you. You scowl.

“We are not improvising a confession scene right now.”

“Why not?” he says. “If someone asks for details, we should have them.”

“No one is going to ask for the script.”

“Your mother might,” he counters. “My aunt might.”

“We can just deflect if my mother asks,” you shoot back. “And your aunt isn’t even invited to the wedding.”

Phainon grins, and there it is—that familiar expression, the same one you’ve known for years. It smooths something out inside you instantly; the strange distance you thought you felt earlier loosens its grip. You suddenly feel silly for even thinking anything had changed at all.

“This is already detailed enough,” you insist. “We have a timeline. We have who confessed first. We don’t call each other by nicknames. That’s sufficient.”

But your brain, traitor that it is, has already started filling in the blanks.

You picture him sitting across from you like this, except there’s no rehearsal, no agreed-upon pretense—it’s just the two of you and a question that isn’t rhetorical. You imagine him saying your name the way he does when he means something, before admitting he’s liked you for a while. That his feelings weren’t sudden. That the sudden realization just crept up on him one day and how he tried to ignore it and how he didn’t want to anymore—

Stop.

You blink and force the image away before it settles anywhere permanent.

“Fine. Maybe… maybe you said something simple,” you decide. “Nothing dramatic, no long speeches. Just that you liked me… and asked me if I wanted to try.”

“And what did you say?” he asks and his voice is softer now.

Your throat feels drier than it should. You take a second before answering, “I said yes.”

Because of course you did. In this version, there’s no hesitation—no second-guessing. You don’t overthink it. You don’t ask for time. You just say yes. Why wouldn’t you? It’s fake. This is fake. You’re just constructing a believable narrative for this pretend relationship. That’s all.

But why does it feel like you just admitted something real?

“Alright,” he says. “I like that version.”

You can’t look at him.

You pick up your glass and take a long sip of the iced tea even though you’re not particularly thirsty. The cold helps; it gives you something else to focus on because if you look at him right now—if you meet his eyes while your chest feels like this—you might start wondering whether he’s picturing the same version you are.

And that is not a road you’re prepared to walk down.

So you keep your attention on the glass. On the ice shifting when you tilt it; on the faint condensation dampening your finger; on literally anything that isn’t Phainon sitting across from you.

And then, suddenly, he asks, “Should we practice?”

Your brain doesn’t process his words at first, still busy replaying the imaginary confession you definitely should not have imagined. It’s like your thoughts are buffering.

Putting the glass down onto the table with a soft thud, you say, “What?”

“I said we should practice.”

“…Practice what?”

“You know,” he says, “like holding hands.”

You stare at him like he just suggested the two of you try skydiving indoors.

“Why do we need to practice that?” you ask, baffled. “We’ve held hands before—what’s so different about doing it now?”

You have, technically.

Crossing streets once traffic lights go red and he’d just grab your wrist and pull you along without looking back. At crowded festivals where he’d hold you close so you wouldn’t get separated in the sea of people. Or that time at the park when a very aggressive goose decided you were its mortal enemy and Phainon dragged you away—

“It’s different from before because we have to make it look like we’re actually in love,” he replies.

Oh. Right. Of course.

Hand holding as friends is way different from hand holding as a couple. And you said it yourself earlier already—public displays of affection shouldn’t be overdone, but holding hands is fine.

It’s literally the lowest tier of couple behavior. People do it absentmindedly while talking. People do it while grocery shopping. People do it while scrolling through their phones with the other hand. Which means your heart should not be reacting like you’re about to perform an open-heart surgery on yourself.

“Fine,” you say. And before your brain can spiral into another dissertation, you extend your hand across the table.

Then he reaches out.

His hand is bigger than yours—that’s the first thought that appears for absolutely no reason. You’ve known this for years—this is not new information—yet your brain treats it like a shocking revelation.

His fingers slide between yours one at a time, like he’s solving a puzzle and the correct solution is your hand. Then his palm settles against yours and your fingers instinctively tense for a second before relaxing again. His grip adjusts automatically, just secure enough that your hands stay together. Then his thumb brushes against your knuckles, as if he’s testing the feeling; or maybe he’s checking if you’re about to yank your hand back and run.

You don’t, but now you’re very aware of everything.

The texture of his skin. The way your fingers fit between his. The slight pressure where your palms meet. The tiny shift every time he moves his thumb. The fact that your pulse is currently pounding in your fingertips like it’s trying to escape.

Why are you noticing this much? This is literally just holding hands, and it’s not even like this is new. But as your fingers sit there, neatly laced with his, you vaguely remember sitting in class years ago and wondering what it would feel like if Phainon ever laced his fingers with yours.

And now it’s here and it’s happening and you wonder how sixteen-year-old you would have reacted.

You glance up.

Phainon is already looking at you.

“Looks like we’re ready then,” he says lightly, and you nod.

You nod because there’s nothing else you can bring yourself to say. All you can think about is the warmth of his hand intertwined with yours and the way they fit together so naturally as if they were made to belong there.

From the back, you hear March’s delighted squeal and Caelus’s audible gasp. The sound hits you like a gunshot.

You yank your hand away from Phainon so fast the chair legs scrape lightly against the floor as you twist around. Your hear hurried footsteps, a muffled “GO GO GO—”, something clattering, and the back door slamming shut with a loud bang! that echoes through the cafe.

Silence follows.

You stare at the door, then sigh—a long, tired, deeply resigned sigh that comes from the soul of someone who knows that somewhere behind that door March and Caelus are currently reenacting the entire thing to Dan Heng.

You slowly turn back around.

Phainon hasn’t moved; he’s still in the same position you’ve left him, except now he’s looking down at his hand—the same one that was holding yours a moment ago. His fingers flex absently, like he’s testing the space where your hand used to be.

You don’t think much of it. Instead, you narrow your eyes at him.

“You did that on purpose.”

His gaze lifts. “Innocent until proven guilty,” he says mildly.

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You saw March and Caelus. Their heads were literally sticking out of the door.”

There had been hair—very noticeable and very pink hair. And beside it, an unsubtle tuft of gray that absolutely belonged to someone who has the subtlety of a marching band.

“You’re accusing me of a lot right now,” he says.

“You laced your fingers with mine after you saw them.”

He exhales through his nose, briefly looking down at the table like he’s caught somewhere between defending himself and enjoying the accusation too much. When he looks back up, he’s smiling.

“Maybe,” he says. And then he laughs.

“You’re so annoying.”

“It was still good practice though,” he says. “You want me to try holding you by your waist next?”

Your brain immediately supplies a very vivid mental image of his hand resting there—warm, steady fingers spread lightly at the curve of your side like it belongs there—and that alone is enough to make your cheeks heat up.

You glare at him to compensate. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

He laughs like that was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “You and your kids’ reactions make it fun.”

“Well, my kids have classes tomorrow, so let’s end things here,” you say, crossing your arms. Then another thought occurs to you, and you narrow your eyes at him. “And you—don’t you have work? Why are you always free?”

Phainon shrugs, easy and casual like the answer is obvious. “It just so happens that I don’t have flights when you need me.”

You study him for a second, not entirely convinced.

Your mind drifts back to something Aglaea said before—that you seem to be the only exception to his busy schedule. At the time, you’d dismissed it immediately. A coincidence, you’d insisted—bad timing on everyone’s part and good timing on his. But now that the idea has resurfaced, it refuses to go away easily.

You’re about to question him about it, but he speaks again before you can get the words out.

“Can I drive you home?”

The question is simple, but something about the way he says it makes your brain pause for a second and it’s not because the offer is unexpected. In fact, he’s driven you home countless times before: after late-night study sessions years ago, after work shifts when the buses are sparse, or after dinners with friends when everyone else disappeared one by one.

So no, the offer itself isn’t strange. If anything, it’s expected—which is probably why you only sigh and shake your head.

“It’s not like you’ll let me say no, anyway.”

“That is true,” he agrees immediately with absolutely no shame whatsoever. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised Aglaea I’d return you back in one piece.”

You stare at him for a moment, before rolling your eyes. “Wow,” you mutter dryly. “How chivalrous of you.”

“Well… what can I say,” he says, smug. “I’m a man of my word after all.”

You scoff under your breath. Then you push your chair back and stand, the legs scraping softly against the floor. The table between you is littered with the remains of your drinks and you pick them up automatically.

Yours is nearly empty, nothing left but watery ice cubes clinking against the glass. His, on the other hand, is still half full.

“I’ll let the others know we’re done here,” you say. “Should I ask if they want a ride?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you notice the way Phainon’s expression changes. He stares at you like you’ve just said something stupid.

You blink at him. “What?”

He keeps staring. The silence stretches and you feel a tiny flicker of irritation spark in your chest. “What?” you repeat, more defensive now. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Phainon exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as if reconsidering his entire life. He lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he says, then sighs again. “Sure. You can ask them.”

The words come out calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously. Still, you decide not to question it further and you flash him a smile instead.

“Great.” You gesture toward outside. “You can start the car and wait in there.”

Phainon straightens in his seat and immediately brings his hand to his forehead in a sharp, exaggerated salute. “Okay, Boss.”

“Stop.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“I swear—”

“Yes, Boss Ma’am.”

“Phainon!”

He grins, clearly delighted with himself. You shake your head, trying to look annoyed even though you’re smiling.

“Just go,” you say, as you turn toward the hallway leading to the back.

“Aye aye,” he replies.

Behind you, you hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, followed by the faint rustle of him grabbing his keys. A moment later, the soft chime of the front door rings as he steps outside.

When you step into the kitchen, the first thing you notice is that all three of them are gathered close together. March, Caelus, and Dan Heng are standing near the prep counter like a tiny council meeting has just taken place. The moment the door swings open, their heads turn in unison.

March’s entire face lights up, and she immediately waves both hands in the air like she’s been waiting for you. “You guys are done, Boss Ma’am?” she asks brightly, practically bouncing in place.

You walk over to the sink and set the two glasses down. “Yeah,” you reply casually as you turn the faucet on. “Did you have a great time eavesdropping?”

March lets out a tiny giggle and ducks her head, suddenly looking very guilty. “I wasn’t— well—”

Before she can finish fumbling through an excuse, Caelus jumps in. “I promise we didn’t hear anything!”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Really?”

He grins sheepishly. “Well… we did see something.”

You sigh, turning back to rinse the glasses as you shake your head. “Right,” you say. “You and March made sure to let us know you did.”

March giggles again, this time covering her mouth with both hands. Caelus rubs the back of his neck, chuckling as well.

Then, Dan Heng speaks, “Are you and Mister Phainon finally together?”

The question catches you off guard, and a warm flush spreads across your face instantly. “Y-Yeah,” you stutter. You clear your throat, brushing right past it. “Anyway! Do you guys want to ride with us?”

March squeals. “Really?!” She spins towards the others, eyes sparkling. “Can we go with them please?!”

Caelus makes a face. “Let’s not—”

“We wouldn’t want to intrude, Miss,” Dan Heng says.

“What? Of course not!” you protest, waving your hands, sending little flicks of water into the air. “You won’t be intruding on anything. I asked, and Phainon said it was fine.”

The two boys exchange a look, then turn in unison to glance at March—who’s still staring at them expectantly, practically buzzing with hope. Dan Heng sighs.

“…Alright,” he says. “Since Miss said so, then we’ll take the offer.”

March lights up and jumps in joy. Caelus shakes his head.

“Great!” you say, smiling.

And it’s only as you turn back to the sink, reaching for a towel, did it hit you.

Finally?

Your hand stills for a moment. You frown slightly, staring down at the counter.

…What did he mean by that?

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: How did the conversation go? You: We went over everything. Rules, backstory, what we call each other, PDA You: How long we’ve been “dating” Aglaea: I trust it went well? You: I think so You: Though he was weirdly calm about it all Aglaea: That’s just how he is. Aglaea: And you? You: I don’t know, Agy… You: I guess I’m a little scared Aglaea: Of what? It’s just Phainon. You: That’s the problem. It’s Phainon You: I don’t want to ruin things between us 🥲 Aglaea: You won’t. Not unless you start overthinking everything. You: You make it sound so easy, Agy Aglaea: Because it should be. You’re the one complicating things. Aglaea: Tell me. Do you still have feelings for Phainon? You: I was over him, Agy You: But then this whole fake dating thing happened and now I’m not so sure Aglaea: 😪 Aglaea: And what are you going to do now? You: I’m going to pretend nothing changed Aglaea: That’s a terrible plan. You: It’s the only one I’ve got Aglaea: Then at least remember it’s fake. Aglaea: Don’t start believing your own act. You: I’ll try Aglaea: Good. Now get some sleep. You: Thanks, Agy 🥺 I love youuuu! Aglaea: And I love you.

✉︎ Aglaea + Phainon

Phainon: Aglaea, hello! Aglaea: Do you need something? Phainon: Not even a hello? :( Aglaea: Hello. What do you need? Phainon: :D Phainon: I come bearing a humble request! Do you happen to own any shirts or tops that match your cousin’s dress? Aglaea: The same color or something that just complements it? Phainon: Same color would be ideal! Aglaea: Alright. I’ll find something in the same shade. Phainon: You’re a lifesaver! Aglaea: You know, matching outfits will make things more believable. Why not match the entire time you’re there? I can lend both of you clothes. Phainon: That’s actually genius. I’m in! Aglaea: I’ll inform my cousin. Anything else? Phainon: Not at the moment. Phainon: Unless there’s something you want to say to me? :D Aglaea: There is, actually. Phainon: What is it? Aglaea: You’re an idiot. Phainon: Unprovoked?? I’m being attacked for no reason :( Aglaea: If you think this is unprovoked, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Phainon: That’s harsh! I’m sensitive, you know :( Aglaea: No, you’re not. Phainon: Haha, fair! Aglaea: Good luck with your fake dating arrangement. You’re going to need it. Phainon: Hahahahahahaha Phainon: That obvious, huh? Aglaea: Painfully so. Phainon: Don’t worry. I’ve got it handled Phainon: Have a little faith! Aglaea: 😪 Aglaea: Good night, Phainon. Phainon: Good night, Aglaea!

FEBRUARY 8

You leave for Lushaka today.

The flight is in a few hours. Your suitcase is already packed by the door. Your dress—Aglaea’s dress—is somewhere safe, handled by someone far more competent than you. And Phainon is coming to pick you up.

You stare at your ceiling, then drag a hand down your face.

The apartment feels quieter than usual, like it knows you’re about to leave it behind for a week. You move through your morning routine on autopilot—shower, clothes, a quick check of your bag for the fifth time (passport, a book, wallet, charger, your ticket even though it’s digital). You hover by your suitcase after, staring at it like it might suddenly sprout legs and run away.

Your phone buzzes.

✉︎ My Favorite Cousin Ever

Aglaea: Are you ready? You: As I’ll ever be Aglaea: Good. Aglaea: Phainon will be there in 20. You: How do you know that?? Aglaea: He texted me. You: Why is he texting you??? Why didn’t he tell me??? Aglaea: Because I asked him to make sure you get to the airport in one piece and don’t forget anything important. You: Hmph You: And you? Aglaea: You’ll see me at the airport.

The conversation ends there.

You shove your phone into your pocket and move faster after that—putting on your shoes, double-checking the stove even though you know you didn’t use it, glancing around your apartment one last time like you’re about to disappear for months instead of days.

Right on cue, there’s a knock on your door.

You absolutely do not rush to open it. You walk at a completely normal pace, wiping your hands on your dress before reaching for the knob. You open the door—Phainon is there.

He’s dressed casually: a simple shirt and a jacket, sleeves rolled up, and jeans. His hair is a little tousled, and when he sees you, he smiles. “Good morning. You ready to go?”

“Good morning,” you echo. “I’m all ready.”

He glances past you into the apartment, then back at you. “You sure?” he asks.

“I already checked everything,” you say, defensive. “Five times.”

He shrugs. “Sixth time’s the charm.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but step aside anyway, gesturing vaguely behind you. “Fine. Go. Inspect.”

He hums, slipping past you like he lives there. He does a quick lap around your place, peeking into the kitchen, glancing at the counter, the couch, the table. You hover near the door, arms crossed, watching him like you’re waiting for him to fail some kind of invisible test.

He pauses by your coffee table and picks up your keys. You freeze.

“Okay… so maybe I did forget something,” you admit.

He holds them up between two fingers, turning back to you with a look that’s way too pleased with himself. “Sixth time’s the charm,” he repeats.

You walk over and snatch them from him. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you’d be locked out when we get back,” he says, and you hate that he’s right.

“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing your bag and heading for the door. “Let’s go before I forget something else and you get another ego boost.”

He laughs softly behind you, and you try very hard to ignore the way the sound settles somewhere warm in your chest. You step out into the hallway first, and you barely get two steps in before he reaches past you and grabs the handle of your suitcase.

You blink, caught off guard. “I can—”

“I know,” he cuts in, already pulling it along like it’s his by default. “I want to do it, though.”

You stare at him for a moment longer than necessary, then turn back around to lock and close the door because there’s nothing to argue about. He’s already doing it, and it’s not like you really mind.

The two of you walk down together. He rolls your suitcase down the steps like he’s done it a hundred times (he probably does, given his profession), and you trail behind. Outside, his card is parked just where you expected. He pops the trunk before you even reach it, and again—without asking—lifts your suitcase in like it weighs nothing.

You hover beside him almost awkwardly. “…you know you don’t have to do everything, right?”

He shuts the trunk and looks at you. “I know.”

“Okay… I just thought—”

“Like I said, I want to do it,” he says. “You and I both know I like helping.”

You sigh. “Of course you do. Your childhood wish was literally to fulfill your friends’ and family’s wishes.”

He grins like that’s exactly the response he wanted, then walks around to the driver’s side. You follow, sliding into the passenger seat out of habit more than anything else. His car always smells faintly like something clean and something warm—like fabric softener and coffee that’s no longer there but somehow still exists in the air.

You buckle in, setting your bag on your lap, and by the time you look up, he’s already starting the engine.

He glances at you briefly. “Seatbelt?”

You tug on it pointedly. “Already on.”

“Good.” There’s a small pause, then he asks, “You forget anything else?”

You think about it for a second. Your keys are in your pocket. Your phone is in your bag. Password, checked. Wallet, checked. Charger, checked.

“No,” you say, more certain this time.

He nods once, satisfied, then he pulls out and you’re off.

The drive to the airport is uneventful. There’s no awkwardness, no weird tension, no pressure. Nothing dramatic happens. The fake relationship arrangement doesn’t even get brought up.

At one point, you reach into your bag to check your passport again and he doesn’t say anything, just glances over and then back at the road. At another, he hands you a bottle of water without looking, like he already knew you were about to get thirsty.

You don’t question how he knows—you never really have.

By the time you arrive at the airport, it doesn’t feel like a big moment. You think it should. You’re leaving for a week. You’re about to see your family. You’re about to pretend to date your best friend in front of people who will absolutely analyze everything. But instead, it feels… normal.

Your family’s private jet means there’s no long lines, no crowded terminals, no rushing through security with a million other people. Still, there are steps—check-ins, confirmations, small formalities that need to be handled.

And somehow, even in that, there are moments.

He takes your suitcase out the trunk before you can even reach for it, and you don’t even bother stopping him this time. When you’re at the counter, he stands so close to you that if you shifted slightly or turned around, your arm would brush his and you’d be face to face with his chest. You hand over your documents. He hands over his.

At some point, he leans in over just a little and you feel his breath ghost over the shell of your ear, “You’re holding your passport upside down.”

You look down. You are.

You flip it quickly, heat creeping up your neck. “I knew that.”

“Of course you did.” You don’t look at him, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

You step onto the apron with Phainon, both your suitcases rolling smoothly in his hands. Your family’s jet isn’t hard to miss; it’s just parked a short distance away. You’ve seen it a hundred times before—rode it a couple times even as a child.

You hear Phainon whistle next to you. “That’s yours?”

Right. This is his first time seeing your family’s jet.

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah.”

“Must be nice,” he says. Then he gestures forward, smiling. “Come on, then, pumpkin.”

You grimace. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, princess.”

You elbow him lightly.

The two of you don’t get far before you spot them.

Aglaea is already there—beautiful, composed, and put together, like she belongs in every space she steps into. Beside her is—

“No way,” you say as you approach, because there is absolutely no way what you’re seeing is real. “You’re Agy’s plus one?”

Anaxa looks up from whatever he was doing, and his expression shifts into something faintly amused. “Good morning to you too,” he says. Aglaea sighs from beside him.

“No, but seriously— you?” You look at Anaxa, then at your cousin. “He’s your plus one?”

Phainon laughs beside you, clearly entertained.

Anaxa crosses his arms. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Uh… Yes?”

“Right.”

“I mean— sure, we’re all friends,” you say, “but I thought Agy would be bringing Tribios. You two are basically like cats and dogs.”

“Can we not do this right now?” Aglaea pinches the bridge of her nose. “He’s here and he’s my plus one. End of discussion.”

“That settles that then,” Phainon says rather cheerfully. He nods toward the other two easily like nothing happened at all. “Did we keep you waiting?”

Aglaea shakes her head. “Not at all. We just got here ourselves.”

Anaxa then glances at the two of you, gaze lingering for just a second too long. You narrow your eyes at him slightly in suspicion. He smiles.

Ohh. I don't like that.

“So,” you say, turning back to Aglaea, “everything ready?”

“Yes. The crew’s already finished most of the preparations. We can board whenever we’d like.”

The four of you start moving toward the jet, suitcases rolling across the tarmac. You’re mentally running through your checklist again—passport, wallet, charger—when Anaxa speaks.

“I know about your arrangement, by the way.”

You stop walking. Phainon stops walking.

The wheels of your suitcase screech slightly as it lurches to a halt beside you. You stare at the back of Anaxa’s head because he’s still moving, completely unbothered, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you.

You turn to Aglaea. “You told him?”

She doesn’t look at you right away. “He would have figured it out anyway.”

“But why?”

“I know it’s supposed to be something just between the three of us,” she starts, calm and measured, “but Anaxa isn’t going to tell anyone about your predicament. And is he not your friend, too? I think it’s better that he knows now than letting him figure the two of you out on his own.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

She’s not wrong—that’s the frustrating part. Anaxa has known you long enough to know when something is off, and he’s the kind of person who would notice things. If he’d spent even just half a day watching you and Phainon, he would have arrived at his own conclusions.

Still.

You look at him. He’s glanced back now, expression hovering between neutral and entertained. “I’m not going to snitch on you to your family, I assure you,” he says.

“You better not!”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” Anaxa glances at Phainon then, though brief.

Phainon clears his throat beside you. You turn to look at him. He flashes a placating smile at you, the picture of innocence.

“Right,” you say, mostly to yourself, and you grab the handle of your suitcase and start walking again because standing in the middle of the tarmac is not going to make any of this better. “Wonderful. Great. Everyone knows. Let’s move on now.”

Aglaea falls into step beside you. You don’t look at her. She doesn’t say anything, which means she’s waiting for you to work through it on your own.

“I’m not upset with you, Agy,” you murmur to her.

“I know,” she says.

You exhale. “I just would have liked a warning.”

“Would you have agreed if I’d asked first?”

You think about it honestly for a second. “…probably not.”

“Then you understand why I didn’t.”

You do. You hate that you do, but you do.

You walk the rest of the short distance in silence, and when you reach the steps of the jet, you let Phainon take your suitcase again without arguing—mostly because you’re tired of fighting small battles this early in the morning, and partly because it’s Phainon, and he was going to do it anyway.

When you step inside the cabin, it is warm and familiar and slightly too loud, layered with overlapping conversations. It’s got that particular energy of people who haven’t seen each other in a while and are making up for lost time.

You immediately clock most of the faces—cousins, aunts, uncles, and some family friends you recognize but can’t name immediately. The space is comfortable and well-appointed in that way that stops being impressive once you’ve grown up around it, though you notice Phainon isn’t beside you anymore—he’d peeled off just outside to handle the luggage with Anaxa.

Then your mother sees you.

“There she is!”

You barely have time to brace yourself before she’s crossing the cabin with your father right behind her, both of them wearing the kind of expressions that make you feel like you’re twelve again and coming home from a long trip.

Your mother reaches you first, pulling you into a hug that’s tighter than the occasion calls for, and you hug her back automatically, laughing a little despite yourself.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” She pulls back to look at your face, hands on your shoulders, studying you the way she always does—like she’s checking that everything is still where she left it.

Then your father steps in, quieter but no less warm, and wraps an arm around you briefly. “You look good,” he says simply.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Your mother spots Aglaea next and immediately pivots, opening her arms. “Aglaea! Come here.”

Your cousin steps forward and accepts the hug gracefully, returning it with the kind of practiced warmth that comes from years of being folded into your family’s orbit. Your father greets her as well, and for a moment, the four of you fall into easy small talk—how was the drive to the airport, how has the studio been, how long has it been since they last saw each other.

Then your mother turns back to you, and the shift in her expression is immediate. “So,” she says, “where is Phainon?”

Right on cue, the cabin door opens behind you.

You turn. Phainon steps in, slightly windswept from being outside, straightening the front of his jacket as he scans the cabin. His eyes find you first, and then he clocks your parents standings right beside you and smiles, easy, like he’d been expecting this exact moment.

Your mother makes a sound you would describe as delighted.

Aglaea smoothly excuses herself with a small smile before stepping away into the cabin, leaving you standing there with absolutely no buffer.

Your mother is already moving toward Phainon before he’s fully crossed the cabin, waving him over with both hands like she’s flagging down someone she’s been waiting for. Phainon doesn’t miss a beat—he meets her halfway and when she pulls him into a hug, he returns it with the same ease he does everything.

“It’s so nice to see you again, ma’am,” he says when she lets go, warm and genuine. “It’s been a while.”

Your mother lights up completely you almost have to look away. “Oh, you remember me! Of course you do—you were always such a sweet boy.” Then she waves a hand at him, almost dismissive. “And stop calling me that! Just call me Mom since you’re my daughter’s boyfriend now.”

Your heart skips a beat at that.

“Haha, okay, Mom.” The word rolls out of him naturally, and your mother looks like she could float. Then Phainon turns toward your father and extends a hand. “Sir.”

“Not sir—call me Dad now.” Your father bypasses the handshake entirely, grabbing Phainon’s outstretched hand and using it to pull him into a quick hug instead, with one firm pat landing on his back.

You watch all of this happen, smiling with your whole face because you are in front of your parents and that is the only acceptable expression to be wearing right now.

Phainon glances over at you from beside your father, and the look on his face is calm but also amused, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and finds it genuinely funny.

You keep smiling. He keeps staring.

Your mother notices, of course, because your mother notices everything. She glances between the two of you and sighs contentedly, like she’s watching something she personally arranged come together exactly as planned.

“Well,” she starts, pleased with the world, “I’m so glad you’re both here.”

Your father settles back slightly, hands in his pockets, looking between you and Phainon with the quieter version of the same satisfaction your mother is wearing openly on her face.

“So,” your mother says, folding her hands together. “How long have you two been together?”

You glance at Phainon. He glances at you. It lasts maybe half a second, just something long enough for something to pass between you.

Just like what we practiced.

“Three months,” you both say at the same time.

Your mother blinks, then breaks into a wide smile, clearly reading the synchronization as something far more romantic than rehearsal. Your father makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh.

“Three months,” your mother repeats, as if savoring it. “And you kept it from me for three months.”

“We wanted to be sure first,” Phainon says, smooth and easy, and you could have not said it better yourself so you simply nod along like that was always going to be your answer too.

Your mother turns to your father with an expression that very clearly says I told you so without using any of those words. Your father receives it with the patience of someone who has been on the receiving end of that look for decades.

“Well,” your father says, returning his gaze to the two of you, “I’m glad you’re here, Phainon.”

Phainon smiles. “I’m glad to be here, sir—” He stops himself, and glances at your father. “Dad.”

Your father nods once, satisfied, like that was the correct answer.

“We won’t take up too much of your time now,” your father says. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up once we land. Your mother’s already made dinner plans.”

“Dinner,” your mother confirms, pointing between you and Phainon like she’s booking a reservation on the spot. “Just the four of us once we’re settled in Lushaka.”

“We’d love that,” Phainon says, and you nod beside him, smiling.

“Good.” Your mother looks satisfied in the way she gets when something she wanted has been granted to her before she even had to ask twice.

She reaches put and pats your cheek once affectionately, then Phainon’s arm, and then your father is already steering her gently back toward their seats. You watch them go for a second, then exhale.

“First obstacle done,” you say, though mostly to yourself.

“We’ll survive,” Phainon says, smiling.

The two of you make your way further into the cabin, looking for seats, and then that’s when it happens. Your aunt catches your eye from across the cabin and makes a beeline for you. Her gaze lands on Phainon and stays there.

“This is your boyfriend?” she says, not quite asking, reaching out to grab your arm.

“Yes,” you say.

“How handsome!” She’s already looking at him like she’s appraising something. “Oh, you did well. You did so well.”

Phainon laughs, gracious about it in a way you could never be. “Thank you, auntie.”

That does it—the auntie alone sends her. And where she goes, the others follow.

You spend the next several minutes being passed between relatives like a relay baton, except the baton is you and the thing being examined is Phainon standing next to you. There are cheek pinches—yours, not his, which you find deeply unfair. There are comments about how good you look together, about his height, his face, about how polite he is, about how your grandmother would have adored him.

One of your older aunts grabs both your hands and then his and holds them together like she’s performing a blessing. “You’re going to have such gorgeous children,” she says with complete sincerity.

You laugh because the alternative is you combusting. “We’ve only been together three months.”

“And? Your uncle proposed to me after two.”

You have no response to that.

Then another aunt claps her hands together and looks at Phainon directly. “So when’s the wedding?”

Phainon tilts his head, and the smile that settles on his face is relaxed and warm and just happy enough that you almost believe it yourself. “We just started dating, auntie,” he says, “but who knows—maybe if she catches the bouquet during the ceremony, ours could be next.”

The collective reaction from your aunts is immediate and extremely loud. Meanwhile, your face goes completely hot.

You turn to Phainon with your eyes wide and your mouth open and you smack his arm with the back of your hand. He doesn’t even flinch—he just laughs, bright and unbothered, like he didn’t just say that to a captive audience of your most excitable relatives.

“You—!” you start.

He’s still laughing.

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, which only makes it worse because now he’s looking at you with such expression—the one that’s fond and amused in equal measure—and your aunts are watching all of this and sighing like it’s the most romantic thing they’ve ever witnessed.

You grab his arm and pull. “We’re going to sit down now,” you announce to no one in particular, already steering him away before anyone can ask a follow-up question. There are both delighted and disappointed sounds behind you. You don’t look back.

You find two empty seats near Aglaea and Anaxa and drop into yours with the energy of someone who has just survived something. Phainon settles in beside you, still smiling and unruffled.

Aglaea looks up from whatever she’d been reading. She takes one look at your face and understands. “The aunts?”

You nod tiredly. “The aunts.”

Anaxa glances at Phainon. Something passes between them, and you haven’t even looked much further to identify what it could mean before Anaxa looks back down at his phone without comment.

You sink a little lower in your seat.

The pilot’s voice comes through the speakers much later, letting everyone know they’d be taking off in the next minute or two. Around you, the cabin settles into that pre-flight quiet—the rustling of seatbelts, the last few conversations tapering off, and people shifting into their seats properly.

You buckle in, glance out the small oval window beside you, and then look at Phainon. “Have you ever been assigned to fly one of these?” you ask. “A private jet, I mean.”

He looks up from where he’d been adjusting his seatbelt. “Yeah, a few times. I don’t take them often though.”

“How come?”

He tips his head slightly, considering how to explain it. “Private flying is more luxurious on paper, but it’s a lot more exhausting than a commercial flight.”

You frown. “How?”

“On a commercial flight, I’m responsible for flying the aircraft,” he explains. “On a private one, I’m responsible for the entire aircraft. Loading the luggage—and that stuff gets heavy—cleaning the cabin, restocking everything, the toilets—”

“You clean the toilets?”

“I clean the toilets.” You stare at him. He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s part of the job.”

“What about when the client hires attendants?” you ask.

“It helps,” he says,” but it doesn’t change the fact that as the pilot, I’m still ultimately responsible for everything on board. There are physical and operational tasks that fall on me regardless of who else is there.”

You’d always known in the vague, general sense that Phainon’s job was demanding—the odd hours, the unpredictable schedule, the way he sometimes looked genuinely tired in a way that sleep didn’t entirely fix—but there was something about hearing it laid out plainly like that. And although he did say he doesn’t take these kinds of flights all the time, the luggage and the restocking and the responsibility that didn’t end when the flight did made it feel more concrete. He gave—gives—a lot to his job.

“That sounds really exhausting,” you say.

Phainon looks at you. Then he smiles and reaches over to flick your nose, gentle, before settling back in his seat. “You’re cute,” he says.

Your face warms and you rub the area he touched softly. “I’m being serious.”

“I know,” he says, still smiling. “That’s what makes it cute.”

You turn back toward the window because that seems like the safest place to look right now. You don’t say anything else, and neither does he. But when the jet lifts and the ground falls away beneath you, Phainon’s shoulder is warm where it presses lightly against you, and you find that you don’t particularly feel like moving away.

The cabin settles into its cruising quiet sometime after takeoff. Around you, conversations have tapered off, replaced by the sounds of people finding ways to pass the time. You’ve got your book in your lap. Phainon, somewhere along the way, had pulled out his phone and put his earphones in, and you’d both drifted into your own separate silences.

You’re somewhere in the middle of a chapter when you feel it—a slight shift of weight, and then his head comes to rest on your shoulder. You go completely still.

His breathing has already evened out, which means he’s genuinely asleep.

You look up.

Aglaea is already looking at you, while Anaxa is asleep beside her, head tipped back. You stare at her and she raises an eyebrow. You make a face that you hope communicates the full scope of what you are experiencing right now. She only blinks—like a cat who has found the situation beneath her to intervene.

How helpful…

You face forward again. Okay—you think—this is fine. People fall asleep all the time; sometimes on each other even. It’s a long flight and he’s tired—you literally just learned how exhausting his job is, so this is completely reasonable and normal and you are not going to make it weird by thinking about it too hard.

But I’m already thinking about it too hard!

His hair is slightly tickling your neck. His shoulder is warm where it presses against your arm. You are painfully aware of the weight of his head and his breathing and the fact that if you turn even slightly, you will be looking directly at his face.

So, you do not turn. You attempt to read the same paragraph you left earlier—only to fail four times. You read it a fifth time, but the words are all just shapes now and you can’t retain a single word. You close the book and set it on the table.

You stare out the window and try to think about nothing, which is to say you mostly think about Phainon sleeping on your shoulder and how your heart has been racing since then.

Eventually, your eyes get heavy.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

The first thing you register is a sound—a soft, short snap and it pulls you through the layers of sleep. Your eyes open slowly, and that’s when you feel it.

Your cheeks is against Phainon’s hair. Your arms are around him, hands loosely wrapped above his elbow, his arm tucked neatly against your chest like you’d decided somewhere in the middle of sleep that you needed something to hold onto. His head is still on your shoulder, still asleep.

You look up.

Aglaea is lowering her phone with the satisfaction of someone who has just accomplished exactly what she set out to do. When she sees your face, she says nothing. She simply sets her phone down the table calmly.

Your mouth opens, and she tilts her head slightly. Don’t wake him up, the look says. You close your mouth.

You look down at Phainon, still asleep and completely unbothered by all of this. Then you look back at Aglaea, who has picked up her book and is now reading it like nothing happened.

You exhale through your nose as quietly as possible, and reach over with the hand not currently wrapped around Phainon’s arm. “Phainon,” you say softly, and touch his arm. “Hey… Wake up.”

He stirs slowly. His head lifts from your shoulder. He blinks once, straightening up and running a hand briefly through his hair. Then he looks at you, still soft around the edges with sleep. “Are we landing?”

“No,” you say. You’ve already unlooped your arm from his without drawing attention to the fact that it had been there in the first place. “But we’re almost there, I think.”

He nods and leans back in his seat. He rolls his neck once, then glances over at you with a smile. “Did you sleep?” he asks.

“A little,” you say.

Across the table, Aglaea turns a page.

The jet touches down an hour later and everyone starts gathering their things, and you’re stuffing your book back into your bag when you feel Phainon’s hand brush against your shoulder—to let you know it’s time to move—and you nod and stand.

The heat hits you the second you step out of the vehicle, thick and salty and immediately making your dress stick to your skin. And the sky above Lushaka is so blindingly bright and blue you have to squint against it as you make your way down the steps.

The apron is already busy by the time you get there, family members spilling out in loose clusters, hugging and laughing and talking over each other, and you spot Elora almost immediately in the distance. She’s standing near the front with a man you assume is her fiance.

Your aunts and uncles go first, swarming toward Elora with delighted noises, and you watch from a distance as she gets passed around from hug to hug.

You, Phainon, Aglaea, and Anaxa hang back because you’d all gone to grab your luggage first while everyone else had already been shuffled ahead, and you’re honestly fine with being last—you’re in no rush to get swept into whatever this reunion is going to turn into. But then, Elora’s eyes land on you from across the open and her whole face lights up.

She starts walking over before you’ve even finished bracing yourself, and you feel your stomach drop because you know exactly what’s coming—you can already see it in the way she’s opening her arms. You plaster on the kind of smile you reserve for customers who complain about their coffee being hot even though they asked for it hot.

“You made it!” Elora says, arms already wrapping around you in a hug that smells like expensive perfume, and then she pulls back just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, and you just stand there for a while before finally lifting your hand and patting her back twice.

It’s awkward and you know it is and you can feel Aglaea’s gaze on the back of your head, but you can’t help it. Your body just doesn’t know how to do warm and easy with Elora.

“I’m so glad you came,” she adds, stepping back, and her smile doesn’t waver even a little.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks for having us...”

Her eyes flick briefly past your shoulder, and you don’t even have to turn around to know who she’s looking at. Elora’s gaze stays there, and then she tilts her head slightly.

“Is this your plus one?” she asks.

“Yes,” you answer. “He’s—”

“Phainon!” She cuts in before you can even finish, and the way she says his name comes out delighted, and she’s already stepping past you to get a better look at him. “Am I right?”

“That’s me,” Phainon says easily, and he offers her a smile that’s polite enough to pass for genuine if you didn’t know him as well as you do; though you catch the way his eyes flick briefly to you before settling back on her.

“Wow,” Elora says, drawing the word out. She looks at him the way you’d look at a car you’re thinking about buying. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Never in my life would I have thought I’d get to meet my cousin’s boyfriend ever.”

Ugh, you think, I hate her!

She says the word boyfriend like she’s trying it out, even though you never once used that word in your RSVP. You just said plus one and left it at that, and you feel irked because she took one look at a name in an email and ran with the most exciting version of the story without even bothering to check.

She’s the one who put me in this mess!

“Right,” is all you say, but she’s entirely unbothered and uninterested in whatever else you have to say. Her attention is solely on Phainon now.

“So how did you two meet, exactly?” Elora asks Phainon. “I’m dying to know!”

“High school,” Phainon says. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

Elora smiles, bright. “That’s so sweet! Honestly, I’m just surprised, you know? You’re clearly very handsome, very put together—” she gestures vaguely at him, “—and I guess I just didn’t expect someone like you to end up with someone like… my cousin.”

The words land easily and casually, wrapped up in a compliment so you can’t even call her out on it without sounding like you’re the one being difficult, and you feel your face go warm. Not from embarrassment, but from something closer to irritation—the old and familiar kind you’ve spent years learning to swallow rather than spit back out.

Phainon doesn’t miss a beat. “I got lucky,” he says simply, and he reaches over, settling a warm and steady hand at the small of your back. “And she’s not hard to notice, really.”

There’s a deliberate emphasis on those last few words, small enough that Elora might not even catch it, but you do. And so does Aglaea, who you can hear making a small sound behind you that’s suspiciously close to a laugh she’s trying to hold in.

Elora blinks, and something flickers across her face briefly before she smooths it back into that same easy smile. “Of course,” she says. “I just meant it as a compliment.”

“I figured,” Phainon says, still smiling. And you think, not for the first time, that you’re really glad he’s on your side.

Elora is quick to move on from Phainon—like flipping a page before anyone can dwell too long on the last one—and her attention swings toward Aglaea and Anaxa standing just behind you, luggage still in hand.

“Aglaea!” she says, voice climbing back up into that bright and delighted register, and she steps forward to pull your other cousin into a hug that Aglaea returns with the same practiced warmth she gives everyone. “You look stunning as always. I swear you get more intimidating every time I see you.”

“You flatter me,” Aglaea says.

Elora giggles and then her gaze drifts to Anaxa, who hasn’t said anything yet. “And you must be Aglaea’s plus one,” she says, extending a hand toward him. “I don’t think we’ve properly met yet. I’m Elora.”

“Anaxagoras,” he says, shaking her hand once.

“Anaxagoras,” she repeats, testing the name. “That’s certainly a memorable name. How long have you and Aglaea been together?”

Anaxa doesn’t even blink when he says, “Long enough.”

Which, technically, isn’t a lie since they have been friends for years, but it’s vague enough that it tells Elora nothing at all, and you have to bite back a smile because you know exactly what he’s doing—giving Elora just enough to chew on without actually feeding her anything.

“Well, you two make a striking couple,” she says, undeterred, clapping her hands together. “Honestly, I don’t know how you all keep finding people who look like they walked out of a magazine. Must run in the family.”

Her eyes flick toward you for a brief second when she says it, long enough for you to catch it. You feel Phainon’s hand press slightly firmer against your back, like he caught it too—but neither of you says anything. And then Elora seems to remember something, glancing back over her shoulder before reaching out to tug a man close by the sleeve.

“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” she says, pulling the man into the little circle you’ve all formed. “Everyone, this is Nikolas. My fiance.”

Nikolas steps forward with an easy, almost sheepish smile—the kind that immediately feels warmer than anything Elora’s said in the last five minutes.

“Hi,” he says, giving a small wave like he’s not quite sure if a handshake or a hug is more appropriate and would rather not overstep. “It’s really nice to finally meet you all. Elora’s told me so much—I feel like I already know everyone.”

“Good things, I hope,” Aglaea says, and there’s the faintest curve of amusement at her mouth.

“Only good things,” Nikolas says, laughing a little.

He turns to you next, and his smile doesn’t shift into anything performative the way Elora’s does. “You must be the cousin who owns a cafe,” he says. “It’s great to finally put a face to the name.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you say.

He glances at Phainon beside you before speaking, “And, of course, the boyfriend. Nice to meet you too, man.”

“Likewise,” Phainon says, and this time his smile looks easier and much more genuine, like he’s already decided he likes Nikolas a lot better than the bride.

Elora claps her hands together at once, drawing everyone’s attention back before the conversation can wander any further. “Okay, we’ll catch up properly tonight, I promise, since we’ve got a family dinner planned once everyone’s settled in,” she says. “But for now, everyone should head to the villa first and get some rest. It’s been a long flight and I don’t want anyone falling asleep during appetizers.”

“We’ll see you tonight then,” Aglaea says, already steering the group toward the cars waiting at the edge of the apron.

“See you tonight!” Elora calls after you, and Nikolas gives one last easy wave before the two of them turn to greet the next cluster of relatives making their way down the steps.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Beside you, Phainon leans down slightly to your ear, voice low enough that only you can hear it, “Nikolas seems nice. How does someone like that end up marrying her?”

“Even I don’t know the answer to that,” you mutter and he laughs, and the sound helps loosen something tight in your chest that’s been sitting there since the second Elora’s arms wrapped around you.

The limousine rolls to a stop in front of the villa, and the driver comes around to open the door for you and the others. You step out, and behind you, Phainon is still climbing out of the car, looking around like he’s trying to memorize every detail of it before it disappears.

“Okay, so,” he starts once he’s beside you, voice pitched low with something like disbelief, “riding in a limo is actually insane. Like… genuinely. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in a car that had a mini fridge in it before until now.”

“Phainon, it’s just a car,” you say, though you’re smiling a little at how wide his eyes still are. If he had a tail, you just know it’d be wagging uncontrollably right now.

“It’s not just a car to me,” he says. Then he gestures back toward the other two limousines pulling up behind yours, doors opening and relatives spilling out onto the gravel in twos and threes. “And your family owns three??”

“Five, actually,” you say a little absentmindedly, already reaching for your bag. “The other two are probably back home in Amphoreus.”

Phainon just stares at you.

“What?” you ask, letting out a huff out of amusement. “You look ridiculous.”

“Five,” he repeats, like the number physically hurts him to say out loud. “Your family owns five limousines and I only found out about them now. And we’ve been friends for how long?”

“A long time,” you say.

“Yes, a long time,” he echoes. “And in that long time, you never once mentioned that your family owns a small fleet of limousines. I’ve known you since we were thirteen—thirteen!—and I’m only now learning this.”

“Well… The topic never really came up during past conversations,” you say, shrugging. “Our family owns a yacht too, if you want to know, and I think that’s far more interesting than a limousine.”

He shakes his head slowly, looking almost betrayed. “Okay, but then why did you even go to a public school? If your family has this kind of money, you could’ve gone anywhere. Some elite private academy with a uniform that probably costs more than my rent.”

You don’t even think twice about the words leaving you or how they might land when you say, “Then I wouldn’t have met you.” Because it’s genuine and it’s true—the same as the skies and waters of Lushaka being blue.

And Phainon goes still.

You glance over at him and he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking somewhere off to the side, ears going faintly red, jaw working like he’s trying to find something to say and coming up empty every single time, and you feel a smug satisfaction settle in your chest in your chest at having finally, for once, been the one to fluster him instead of the other way around.

“Are you—” you start, teasing, but before you can finish, Elora’s voice rings out from somewhere near the villa’s entrance.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention for just a second!” she calls, waving an arm to draw the group closer. “I know you’re all tired so I’ll make this quick. I just want to show you to your rooms so you can all rest before dinner.”

The crowd shifts and drifts toward her, and Phainon clears his throat beside you, still not quite meeting your eyes and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “that’s so unfair” before he grabs both your suitcase and his and starts walking—just a little too fast—toward the villa.

Elora leads the group through the villa room by room, pointing out names on little cursive place cards taped beside each door, and one by one relatives peel off with tired, grateful sighs. Eventually, she stops in front of a door near the corner of the hallway, tapping the little card taped to it.

“And this one’s yours,” she says, glancing between you and Phainon.

You blink at the door, then blink again when you realize that there’s only one card—both with your names written on it—which means there’s only one room and you need to share it with Phainon. The thought of staying in one bedroom with your fake boyfriend hadn’t even crossed your mind until now.

“Wait,” you say, almost in disbelief. “Just one room?”

“Well, you’re a couple,” Elora says in a tone that says like this should be obvious. “It’d be strange to put you in separate rooms, wouldn’t it? People would talk.”

Your mouth opens, but absolutely nothing comes out because your brain has apparently decided to short-circuit at the exact moment you needed it the most. You can feel your face heating up—can feel the way your grip on your bag tighten. But Phainon is already moving, sliding smoothly into the silence you left behind.

“Of course,” he says. He speaks so easily and unbothered like he already prepared for something like this to happen. Like sharing a room with just you and him is absolutely okay and normal for him. “Thank you so much for showing us around, Elora. We really appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course, anytime! I just want everyone to be comfortable and I figured—”

“We should probably get settled in before dinner,” he cuts in—still smiling, still polite—already reaching past you to push the door open. “Thanks again!”

And before Elora can get another word out, his hand finds the small of your back and he’s steering you inside. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound that leaves the two of you standing alone in the middle of the room.

Outside, you can just barely hear Elora’s voice moving further down the corridor—”Aglaea, Anaxa, you two are just down this hall”—already onto the next set of names and doors, the two of you forgotten and left behind in favor of the rest of the tour.

Your eyes catch on the bed immediately. One bed, and it’s not even a particularly large one. You look at it, then back at the bed, doing quiet, frantic math in your head about positions and space and how exactly two grown adults are supposed to share something built for one person without it being A Whole Thing.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Phainon says, setting both your suitcase down near the foot of the bed. “I’ve slept in far worse.”

You look at the floor. It’s tiled and hard and looks unforgiving. Then, with a sigh, you say, “Phainon, it’s fine.” You set your bag down before you can talk yourself out of it. “I don’t mind sharing the bed with you. I trust you.”

He looks at you, assessing. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say. “So please, no need to sleep on the floor.”

“You’re accepting this much easier than I thought,” he says, and there’s something curious in the way he says it. Like he expected more resistance, more flustering, more of the reaction you gave Elora in the hallway moments ago.

You think back to what Elora said—about people talking, about how strange it would look like if you and your supposed boyfriend weren’t even sharing a room during a whole week of family events—and you sigh again, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“It’s not like we can really do anything about it,” you say. “Beside, we can think of this like a sleepover. You know… like the ones we used to have before with the others.”

Phainon raises an eyebrow. “Those were more like torturous study nights. Anaxa made sure of that.”

“Still,” you say, “we all slept together in the same room.”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, though there’s no real protest left in it. “Fine,” he says. “Though maybe we should put a pillow in between… Just so I don’t accidentally squash you in the middle of the night.”

“You are pretty heavy,” you say.

He laughs at that, shaking his head as he drops down onto the other side of the bed to test the mattress. “Wow. Okay.” He looks over at you, grinning. “Well, now that that’s settled, should we unpack for now? Or do you want to rest first?”

You glance at the suitcases still sitting by the foot of the bed, then out the window where the light outside has started shifting into gold over the water in the distance.

“Let’s unpack,” you say. “If I lie down now, I don’t think I’m getting back up before dinner.”

“Fair point,” he says, already pushing himself up off the bed and reaching for his suitcase.

You watch him for a second before you get up too and grabbing your own, and the room settles into something easy and quiet. It’s just the two of you moving around each other, familiar in a way that almost makes you forget—for a moment—that any of this is supposed to be pretend.

© 2026 kominigiru.

taglist: @ofcdimi

end note: i actually didn’t know how to end this chapter and the ending seemed kinda rushed but i’ve been writing this chapter for too long now and i feel bad for those who have been waiting since january akdbahfhsh

thank you to maemae for giving me the idea of “there’s only one bed” trope!! bwahahaha i can’t wait to do something about it…. (rubs hands together) 🪰 and for those who voted for phainon falling asleep on reader, yay for you! 😋

the amount of research i had to do for this chapter was ABYSMAL (not really) but it was actually so fun learning new things LOL i felt like a nerd (in a good way!!) writing the conversation between the mc and phainon during the plane scene. it’s not really relevant to the fic but phainon is a senior first officer. they’re basically the co-pilot and second in command—right after the captain (either the junior captain or the senior). in my head, both mc and phainon are in their late 20s (either or between 27-29yo. also imagine pining for someone for 11+ years 😅) and phainon can technically upgrade to a junior captain position but he just chooses not to because their schedules are a lot more flexible than that of a junior captain and they still need to work during weekends and holidays while a sfo is guaranteed to have off days on weekends. i think it suits phainon a lot, especially in this fic if you consider the fact that his schedule is almost always free when it comes to mc :D

also… you apparently don’t need tickets for privately owned jets but i’ve explicitly written last chapter how elora bought tickets for everyone (ᵕ ´ᗜ`) my bad!!! i should’ve researched much earlier before writing the email parts euuuu. i will not be removing it though so let’s just pretend the e-tickets are needed ,,,

[argentits]

this is so good is there any ways to engrave it onto a stone tablet or sum?

[idyllicsun]

THE DANCE OF ANIMOSITY ; mydei

synopsis: as an audience member, he should not be jealous of you dancing with someone else onstage. nothing can keep down the biting daggers of envy, however, nor the desire to be the one holding you like your dance partner does.

a/n: my playlist is legit fuel to write i love it <3 kind of a modern au

no one had fully described to him what the emotion behind anger and hunger was. hunger, not for sustenance, but for someone else he had wanted for years. what would it take for him to be seen not just as a companion? he had to wait, only those that were patient would receive such a wonderful life ahead of them.

it still pierced him to know that his jealousy was unfounded.

you were the best dancer in the academy you both attended, and you had wished for years to attend the prestigious dance university that would separate the two of you. he insisted he would visit you every weekend, and so he did. the promises he made for you were sacred, never to be defiled by any means. he looked forward to weekends after all.

the change within you from the first year to the final year of the university was vivid. no one could deny the elegance of which you carried yourself in ballet, the sharpness when it came to tango, the fierceness when it came to freestyle. no one could outdance you, and this, mydei took secret pride in, for he was the one that could shout out how proud he was of you. if there was a stand full of cheerleaders, mydei would need a row for himself because he would not let himself be outcheered by someone who did not watch you as closely as he did. he knew about the blood, sweat, and tears you poured into your craft, the endless nights without sleep as you tried to perfect a specific move before aiming for the next move to perfect. resting was not an option for you. had it not been for him ensuring that you slept and him bringing you paper bags of food, he was positive you would've stumbled on your own feet on the very stage you put your life into.

fast forward to a few years later, and he still has not said anything to you. it is so shameful and he knows it because the entire time, you have not even been with anyone else. that alone would have crushed him. time was running out, though, and he had to pull himself together.

"and why is it, mydei, that you still have not asked her? every time we meet up, there's always something about her that you're moping over," phainon chuckles as he sits across the round table from mydei. they had met at a small restaurant because phainon's busy schedule barely allowed him to leave the city. the wind blew through the leaves of the trees in the patio that they asked the waitress to sit at.

mydei's food sat untouched in front of him. why hadn't he asked you out yet? was it fear? no, he had dealt with more terrifying things. maybe it was the fear of losing you as a friend. he just shrugged, however. "i don't know."

"if it's fear, then tell me this, why has she not gotten with anyone else? surely, she could be with someone during the time that it has taken you to ask her out."

he froze at phainon's statement. he had a point, but what did it mean? "she's been focused on her dancing."

"and you think she doesn't gain admirers from her dancing? enough to ask her out?"

god, he had another point. he was annoyed with himself now. the signs were right there and yet...

the thought process had made him spiral from the conversation he had a week ago with phainon. now he was in one of the most elaborate and sophisticated theaters in the city, preparing to watch you on the stage. it was supposed to be a show with different styles of dancing, each of them combined to create a story.

the lights went low, the announcements reminding everyone where the emergency exits are and the introduction of the production. then the red curtain opened and as the show proceeded, he witnessed you dancing. without anyone else onstage to take away your effulgence, he relaxed in his seat, mesmerized by the melody of your form.

and then came a song that made his heart drop before he realized what was happening.

the raspy voice of the singer rang out, swirling around your movements with another man he didn't know. you were draped in red, red, red, the color stunning against your skin. he would have loved to witnessed it up close, but he was forced to be in the audience, heart pounding from the familiar and unwelcomed emotion.

the nighttime scenery behind you was laden with false stars, twinkling dots of light on your face as you locked eyes with your dance partner. he knew this was the choreography but watching how the man stared back at you, how he held your hand and kissed it, gods above, help him. he can't do it anymore, he can't watch. something was yanking his chin to make sure he could not turn away. his heart was feral, fighting against the chains of nonchalance he kept it wrapped under. his emotions, prompted behind a cracking dam, were about to be unleashed like an enraged ocean.

he would've pleaded for you to get off the stage, get away from him, but he didn't want you to leave. no, the contradicting part of him was hissing silently and cruelly for you to stay onstage. that part of him was the part that loved you, the part that wanted to be with you so badly that he didn't know what to do. his soul wanted to leave like his heart did. but what soul did he have left that wasn't meshed with your entire being? if it left, it meant you would too and then he would wander eternity lifelessly.

as the man spun you around, your red costume flowing from the twirls, he witnessed how you transform from a small bud into a blossoming spider lily. the costume was supposed to mean a transformation of emotions, and for mydei, it did transform him. his emotions went from being pushed down to barely restrained. it took all his willpower not to say anything when he saw your hand brush against your dance partner's face.

he had to confess. and soon.

but when he saw you once more outside after the show, all he could say was, "you looked incredible up there." your smile was enough to keep back the ugly emotions that were festering at being held back. he had his chance now, to confess, bear his soul out to you.

unfortunately, you were being called back into the theater for a post recital note session. with a quick hug and wave goodbye, he left. and with him went his unchained heart, now full of uncertainty and resignation that he no longer had any time left to lose. he would prepare, he would do everything in his power to show that he could be the person you needed. he could not hide anymore. he wouldn't.

he loved you too much to let go.

[earthtooz]

even when i'm quiet, i love you baby, i promise - phainon x gn!reader

naturally, it's impossible to know how to appropriately react to finding out that your lover has intergalactic levels of power.

well, you always had known phainon was destined for great feats and even greater heights, but it was daunting to confront that reality now. he looked so... untouchable with his wings and halo that spanned an armslength, the sight of his second form engrained into the crevices of your mind as you try to comprehend how that beautifully frightening being is someone you have the nerve to deem a lover.

the truth of amphoreus was one blow to your gut, and the second one was approaching now. you know the sound of his footsteps like the flowers know the sun, like the leaves blow to the wind, like the way amphoreus was always fated to reach the new dawn.

one with him in it this time, and that was a gift in itself.

he emerges from the shrubbery not too long after and you watch as his eyes light up, phainon naturally gravitating to you. even after all this time, all these cycles, he gazes at you like he's falling in love for the first time.

"i've been looking for you," is all he says as he sits down next to you on the stone ledge. you glance down at your hands in your lap and hum. "why are you hiding all the way out here? it took me a while to find you."

"i wanted some peace and quiet," you tell him, "i didn't worry you, did i?"

he shuffles closer, knee touching your outer thigh. you don't miss the way that he tries to shrink down, as if finding a way to be in your line of sight, magnetised to your personal space. "no, i just wanted to be with you. what are you thinking about?"

you could be honest. you could be coy. it's a matter of time before the truth comes out to him, he's always known how to pull it out of you.

however, this time it feels like he knows what you're thinking about, he's just waiting for you to confirm it, but his patience was wearing thin.

the dromas in the room; you still haven't asked him about his other form, nor have you properly talked to him since amphoreus took shape again, too overwhelmed by the bizarreness of peace, too helpless in the face of... just being able to do what you wish to do, too uncertain of how to move when there is no time limit on happiness.

this state of tranquility is here to stay. no more chasing prophecies, mad titans, undergoing trials, the warm sky overhead was a testament to that.

"there's a lot that i am thinking about," you say, watching the clouds float overhead.

"am i... in any of those thoughts?"

"plenty. majority," you glance back over to him.

"it feels like you've been avoiding me, y'know," he grumbles and he shuffles around a bit before his head finds comfort in your lap, effectively pinning you to the spot, as if securing it so that you wouldn't run away.

from the conversation or from him.

"i'm still the phainon you know, i'm still your phainon, and i know there's so much i still owe to tell you, but at the end of the day, and if you allow it, i'll come back to you, no matter what."

it's funny that such a powerful being- a majestic, divine, being such as himself, found it worthwhile to proclaim your ownership over him, to devote himself to such an arbitrary thing such as love when he could burn through stars and galaxies and find himself at the apex of creation.

your fingers follow the pathway to his hair and begin playing with the strands.

"can i... see your other... form, please?" you ask.

"are you sure? i mean, i could never deny you of anything but," he raises himself off of you, meeting your eyes. "i don't think you should see me like that."

"please?"

his eyebrows furrow for a second before he nods. he didn't want to make you ask a second time, weak to your whims in the first cycle, and still just as weak after the conclusion, quickly rolling off you and onto his feet.

suddenly, the man standing before you completely transforms in the blink of an eye. a flash passes, not bright enough to hurt your eyes, but fast enough that white hair has turned into blond, his past regal blue, white and black gowns have turned into stone, chest carved with golden cracks form.

his golden eyes are intimidating, a face so perfectly sculpted that it feels like you're seeing the stone statues you loved admiring as a kid. only this time, his presence is so captivating yet chilling, an oppressive warmth radiating from him as he watches you admire him.

"you're... breathtaking."

he laughs. quick, breathy, but relieved that you are yet to run away.

he might not know what to do with himself if you did.

"this ghastly form is nothing more than a vessel for all the rage and hatred that has manifested for thirty three million cycles. you shouldn't... see me like this too long"

you frown, shaking your head. "i want to. it just breaks my heart that life has given you so much pain."

"it's worth it because we are here now."

you open your arms, inviting him into your embrace. gently, with the same care that one would approach a sleeping chimera with, he melts into you. you bring your forehead to his, interlinking your hands behind his neck, feeling khaslana's warmth thrum underneath your touch.

this is the face you could spend your whole life knowing.

"after everything that has happened, i should be the one comforting you," you murmur, traces of a smile lingering in your tone. "i love you. that much will never change."

you watch as your words settle into his mind and he closes his eyes, a breath of relief passing through his lips. then, he kisses you, slow but consuming because now that he has all the time in the world, he can spend forever with you, and he plans on savouring every second.

© EARTHTOOZ 2026, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[japanese-movie-god-at-yahoo]

[0wllord]

Kuroo and his beefy boyfriend

A work in progress that i will probably not come back to in a while 😭

[dumdogs]

MISSED CONNECTION - MIYA OSAMU

a mini smau

JUNE 2, 2026, 6:32AM: if you’re the girl dressed like a hot dog that just knocked me on my ass on the side of the road, please know that i am in love with you.

TO SUMMARIZE - miya osamu meets the love of his life on his way to work for about two minutes total, and then spends five weeks trying to find her.

PLEASE BE AWARE that this story contains written parts, longing, alcohol, swearing, lewd jokes, and everyone is out of character. warnings may change as the story progresses

STATUS: completed

INTRO: the worst people in the world

INTRO: miya atsumu has a piss kink

CHAPTER ONE: love at first sight does not exist

CHAPTER TWO: eggs

CHAPTER THREE: stalking is a serious crime

CHAPTER FOUR: what attachment style are you

CHAPTER FIVE: let's be real second

@cashmakozume you inspire

[kiraandfriendss]

[zeldaaddiction]

How writers feel after starting a jaw-dropping, pearl clutching, thigh shaking, mouth watering, soul taking series just to leave me with no aftercare and discontinue it

[pastoffe]

— Blooming Fields ❀

The most beautiful in his eyes.

Notes; this is inspired by my favorite art (made by my amazing mutual)

Warnings; possible OOC (?)

Children danced amongst the sea of colors. Petals flew up into the air, carried by the rustles of their little hands brushing through.

The flowers, brimming with beauty, circle around you—as you slowly descend and plant your feet onto the ground.

You watch the children roam around, their various laughter creating a harmonious sound. Echoing throughout the field. It is a heartwarming sight, though you show no interest in joining your comrades in entertaining the children.

You begin to walk, the floras part for each of your steps. Distancing yourself away from the others, and upon spotting a rock nearby—with its surface flat enough to provide a seat—you settle upon it. Spectating the scene before you.

It is odd, despite the unfathomable time you've spent walking this earth, you have never seen such a picturesque sight.

The field of flowers was meant to silence the children's insistence for magic, putting an end to their pestering. Which you succeeded in doing. But never had you imagined many would find such infectious joy in them.

You've stood on the peak of mountains. And there, you witnessed the clouds form a halo around the rising sun as it casts light upon the white surface. Awe was the word to describe what you felt, no matter how fleeting the moment was.

Though that's how you perceived everything, wasn't it?

Fleeting.

Only lasting for so long before dimming into nothingness. There's nothing special about moments once you realize that in the next hundred years, you'll witness it all over again.

You brush your fingers against flower petals. Delicate. And, fleeting. They wither in seconds for you, a beauty held by the sands of time. Slowly seeping through the cracks. You've long accepted that nothing ever lasts for your kind.

A soft rustle coming from behind you. Footsteps. Before something settles atop of your head, successfully pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Daydreaming again, partner?” the hero jest with a soft chuckle as you lift your gaze up to meet his much softer ones. The jewels of his gaze sparkle like the ripples of a vast ocean, with you as the light casting over its surface. You lift a hand, ushered by curiosity as you try to figure out what he made. And when the tips of your fingers touch the familiar petals, before tracing over the intricate braids made from the stems. You're left impressed.

Phainon never gave you the impression that he's capable of crafting something made from such delicate material.

your gaze shifts over at the others as a member of your party topples forward face-first into petals. Distant laughter echoes into the air. “Shouldn't you be joining them?”

Phainon only hums in response, before settling beside you. “I prefer being with you.” flashing you a charming smile and wink. You swore sparkles started bouncing off of his head.

Silence sits between the two of you. For a voyage with an end goal of returning the coreflame of Worldbearing to humanity—restoring shining hope over the world once more.

The passage is laden with Titankins. All deathly loyal to their master. Yet, in the name of a better tomorrow, you all March forward. Even as you shake at the face of a looming end.

Despite all the imminent danger, the Deliverer remains.. Seemingly unbothered. Going out of his way to help others.

Whether it's to pick ripe apples for an old lady or fixing a bridge between villages. With that charming smile—he lends out a hand.

Though, it's odd of him to stay quiet for this long.

Driven by curiosity, and perhaps concern, you glance over at him.

Your eyes only met his. Barely hidden by his arm. His eyes flicker, surprised by the sudden reciprocation. And in this open field, with the sun casting its light—you're able to clearly see his dilated pupils. Nearly overlapping the deep blue.

“.. Daydreaming again, Deliverer?” You throw his jest right back at him.

Phainon blinks out of his dazed, “oh.. My apologies, partner. ” he chuckles.

Yet, his eyes stubbornly stay on your figure. “I'm simply admiring the view.”

This meal is served with potent scent of flowers. Fresh. Addictive, and sweet. I recommend you all check out the beautiful art establishment linked in our notes!

See you all in our next meal!

[todoriin]

can call me obsessed | phainon x gn!reader

clingy, sad, soppy phainon, fluff, sfw, unedited, modern!au

phainon: Good morning baby! phainon: Thinking of you :( phainon: I hope you have a good day!

phainon: I just walked by a cafe that you would like phainon: We should go soon!

phainon: Goodnight my love :> phainon: Sweet dreams phainon: I hope you're sleeping well phainon: And on time phainon: Don't stay up, ok? phainon: I love you

For nearly a week and a half, Phainon has been texting you relentlessly. After you had told him you needed some space, that you weren't feeling like a priority to him and needed a break to gather your bearings, he had agreed with barely concealed disappointment, looking as if you had torn his heart out and stomped it flat.

Phainon was always someone who had one foot in many doors, an overachiever of sorts, and for how busy he was, he did try his best to accomodate and spend time with you. However, one person can only stomach so much before other things start feeling arbitrary, and after many rain checks and late meetups, you didn't want to be the thing to hold him back and drag him down.

You didn't want to lose him, and you still loved him dearly, but sometimes love is not enough. You needed time to see if this relationship was something you and him still wanted.

"You're not breaking up with me, right?" He asks through a wobbly frown, eyes silently begging and saying what he didn't after you proposed some distance from each other.

"No, I just- you're a busy person, Phainon, and I'm not feeling like a priority right now, or like you even want to be with me," you reasoned.

"What? You've always been a priority to me, and I do want to be with you, I don't want anyone else but you!"

"You say that, but it's difficult to believe when it feels like you've put me on the backburner."

"I'm sorry, I'll do better, we can work through it, I promise!"

"It's not your fault, Phainon, life gets in the way sometimes. I just need space to figure things out."

"I don't want space," he frowns, holding your hand even tighter, refusing to let you go. "I especially don't want space from you."

"Phainon..."

"What can I do to fix this?"

You bite the inside of your cheek. "Give me some time, I'll... I'll let you know when I'm ready."

Eventually, he relents, but he voices his resistance and asks for one last kiss for the road. You grant it, and he pulls you in and breathes you in like air, as if you were the oxygen he needed before diving into deep waters and swimming against tough currents, even refusing to let you go for a moment so he can sneak more than just one kiss, pressing his lips against yours again and again.

He lets you go after that, staring at you like a kicked puppy as you walk away.

You never said he couldn't text you, so here you were, reading multiple texts that he sends a week, most of them detailing how he was thinking of you or missing you. It seems as if you occupied a lot of space on his mind, and he was determined to let you know whenever you did.

You would offer a reply here and there, and he would respond with great enthusiasm, trying his best to keep the conversation going; to prompt more out of you.

phainon: [ photo ] phainon: Look at this cute dog I saw! He had a little hat! phainon: You would have loved him haha phainon: Wish you were here phainon: ... phainon: Like. A lot

At the end of the day, you've realised how much you wanted him around too, and it was tough being without him. It seems as though he feels the same, if the texts were anything to go by.

you: can we talk?

For some reason, he doesn't respond within a close time frame this time. No, your message is left on delivered for a while, and you're left wondering if you've really messed up this time, or maybe you're too late and Phainon is finally fed up. Maybe he realised he deserved better than what you could give him.

Half an hour later, the doorbell to your apartment rings, and it's Phainon's voice that comes through the intercom.

"I'm here," he sounds breathless through the speaker, and you're so overwhelmed by the suddenness of the situation that all you can do is mutter a small 'come in', and hear him slam the door behind him.

You wait by the entrance, slightly nervous as you bite your nails. Why didn't he respond to you? Did he drop everything to come to yours?

A barrage of impatient knocks attack your door.

"Take me back," he pleads as soon as you open it. He has a big bouquet of flowers in one hand and his heart in the other, offering both to you with great desperation.

There are subtle deteriorations to his appearance- his hair is slightly matted, as if he has been running a hand through it, there are barely noticeable eyebags on his perfect skin, along with a few blemishes, and his cheeks are a little sunken. It seems like he hasn't been taking care of himself since you last saw him.

You forgot why you even asked for space in the first place.

Soulmates is a concept made by people trying to justify love and wholeness that being with someone brings you, that needed to put a label on this irreplaceable feeling of knowing you love someone and they love you in kind.

The feeling that Phainon brings you, and it's never been more clear that he's the only one for you.

However, in your daze, he has seemingly mistook your silence for rejection, watching your expression remain unreadable with a sense of impatience that creeps up his chest, squeezes his throat, and begs for an answer.

To your bewilderment, he drops to his knees, the bouquet falling to the floor as he wraps his arms around your hips and thighs, face pressed against your lower stomach.

"Please?" He pleads.

"Whoa, Phainon, stand up!" You exclaim, steadying yourself by putting your hands on his shoulders.

He shakes his head with firm resolution. "Not until you take me back, so please?"

"Phainon-"

"- I'll be good, I'll be everything you need!"

"I love you."

That silences him real quick, and all of a sudden he's jumping to his feet and wrapping you in his arms, keeping you pressed close to his chest until there's no space in between you. Then, Phainon breathes a sigh of relief, as if all is right with the world again.

He's all over you as soon as you let him in. When the bouquet is placed on the table, he's clinging to you like no other, laying on your lap and hugging your waist.

You fear he may burst into tears any moment.

The rest of the day is spent together. You go out for lunch, Phainon pays, you stay in for dinner, one that you cook, and things fall right back into place. He tells you about what he's been up to, you ask to know more, and he does the same, listening with great eagerness, and as his thumb rubs circles into the back of your hand, you realise how privileged you are to be loved by him.

When the moon is high in the sky and most of the lights in homes have been turned off, Phainon lays on top of you under your covers, his cheek resting on your chest and arms wrapped around your sides.

"I've missed you," he confesses while your hands run through his hair, untangling any knots they get stuck in.

"I missed you too, I'm sorry for being distant and thank you for being patient," you say. "You're too good to me."

He shakes his head. "I realised you were right, I've always had a tendency to keep myself busy and never give myself a break, I didn't realise how important that was until you brought it up."

"Still, I think there were better and less selfish ways for us to get there, but I appreciate that you were considerate of me, I needed some time to gather my thoughts. I love you."

Phainon presses a lingering kiss to your collarbone. "I love you more, I'm happy you're feeling better now, my love."

You hum happily, but suddenly, he wails very quietly, wrapping his arms around you even tighter. Before you can ask what's wrong, he speaks up.

"Never do that to me again, never ask for space again. If something's bothering you, we'll work through it together," he pleads. "Being without you was like prolonged torture, I don't want to go through that again."

You can't help but laugh softly. "I'm sorry, but I'm here now, right?"

"And I'm not letting you go ever again."

© TODORIIN 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[todoriin]

this came to me in a dream

[todoriin]

silent treatment fic, i've probably written and thought about this scenario a million billion times, so very self-indulgent, hot-headed!reader and phainon is puppy coded

it's hard to ignore phainon, yet you've somehow nailed the art perfectly.

even as he trails behind you through the crowds of marmoreal palace like a pitiful chimera, even as he tries to strike up ways of talking to you, luring you with the best conversation starters, even as he drapes himself all over you. because while you may like your personal space, phainon likes it even more.

yet, none of it is enough to get you to budge, stubborn with your silent treatment as punishment for not listening to you and going out of his way to disobey your concerns.

from the last expedition aglaea had sent him out on, he had come back with a pretty nasty injury. you were concerned over him for days, pampering him, making sure he didn't exert himself too much so the wound would open back up.

only to find out that he couldn't resist sparring with mydei.

and lo and behold, it reopened and you were left patching up a bleeding phainon in deathly quiet silence, irritation dripping off you in waves. you had a mountain of things you wanted to say, scold him until his ears fell off, but you kept quiet and refused to let the frustration boil over.

your lover had sat as still as a tree while you worked, not making a sound- not even wincing as the needle pricked into his skin.

he was waiting for it, your wrath, the flames he'd have to endure, yet it never came. you packed up your kit and left him without another word, and phainon didn't know which hurt more; the ache in his side or the pang in his heart.

obviously, he ran after you, keeping five steps behind you obediently, your combined footsteps echoing off the marble wall like a ticking clock, waiting for you to explode at him.

but it never came. he was getting antsy, nervously rubbing his palms against his pants.

phainon followed you all the way to the markets, where you browsed the stalls with keen interest, never once glancing back at the despite all the commotion that flocked to him. enthusiastic children that came up to him, stall owners that wanted to thank him for helping, trying to give him something in return; while he was getting held back, you kept moving without so much a second thought.

he reconvened with you in front of a fresh food vendor, where you were carefully scanning the produce, and he simply returned to your side as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"ah, phainon!" the owner greeted with a big smile. "thanks for your help carrying the boxes the other day, i wanted to say thanks with some produce on the house."

you didn't react to the praise occurring right in front of you, simply assessing which apple was fresher than the other.

"please, that's not necessary," phainon waves it off. "i'm happy to help any time, free of charge!"

"such a good lad," the owner turns to you. "aren't you lucky, y/n? got yourself the finest catch here."

phainon hears you huff. "so lucky that i have to spend my time fretting over him. i'll take these, thanks."

"i'm sorry," phainon murmurs just between you two. you don't move, waiting for your purchase to be wrapped up as phainon keeps staring at the side of your head, anticipating for the moment you'll finally look at him.

it passes by and before he knows it, you're setting off again. this time, heading back in the direction of your shared home.

he would open all the heavy doors in marmoreal palace for you, running ahead just to hold them for you to walk through without so much a glance at him. when you finally entered the privacy of your shared abode, he was all over you, arms around your shoulders, holding your waist, anywhere he could touch, he held on to.

"y/n," he'd whine your name over and over again, frowning even harder at every ignored attempt. "i'm sorry for worrying you, won't you at least look at me so i can tell you how sorry i am?"

you just acted like he wasn't there. as if there wasn't an oversized chrysos heir holding onto you, as if he couldn't just easily manoeuvre you with his ridiculous strength.

he didn't, though. didn't want to anger you even more.

he left you reluctantly when aglaea and tribbie summoned him for another thing that they needed his assistance with, but his thoughts kept drifting back to you, anxiety settling deep in his chest. even a dip at the hot baths couldn't even soothe him, mind running with ways to make it up to you- how can he even do that if you refuse to look at him? or even breathe in his direction?

her returned that evening to you preparing dinner, the portions still for two, and still accounting for his massive appetite.

it was even his favourite, phainon swears he didn't tear up a little. despite how angry you were with him, you still go out of your way to care for him. you didn't react when he sidled up as close to you as possible, chest pressed flush against your back. he thanked you for the food, and you didn't say anything, eyes glued to your cooking as he peppered gentle kisses along your shoulder, scared to provoke you even more.

even though you ate side by side, his thigh staying against yours, he was still antsy. you were so close, yet still felt so far, you still haven't even spared him a glance, and he was losing his mind.

phainon could only be so patient before the desperation boiled over.

by bed time, you slid into bed next to him and stayed on your side, reaching for the book on your nightstand. phainon, who had forgotten about his nightly-reading, stared at you, waiting for you to break, but you had simply opened your novel to the bookmarked chapter and began reading.

the sheets beside you rustle. next thing you know, there's a heavy weight spread completely over your bod, his chin resting on your chest as he was practically pleading for your attention with puppy dog eyes. yet, your book seemed to be more important, because you just adjusted your arms and used his head like a book rest instead of giving him what he wanted.

displeased, he wraps his arms around you with a suffocating tightness and rolls around so that you're the one lying on him, book dropping on the mattress.

he squeezes you close to his body, muscular arms constricting you like chains and you wheeze in his tight grasp.

"i'm sorry, please, stop this unfair treatment," he wails, pushing your head into his collarbones.

you squirm above him and punch his shoulder in protest. "phainon!"

"you need to forgive me first!"

"i can't breathe!"

"say you'll stop ignoring me!"

"i'll stop ignoring you!"

he finally loosens his embrace and you gasp for air, pushing your face out away from phainon's skin.

"have you gone mad?" you immediately ask, eyebrows furrowing with displeasure. your words fizzle away when you catch sight of his teary eyes and the pitiful sadness glistening in them, matched with a pout that made it seem like he was a second away from crying. "phainon?"

he rolls over on his side with you still in his grasp, shuffling down so he could hide his face in your chest. he wraps himself around you, arm snaking around your torso and thigh thrown over your hip. you couldn't even leave if you tried.

"i thought i was going to die," he whimpers.

"die? you?" you ask.

he nods. "please, never do that again. it felt like torture."

you sigh. "you deserved it for being an idiot and not listening to me when i was just showing concern for you. instead, you go out of your way to disregard my orders."

"mydei asked me to spar."

"you should have said no! i bet he even tried to be worried about you, asked how you were healing, and you just lied through your teeth and insisted you were fine, when you know very well you weren't!"

"i'm sorry, i was stupid, i won't do it again, i'll properly listen this time, i promise!"

"why didn't you listen to me last time?"

"i wanted to spar with him!"

"you buffoon! now i'm getting mad again!" you try to turn in his grasp and he whines, large hands forcing you to face him again, refusing to let you show your back to him again.

"be mad at me all you want, curse me out, pray for my downfall, but won't you at least look at me?" he pleads, lips quivering as he stares up at you, all teary-eyed.

"you're being dramatic."

"i'll jump off the highest mountain in okhema if i'm not in your gaze."

"you'd rather face my wrath then my silence?"

"yes, a thousand times yes," he burrows himself further into your chest, clinging to you. "i'll take everything you hit me with, but i can't handle it if you give me nothing, i'd rather fight nikador singlehandedly."

you sigh, hands snaking up to reside in his snowy hair and he hums in relief when you start playing with the strands.

"fine," you relent, "you're forgiven."

his fingers creep under your night shirt, and he all but nuzzles his face closer to your body warmth, content.

"you were very mean to me today," he mumbles.

you shift in his arms, pushing at his shoulders, trying to create some distance. "i was mean? you have the gall to say-"

"-i was kidding! don't leave me."

you sigh when you feel him pull you into a bone-crushing embrace.

"for your own sake, phainon, you should really stop biting the hand that feeds you. in other words, taunting me just because you find my reaction entertaining."

"but it's just so fun."

"it'll be real fun when i don't talk to you for a whole week."

"you can't do that!"

"i can. i'll run away, i'll hide from you," you joke.

"i won't give up until i find you, i'll search every corner of amphoreus, and i'll plead for your forgiveness every time."

"great, so how about we avoid that scenario completely and you exercise some self-preservation?"

"fine."

phainon manages to pin you to the bed for hours the next morning, insisting that it was to make up for all the time he spent agonising over your punishment, all the time he should have gotten with you, his neediness depleting slowly as he lays on top of you.

© todoriin 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site, do not feed to AI

[argentits]

blurb so good you gotta spontaneously find you way back to it (o´・∀・)o

[usagiarchive]

the d in divorce stands for 'despite everything, it's still you.'

sypnosis. [ 11.7k words ] lawyer!mydei x math!professor!reader. divorced parents + daughter au. — endless nights of waiting for him to change pushes you to the edge and file for divorce. almost six years after the divorce was finalized, mydei asks to see you without your daughter.

usagi's note: header credit here! PLEASEEE I KNOW I SAID 8K BUT IM A LIAR OKAY, ITS NEVER WITHIN 8K WORDS OMFG, BUT TRUST I COOKED WITH THIS ONE. ive been watching too many cdramas like a facebook mom omfg. i didn't give melina (your daughter, whose name means honey btw) any physical traits so u guys can rlly envision what she looks like as YOUR daughter! (personally i see melina like mel from arcane or like annabeth from pjo bcs i can't see myself having kids, but thats just me LOL). enjoy mydei lvrs!

“Melina, be good, okay? See you next week, honey.” 

You hug your daughter tight and she nods against your clavicle as you look up for a second at the man in front of the doorway. The girl in your embrace pulls away and you give her a kiss on the crown of her head, then she walks to her father’s car.

You give Mydei the luggage you packed with Mel the day before, reminding him of her events during the week.

“Mel signed herself up for an archery class this Wednesday, I’ll send you the address later, but if you can’t drive her there, I can.”

The man shakes his head, “No, I can take her, I’ll make time.”

You pause and nod stiffly at that. Neither of you say anything.

Then a long beep comes from the car, followed by muffled complaints.

“Yeah, I’ll drop her off next week.”

“Yep.”

And that was it.

Five years. It’s been five years since the divorce finalized. Seven since you brought the papers up—but five years since this arrangement has been going on. 

Melina was ten years old at the time, barely coherent enough to understand the weight of the effects of the decision you both had made. Your mother kept saying she was too young to understand, and you knew that. Really, you did.

But this was a situation where you could put yourself first without taking her childhood away from her or his fatherhood from him.

So here we are, five years of weekly dropoffs and pickups with your ex-husband, Mydei.

Was it ideal? Definitely not. 

Was it necessary? Maybe. 

Did you miss him? Next question.

…

It doesn’t take long for your daughter to update you.

Honey Hi mommmm We r getting ice cream  Dad is rewarding me for acing my test !! You That’s good, honey. Make sure to drink water after, okay? [ <3 ] reacted by Melina

…

You Make sure she drinks water. Mydei Wouldn’t forget it. [ thumbs up ] reacted by You

…

The rest of the week goes on just like that. Mel would update you, Mydei would clarify some things for her schedule, you and your daughter would call when she gets stuck in one of her advanced mathematic questions—she’d fall asleep on call saying she’s only ‘resting’ and you’d chuckle when you hear her snore after a while.

You decide to message your ex-husband after a while of just admiring your daughter, your heart blooming for fondness as you gaze at her through the screen. 

How could one foster such longing for a daughter so loved?

You sigh and type out the message.

You Mydei, can you carry Mel to her bed? She’s gonna get a crick in her neck when she wakes up.

Mydei She fell asleep at her desk again?

You Yep.

Mydei I’m coming up now.

…

It doesn’t take long for the doorknob to twist and open. You hear him sigh in amusement through the phone as he picks her up carefully and tucks her in bed.

You stay quiet through all of it and just… watch.

Mydei does, too. After tucking her in properly, he pauses—looking content.

It’s normal, you suppose. With her studying as hard as she can for her upcoming entrance exams—she’s 17 now. Almost an adult, and growing ever so fast. Neither you nor Mydei have the time to know everything she did like when she was a child.

He must not see her asleep often—being busy with cases and paperwork. Only having time to pick her up from school, cook dinner, and go back to working on the documents.

But he’s changed.

He isn’t the same as before.

And it does little to soothe the pinpricks of your heart bleeding out through your chest.

Mydei sucks in a breath through the phone and when your eyes flit back to your phone, you find that he’s already looking at you.

“You miss her already?” He asks in a hushed voice.

You swallow—trying to make sure your voice won’t croak, “Yeah.” Your eyes turn to Mel who was sleeping peacefully on the bed behind him, “Yeah, I do.”

That makes your ex-husband sigh softly, “It’s only Friday, two more days and she’s yours again.”

“I know,” you murmur, scrolling idly at your laptop—browsing through your students’ essay submissions.

You say nothing for a while and neither does Mydei as he starts to tidy up the papers, books, and pens on Melina’s desk.

You don’t know the right word for it. 

You don’t know how to describe the feeling of it.

Domestic, maybe—but how is being on call from your daughter’s phone with your divorced ex-husband considered domestic? You don’t know. Maybe it’s just the familiarity of it all.

Maybe you’re just tired.

“Hey, Mydei, I’m going to end the call now, I have a few calls to make and a dozen papers to grade,” you tell him to catch his attention and you see him raise an eyebrow through the screen.

“This late at night?”

You swallow hard, caught in the lie, “Y-yeah… you know how it is with Cas and Aglaea, I need to consult a few things from the kids’ submissions.”

You pray to Nikador he believes your bullshit and doesn’t push. 

He won’t. 

He never does, but with how his brows are furrowed together—you know he doesn’t buy it at all.

Still, he relents, “Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The moment the call drops, you deflate into the ergonomic chair he bought—a matching set you and Mel have. You press your palms into your eyes.

God, five years in, and everything is still about him.

You don’t know how to feel anymore.

Ever since the divorce finalized, nothing felt right anymore. Mydei was respectful. Always have been. You never divorced because of any abuse, but because you felt… Well it doesn’t matter how you felt.

In the end, no matter how many times you’d try to talk to him, to think of a solution, to attend countless couple’s therapy sessions. It didn’t matter, none of it did. Because at the end of the day, he still didn’t have time for you nor Melina.

It was always case after case after case. His work always came first.

You had tried to understand at first, after all you were both chasing promotions at the time. You with your professor’s thesis, and Mydei with his heavy cases. You told yourself it was just a busy week.

Until a week became a month, a month became a season, and before you knew it, your daughter turns nine without her father by her side and he’s only been there for about half her life.

He’d come home, folders stacked under his arm, apologies spewing from his mouth as he tells you, ‘it’s the last time, I promise’.

The last time he forgets to attend a parent-teacher conference.

The last time he comes home late to a dinner long-gone cold.

The last time he puts work first.

It never happened.

And when one day, you give him the divorce papers, he doesn’t even ask why. Doesn’t even try to reason. He doesn’t fight you for it. Just stares at the papers you’d given him for a whole minute before moving to get a pen and signs his name on all of them.

That was it.

Eleven years of marriage, a daughter that’s ten years old, signed away in a minute, not even being fought for one.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most about it all.

Mydei’s a lawyer.

He fights for his client at the court almost every day.

He’s a fucking lawyer and yet he didn’t even fight you for the divorce papers.

Just looked like he’d long known about it. He just… accepted it. And signed away without a second thought, not even looking at you, just downing his black coffee and left.

It took you four hours to even move from your spot and even then your legs shook so much that you had to call your brother—Phainon—to take Melina to school and preferably for the rest of the afternoon.

…

The next two years following that were even harder.

Not only did you have to face him multiple times at court just to prove that you both really did want this divorce—you had to face multiple counselling sessions, the worried stares of all your friends and family, and juggle your job to prove that you can have custody and take care of your daughter.

But you were also faced with the daunting task of trying to explain divorce to a ten year-old child. 

You let her ask whatever she wants—making sure you hold her in your arms or some part of her as she does. You try to answer as best as you can, Mydei answering some questions she asks him, too.

You just didn’t know her next question would make both your hearts stop.

“Does Daddy still love us, Mommy?”

Oh, how you wanted to know that, too.

“I’m sure he does,” you try to reassure her, trying not to look at the man behind her, and holding her hands, “It’s just… Daddy and Mommy need to… need to have a break from each other, okay?”

“Forever?”

You try to blink back tears, “Yes, honey. It’s… It’s kind of complicated.”

“But why?”

“Because… because Daddy and Mommy have different goals in life right now…”

Mel is quiet for a while—fidgeting with her toys on the floor as you rub your thumb on her knee in a circle, trying to reassure her in the subtlest way possible just so you couldn’t disturb her train of thought.

“Are…” her voice breaks—and you think a piece of your heart does, too. 

“Are we still going to be a family?”

You swallow down your own tears and hold Mel as tight as you could.

“Yes, sweetheart,” your words catch on the hitch of your breath, “always, baby, we’ll always be a family.” 

And she sobs. Melina sobs for the first time since she started asking questions and the way she does lets you know that she was trying so hard to be brave and mature about the whole thing.

You truly did not think your heart could break any further.

Until she calls out daddy in such a broken voice that you do all you could, shut your eyes and sigh quietly—just so you don’t break down, too.

Mydei comes up and embraces the two of you tightly, a pained inhale comes from him as Mel switches her position and buries her face in his neck instead. He tightens his grip around the both of you. 

You think of it as him apologizing—maybe trying to offer some comfort for your daughter.

You tuck the thought that maybe this was as close to an apology that you were going to get from him to the very back of your head.

…

After the lawyer and social worker talked to Melina, the divorce agreement was drafted with a few new additions from your daughter.

Both parents must remain in continuous contact.

Custody exchange is scheduled weekly.

All of Melina’s events are to be attended by both parents.

You sign the papers without hesitation. 

You’d give anything for Melina to be happy.

…

It was hard at first.

Melina didn’t want to adhere to the custody schedule during the first few months. She’d cry, she’d scream, flail around, saying she didn’t want to leave your house when Mydei came to pick her up, or that she didn’t want to leave his when you did, or when he had to drop her off. Instead, she kept asking ‘why?’

“Why can’t we just live in one house anymore?”

“Why can’t Daddy live with us again?”

“Why can’t Mommy just come over?”

It was… a lot. 

Every time Mydei had to come in front of your doorstep, holding your sobbing daughter in his arms, he’d look so… mournful. Tired, even.

There are times he’d call you over at night—telling you that Mel refused to go to sleep without you beside her. You’d come over, only to leave a while after she falls asleep. He’d offer to drive you back and you would refuse, and he’ll leave it at that.

But eventually, it got better.

Mel got used to the weekly switches, you’d attend every event she had with her father, and just like your daughter’s terms in the agreement, you stayed in contact with Mydei.

He’d send updates about her, or even tell you when he’ll be picking her up and dropping her off.

Mydei changed.

He’s early to all Mel’s events—on time for pick-up and drop-off, has all her stuff accounted for, takes her for ice-cream or any sweet treat she loves every time she achieves a goal she’s set. It’s something she’s gotten from him, must be a genealogical trait or something.

The most surprising thing is—Mel tells you that he’s picked up cooking again.

It was something he stopped doing when she was around six and had gotten busy with work. It surprised you to learn that he picked it up again.

He’d cook their dinners and even send her some to take home. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him his cooking.

And sometimes—quietly, unwillingly—you wonder if this version of him had always been there.

And you hate that a part of you keeps circling back to the same thought—that maybe it was easier for him to become this man when it was just him and Mel.

That maybe you were the variable that made everything harder.

The thing that didn’t quite fit.

If maybe… it just never showed up when you were still part of the equation.

You try not to think too much about what that might mean.

No.

You shake the thought off before it can settle.

You didn’t walk away for nothing. You didn’t leave because you were the problem—you left because the relationship was. Because love, on its own, hadn’t been enough to make it work.

And maybe things are easier now. Maybe he’s better now.

But that doesn’t rewrite what the two of you were.

If he can show up for Mel the way she deserves, then that’s all that matters.

That’s enough for you.

…

Months pass in a way they hadn’t before—steadier. Not exactly easier, but… manageable.

You fall into routines you didn’t think you’d ever get used to—Work. Home. Mel. The empty spaces in between.

Therapy becomes one of them.

At first, it feels strange—sitting in a room and saying things out loud that you’d spent years swallowing down. But eventually, the words come easier. You learn how to sit with the silence after them. Learn how to name things for what they are, instead of what you wished they could’ve been.

Some days are heavier than others.

But you get through them.

Mel does, too—though in her own way.

She throws herself into archery with a kind of focus that reminds you a little too much of Mydei, shoulders squared and eyes sharp with determination. What starts as a hobby turns into something she actively pursues, something she talks about over dinner with bright, animated gestures.

Somewhere along the way, she picks up taekwondo, too—for fun, she insists, even as she drags you along to watch practices and shows off new moves in the living room.

She’s… happy.

And that makes everything else easier to bear.

Things with Mydei settle into something else entirely.

Not what you had before—never that—but something functional. Something steady.

You talk when you need to. About schedules, about Mel, about the little things that come with raising her between two homes. The sharp edges between you two dull over time, worn down by distance and routine.

And somewhere along the way, without really noticing when it happened, you stop hoping.

Stop waiting for something that isn’t coming back.

You learn how to speak to him again without it meaning more than it should.

It’s… normal.

Or at least, close enough.

…

You’re in a lecture room when Mydei texts you on a random day during your turn of the custody exchange.

Mydei I have to drop Mel off for a few hours.

Your brows furrow at the message, Mydei was supposed to pick her up from archery and spend a few hours with her today since he had a less busy week than you did. Neither of you wanted her to be alone as finals week loomed around the corner.

Immediately, you text back—worried something had occurred.

You What happened?

Mydei Nothing concerning her, don’t worry. Just some stuff at the office came up. It’s quite a gruesome scene of documents and images and I’d just rather she not see that You Alright, no problem. She can hang out in my office or here in the lecture with my TA. Mydei You’re teaching right now? I can have Phainon take her if you’re too busy. You No, it’s okay. It’ll be easier for us when we go home, too. Mydei Alright. We’ll be there in 10. 15, if she wants to get food. [ haha ] reacted by You

…

“Can anyone tell me what the derivative of this is?” you ask as you finish writing on the whiteboard.

Coincidentally, the bell rings at that moment and you laugh at your students who breathe a sigh of relief.

“Alright class, hahaha, let’s circle back to this next week, reminders that your final projects are due next month—so please make progress on it. Your weekly exam is already posted online and will be due this Sunday. We will not be having a final exam so do well on your project outputs. See you all next week.”

While your students trickle out the door, a familiar face pokes her head in the door.

“Hi, Mom!” she greets and runs through the door, tackling you in a hug.

“Hello, sweetheart,” you press a kiss into her hair, looking up to see Mydei walking in.

“I’m really sorry to drop her off like this,” he tells you, running a hand through his bangs, his low ponytail in a bit of a frazzled state. It was obvious the case in his hands had gotten him shaken up. Yet, Mydei seemed composed if anything.

You wave him off, letting your daughter go so she could set up her books and iPad beside your Teaching Assistant—Polites. 

“It’s no problem, besides, I’ll be going home after this next class. It’d save us both the trouble.”

He nods and fishes out his phone from his pocket, answering a message before it rings.

“Ah, I gotta go, I’ll see her for pickup next week. Bye, sweetheart!” He calls out to her before he rushes to take the call outside.

…

It’s only when you’re in the car and on the way home that your daughter tells you a very interesting and mildly concerning piece of information—interesting for you, and you being mildly concerned for Mel’s reaction to it.

“A client came over to Dad earlier.”

“Mh?” You answer absentmindedly, focused on switching lanes to not miss your exit.

“She was all up in his personal space, Mom, I swear, even I was uncomfortable watching them, and Dad wasn’t making that face he always makes when he wants to strangle Uncle Phai and he has to be polite because we’re in a public place. No, Mom, he was polite and smiling.”

Your attention splits and your brows furrow. That wasn’t like Mydei at all. He’d usually have no problem telling someone to respect his personal space—even if it was a client.

“Maybe he was just trying to be respectful, honey,” You reasoned with her as you took a right turn, turning off the blinker after you did.

Mel shakes her head at you, her hair and braid shaking as she did so, “Mom, that’s not even what I wanted to tell you—that’s just the context.”

You raise your eyebrow at her dramatic storytelling tendencies, “Go on…?”

“Mom, Dad turned her advances down and told her he was married.”

You let out a chuckle at that, you’d long given up on making it work with Mydei. You’d hoped that years after the divorce, he’d snap out of it and get his life together and win you and Mel back, but that was too far-fetched of a fantasy even for you.

“It’s just an excuse, sweetheart. I know what you’re trying to imply and your father definitely does not see me that way anymore.”

She sighed dramatically, “But Mom! I swear, if you were there you would’ve seen the look in his eyes.”

You actually snort at that, “You little missy, have been reading too many romance books. I gotta tell your Dad to limit your spending at Jayce and Viktor’s (this fic’s version of Barnes and Noble lol).”

“W-huh? Mom, you wouldn’t!”

You just laughed at your daughter.

…

Later that night you texted Mydei, making good on your promise to ask him to limit her budget on romance books. You fear your daughter might get too swept up in book romance and forget that real-life guys should be straightforward—none of that ‘playing hard-to-get’ game they try to play. Girls should be the one doing that, not the men.

You Mel told me something today.

Within seconds, the typing bubble already appeared.

Mydei I already told her not to tell you and it was an excuse, I swear.

Ah.

You Yeah, I figured. No worries. She’s been reading too many novels, I think… Mydei Oh.

It stays silent for a few moments.

Mydei Got it. I’ll lessen our trips to JnV’s. I’ll probably take her somewhere else that doesn’t involve romance books, huh? What do you think she’d enjoy other than the sports center? You Please don’t bring her to the sports center anymore. I will actually be sighing constantly if she picks up another sport. I’m worried she’ll injure herself again. Mydei My thoughts exactly. I was thinking of maybe bringing her to a farm or something. Let her run around a field. You I’m raising an eyebrow at you right now. [ haha ] reacted by Mydei Do you think our daughter is a dog? TT Mydei Hey, it’s what my Mom did to me as a kid to burn off all my stress and energy. You Mydei, please do not. Mydei Got any ideas?

You think about it for a little while, then you get a few.

You You could teach her how to bake? Or to cook, as long as you don’t leave her long enough to burn the kitchen down… Mydei That’s actually helpful. I’ll do that, thank you. You Make sure she won’t burn your house or herself down. Mydei Copy that. [ <3 ] reacted by You

…

It’s a few weeks after that talk—during Mydei’s turn of the custody exchange—that Mel updates you with a video. You take a break from grading the final projects and watch.

“Okay, okay, wait, Dad, don’t start yet!”

The camera shakes as she fumbles with the phone, propping it up against what you later find out is a jar of flour, “I need to film this. Mom’s soooo gonna be proud of me when she sees how good these turn out.”

It turns out, Mydei actually did try to teach her how to bake to spend more time with her and give her something to do to burn off her energy—while increasing her dopamine when she accomplishes something.

You hear him huff from beside her as he comes into the frame—tying an apron around his waist, “If yours turn out bad, do not blame me,” He jokes.

“Excuse me?” she gasps dramatically, “I am the creative director here.”

“You’re the one who almost set the toaster on fire last month.”

“That was one time!”

He snorts, but there’s a softness in it now. An ease that wasn’t there years ago.

“Hands washed?” he asks.

Mel rolls her eyes but holds them up anyway, “Yes, Dad.”

“Properly?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Show me.”

“Okay, now you’re just being annoying—”

“Melina.”

She groans but trudges to the sink again.

And later—when the kitchen smells like sugar and something slightly overbaked, when flour dusts the counter and her cheek, when she laughs at how lopsided their cupcakes look—She sends you a picture.

Honey [image] we cooked !!! well… baked LOLL they lowk look ugly but taste good I PROMISE ILL BRING SOME HOMEE

And then a few minutes later, to which you assume the pause is because she started snacking, she sends another message.

Honey Dad said I didnt even burn anything im so proud of myself !!!!

You stare at the photo longer than you should.

At the messy kitchen island, flour everywhere, metal and glass bowls still sitting on the counter, countless utensils in the sink, and the fridge left ajar.

At the uneven frosting on the cupcakes, some dripping on the island, some out of the cupcake liners.

At him, behind her—slightly out of focus, but there. Smiling.

You don’t realize you’re smiling too until your cheeks hurt.

…

Towards the end of the year, your students mention their siblings are applying for colleges now and that they would love to let them have you as a professor. The compliment makes you think about Mel and where she’d be applying for college in the summer.

You hadn’t really had the chance to talk with her about it. With her getting busier with her sports and extracurriculars and with you trying to improve your syllabus for the next term, you and Mel only spend time at home and when she needs help with her homework.

For a lack of information, you decide to text Mydei if he knows anything about it since Mel is in his custody this week.

You Has Mel told you where she’s applying yet? Mydei No. Has she told you? You Nope. Mydei We should be concerned. You We are concerned. I just don’t know if she’ll apply to Okhema U or maybe GoE. Mydei I’ll ask her tonight. Maybe she’ll apply to Gibranipar U, like we did? You It’s Garbaniphoro now, don't forget. Also.. Don’t interrogate her. Mydei I don’t interrogate? You You’re literally a lawyer. Mydei Unfair. [ haha ] reacted by You

…

The day Mel’s supposed to switch back to yours, Mydei is called into a meeting into the office. Something about a client requesting him, specifically. When he explains this to Mel, she grimaces in discomfort.

Mydei picks up on this—but not for the reason he thinks it’s for.

“Sorry, honey. It’ll be quick, I promise,” he reassures her, “I’ll go over some parts of the contract with her, then we can get a sweet treat at The Orchard before we go drop you off to your Mom’s, okay? How does that sound?”

The girl all but shrugs, fixating on the fact that her Dad said ‘her’ and feeling queasy.

Mydei ruffles her hair, “Alright, go pack up your stuff, we’ll leave in an hour.”

…

Melina sits on a desk in view of Mydei’s office—he put her there so he could see her at all times, and she could see him—earbuds in, pretending to study and do her homework, but she’s watching her Dad and his female client.

The woman across his desk leans in too close, laughs too easily, touches his arm like it’s nothing, and it makes Mel narrow her eyes. 

That’s definitely not how clients should act.

And the worst part of it all, is her Dad doesn’t react the way she expects. He doesn’t lean away dramatically, doesn’t snap—He just… shifts slightly and doesn’t do anything about it.

It… unnerves her. Like watching them feels… wrong. It shouldn’t be—they’re technically not doing anything bad, but her mind does nothing to dissuade the uneasiness in her guts—like the feeling that she ate something that didn’t sit right with her digestive system. The whole thing doesn’t sit right with her.

Then she hears the woman giggle through the glass.

“What is so funny that she has to laugh so loud and high-pitched?” she whispers to herself as she turns her attention back to her AP Geography homework.

And then she hears her Dad speak.

“Let’s keep this discussion relevant to your case,” he says evenly.

The woman speaks like she has a pout in her voice, “You’re no fun.”

“I’m not here to be.”

Mel fights the urge to snort. 

It does little to lift the uneasiness in her stomach, but she’s glad her Dad is being professional about it.

…

Later, in the car, she squints at him.

“You know she was flirting with you, right?” she tells him, looking directly at him as he fumbles with the seatbelt and looks for his parking ID.

He gives her not much emotion about it, not even a raised eyebrow like he always does, “I’m aware. Put your seatbelt on.” 

Mel huffs, quickly pulling her seatbelt on and facing him again, “And?”

“And nothing.”

She looks at him in disbelief, and tilts her head, “Dad.”

He sighs, knowing she won’t let this go until he answers all of her questions and complaints, “Mel.”

She crosses her arms and it reminds him of you.

“You didn’t even look annoyed!” Mel starts to gesture wildly with her hands now.

“I was working,” He stresses and puts both hands on the wheel.

She studies him for a minute. In silence.

Then she deflates and looks out her side of the window—arms still crossed, not even looking at him anymore.

Mydei doesn’t know what to tell her—how to reassure her that it really isn’t like that. The client is just a client, and that…

That he…

…

He still loves you.

But before he can even articulate any of his thoughts properly and move his mouth to speak, he hears her sniffle.

Then mutters—“Mom would’ve done something instead of just letting it happen.”

He stills, just for a second.

It sinks into him, then.

He did let it happen.

Mydei starts the engine.

…

It’s a very quiet ride home.

When Mydei asks Mel what she wants from The Orchard, she shrugs and tells him to get whatever he feels like. Eyes not meeting his and instead focused on her phone—texting who he saw was Phainon.

He sighs and tells her he’ll get her a strawberry cream cheese danish. If she has any indication that that’s what she wanted, she never gives it, and Mydei is left to order something for Mel, him, and you when he gets to your house.

He picks up a treat for Phainon, too, when he realizes Mel might’ve asked him to come over.

Mydei is no stranger to this. He’s dealt with Mel’s stubborness—something she got from both of you, and anger more times than he can count. And the best solution? Wait for her to be okay enough to talk about it.

He knows she’ll talk to him about it when she’s ready. 

It’s something you’ve both taught her from a young age. She just needs to feel it out and gather her thoughts together before she tries to confront the problem she has.

If her eating the danish on the way to your house was any clue, he’d say he and Mel are doing just fine.

…

Phainon lets you know through text that he’s coming over as per the request of his favorite niece through text.

Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 I’m coming over. You ??? Why?? Not that you’re not welcome… It’s just so completely random. Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 My favorite niece has told me she requests my presence. You … Phainon, she's your only niece. Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 I know. Obviously, she’s gonna be my favorite. Duh. You (eyeroll emoji) Whatever, get me a drink while you’re out. Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 (eyeroll emoji) Fineee. [ <3 ] reacted by You

…

To your surprise, he gets there earlier than Mydei and Mel get home, which really confuses you since he lives 25 minutes away, and he was able to get you the drink you wanted.

“Do you know why she’s asking for you?” You poke at him as you lounge on the couch behind him, sipping your drink as he flips through the TV channels with the remote.

“See, I would tell you, but that would render me a traitor to the Cool Uncle Club.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re sooo corny.”

Phainon flashes you a smile, “You can’t trick me with that anymore. You may be my little sister, but my cool status comes first.” 

Finally, he settles on a channel that’s showing Andrew Garfield’s The Amazing Spiderman, and you both get quiet.

Then you lean against him a little more, your head resting against his shoulder.

“Hey, Phai?”

“Mh?”

“Thanks for always being there for Mel,” you murmur, “and for me.”

Your brother huffs out an amused smile, “Always.”

Just then you hear the honk of Mydei’s car—a signal you both gave out to let the other know you were there. You stood from the couch to open the door only to see your daughter already approaching.

“Hi, Honey. I missed you,” you say as she buries herself in your embrace.

“I missed you, too, Mom. Is Uncle Phai here already?” she pulls away, asking.

You jerk your head softly towards the living room, “He’s in there, what happened, you okay?”

She nods absentmindedly, “Yeah, Mom. Don’t worry about it.”

Mel then pivots to greet her Uncle and gives him a hug, “I’ll be down in a minute, let me just change my clothes.”

You exchange a look with Phainon as he shrugs, not knowing why she’s in such a rush to get out of the house. It’s at that moment that Mydei’s trunk slams shut and he appears in the doorway holding Melina’s luggage.

Quietly, he hands over her stuff and a paperbag from The Orchard.

You thank him and go to put it away in the kitchen before you ask, “Did… anything happen?”

Mydei stays quiet for a moment—like he’s debating whether or not to tell you, his hands fidgeting with the bracelet on his left arm, a nervous habit he never got rid of.

“Mydei?” you ask again.

Yet, before he can even answer, your daughter comes down the stairs and straight to Phainon.

“C’mon, Uncle Phai,” she tugs him up by her arm and your brother easily relents, telling her to slow down, there’s no rush.

Your eyes flit towards her father and you can obviously see it in his eyes that something happened. You watch as he chews on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to say something but is holding back from doing so.

“Aren’t you even going to say bye to your dad?” Phainon asks, making Melina stop in her tracks, three steps away from Mydei.

The air is charged with something you can’t quite name.

Then slowly, lacking enthusiasm, Mel hugs him and you hear a muffled, “Bye, Dad, see you next week.” 

Mydei’s arms curl around her almost instantly, one hand petting the crown of her head, “See you next week, sweetheart…”

And that was it.

Phai then leaves with her dragging him out of the house—telling you he’ll bring her home before nine because it’s a weekend after all, with her hollering a different tone of goodbye to you, telling you she and Phai will be safe.

Leaving you and Mydei standing inside the house.

…

Mel doesn’t talk to her uncle at first. They walked around aimlessly to the park at first—Phainon asked her if she wanted him to drive them somewhere but she shook her head, asking if they could walk around instead.

Your brother was all too reminded of the way you’d walk around with him when you were young to refuse.

At the 30-minute mark, he suggested they get ice cream like they always do—her’s pomegranate-flavored and his would be caramel and vanilla, and she only nodded, still not talking.

When they got the cold treats, he dragged her over to sit on a bench by the riverside, and just… waited. Phainon watched her quietly as she pokes at her ice cream instead of eating it.

“That bad?” he finally asks.

Mel shrugs.

“You usually finish that before I even sit down.”

She sighs, pushing the pink cream around, “Not hungry.”

He leans back on the bench, “I thought we already established years ago that you can’t lie to me? Try again.”

She sighs.

“They’re… fine,” she starts, “Mom and Dad.”

“That’s not what I asked, Meli.”

The girl presses her lips together.

“They’re good parents,” she insists, “like—really good. They show up, they talk, they don’t fight… They’re following my rules in the divorce, everything’s in place, everything’s good and steady…”

She trails off and Phainon waits.

“But it’s just…” she mutters, staring at her melting ice cream, “It just feels… wrong.”

His voice softens, “Wrong how?”

She swallows.

“Like… it’s almost right. But not really. Like when you make eggs a little too runny and you’re thinking, no—it’s okay, it’s been cooked under a fire, but you get the feeling that you might get salmonella. You know? Like, it’s supposed to be right, but it feels so… off.”

A pause.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

Phainon sighs. He knew this day would come eventually, when the divorce would actually affect her in a way that she can fathom—not as a kid who only thought being a family was enough.

“Uncle Phainon?”

“Yeah?”

She sets her ice cream cup down on the bench and curls her fists in her lap, “Can you… Can you not tell Mom or Dad about this?”

Then she looks up at him, eyes teary and red—like she’s been holding them back. Looking the same way you did when you told him that you were divorcing Mydei and asking him if it was the right decision.

Phainon had always been weak towards you. 

And with how Mel definitely inherited your crying face? He was weak towards her, too.

So he relents.

“Of course, kiddo.”

…

Back at your house, Mydei purses his lips and you just observe. When it starts to look like he’s going to turn and leave, you stop him.

“Still drink pomegranate juice?”

His gaze snaps to you, “What?”

“Pomegranate juice,” you repeat, “Melina got her preference for it from you, I guess—she’s always keeping a carton of it in the fridge. Do you want some while we talk about whatever that was?”

Mydei nods, low ponytail bobbing a bit as he does so.

“Take a seat.”

…

When you finally settle on the couch, you take a bite of the pastry he bought from The Orchard, “Okay, spill, what happened?”

And he does, Mydei talks so much, you think it’s the first time he’s talked to you face-to-face this long since you served him divorce papers. It baffles you, if you were being honest.

He lays out every detail from start to finish—leaving out the part where he can’t say that he still loves you. And when he ends, he deflates into the couch.

You sigh as you ponder over the information he just gave you and shake your head softly as you come to a realization.

“She’s scared you’ll find someone else, start a new family, and lose time for her.”

Mydei snaps back up, “No, no, I wouldn’t do that, I would never lose time for her, not again.”

Not again, the words echo in your mind.

You shrug, “That’s how she sees it.”

“It’s not like that!” 

You put your hands up in the air in mock-surrender, “Hey, I know that because you told me just now. But you haven’t told her.” 

Mydei sighs again, deeply this time.

You know exactly what he wants. Advice. A solution. A way to make your daughter understand that you were still going to be a family no matter what—even if her father might find someone else. You knew he wanted to know how exactly he would tell her that.

You murmur his name softly from across the couch and he responds with a tired, defeated “Mh?”

“Talk to her,” you urge, “maybe not now, since I’m sure Phai is taking her out of her bad mood and if you talk to her now, you’d probably just undo everything he did.”

He keeps quiet.

“She’s just a kid, Mydei. She’s just scared, you didn’t fuck up your relationship with her. You two will be fine as always.”

He exhales.

“I know.”

“You two will be fine.”

…

The following weeks were strangely quiet in a way that unsettled you more than any outburst ever could. Melina would come home from her father’s place with that same faraway look she used to have when the custody exchanges had just begun—back when she didn’t understand why she had to leave one home for another—only now, there were no tears, no protests, just a tightness in her smile and a heaviness in her silences. 

It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but you were. 

You always were. 

You considered asking Mydei if he’d said something to her, if anything had happened, but something told you he was just as in the dark as you were. 

So you tried asking her instead, but she only waved you off with a tired laugh, insisting it was just stress from college applications, nothing more, nothing to worry about. And you wanted to believe her. You really did.

But something was bugging you, so you texted Mydei again.

You Hey. Mel wants us to be at the Foundation Fair for her school. The family day thing, just like last year. Mydei Hey, yeah. I saw it on the school forum. I’ll be there. You Also… Have you noticed Mel’s been… off lately? Mydei Yeah. She’s been quieter. You She said it’s just application stress. Mydei Do you believe her?

You stare at the message longer than you should.

You I don’t know.

No message comes through for a moment.

Then the typing bubbles come up again, and—

Mydei We’ll keep an eye on her.

There’s a pause.

Mydei We’ve got her.

And for some reason, that steadies you more than it should.

…

It’s noisy at the Foundation Day’s Fair. Kids ran around everywhere, balloons of different colors strapped to their wrists. The student band playing had really cool live music. 

You and Mydei arrived together, he picked you up from your office when Mel texted him that there was limited parking and it would be better if he picked you up to save time trying to find a space to park in.

She let you know through text as well that her Dad was coming to pick you up. Which to be completely honest, saved you the time of going home and parking your car then hailing a ride to her school.

The moment you got there, Mel was already waiting for both of you at the entrance, dragging you off to… well, everywhere. She rode on scary rides and insisted that you both ride with her. She asked Mydei to buy her cotton candy, win her prizes, and all the sort.

It made you smile, seeing how happy she was just to run around the fair with the two of you. Her weird attitude towards her Dad disappeared, and it was just like before. Like you were a family. It brought a warmth to your chest as you can only sigh in content as she enjoyed the day with you both.

Then she got hungry.

“Dad, please, I wanna eat nachos, please, please, please, please,” she repeated over and over, tugging at her father’s arm as his other carried all the prizes he won for her that afternoon while her other hand was looped around yours.

“You will eat real, actual food, Meli,” he replied.

“And then nachos?”

Mydei sighs in defeat, “Yes, and then nachos.”

The girl can only squeal in triumph.

When you got to the food caravans, you both told her to go find a seat somewhere for the three of you while you and Mydei ordered food—taking all her prizes with her.

You only shook your head in fondness when she asked if she could get ice-cream, too.

“She takes after your sweet tooth too much,” you jokingly scold Mydei and he raises his eyebrows, an amused smile on his lips.

“Please, like she didn’t get your taste for cold drinks?”

“Hey!” you swat him on the arm, “That’s a need in this weather, you know.”

“Uh-huh…” he nods like he believes you even though the grin on his face tells you he doesn’t buy it one bit.

…

From a few tables away, Mel had her eyes on the two of you—finding a seat in the cooler area of the venue. She saw the two of you talking and even laughing.

Even without the romance books, she knew that look in her Dad’s eyes.

There was something.

And then she hears it a few tables over, someone from the Parents’ Association was talking about the two of you, about her family.

“It’s a shame really, I mean, come on, Mydeimos Gorgo is a gorgeous man,” the voice starts, “The ex–wife isn’t that too bad looking either.”

What?

“But obviously, she’s done something wrong for them to divorce.”

Mel stays silent, she couldn’t believe someone would talk about her parents that way without even knowing the full story—actually, no! They shouldn’t talk about them like that at all!

Her eyes darted around, ears straining to hear where exactly the voice was coming from over all the noise.

Then another voice speaks.

“I don’t know whether to feel bad or embarrassed for them, I mean, they’re not even a real family anymore, why would they attend Foundation Day when it’s obviously known for being a family day? They’re just prolonging this charade for their daughter at this point.”

Melina stands up so abruptly that her chair scrapes the ground and the voice stops talking. She realizes the voice was coming from behind her all along—and the horrified look on the woman’s face when she sees that the daughter she was talking about was right there? Priceless.

But not enough to undo the damage.

“Next time, keep your comments to yourself,” she spits out before walking away.

…

It doesn’t take long for Mydei to notice your daughter missing.

The moment he scans the area when you finish ordering, he tells you immediately.

“Melina’s gone.”

Your attention takes a 180 and you scan around immediately, “What? Gone?”

Then Mydei spots the bag of prizes she had—now laying on a lonely table a few ways away and holds onto you to take you there.

“I’ll look for her, between you and me, we know I have better eyesight, I need you to be here in case Meli comes back, okay?” He tells you and you nod, panic steadily creeping up your back.

Mydei takes notice of this, places a hand behind your head, and pulls you in to place a kiss on top of your hair as he wraps a hand around you in a hug.

“I’ll find her, don’t worry,” he reassures, “I won’t let her slip away this time.”

You nod—still in a daze—still processing what the hell he just did, and watching as he walks away in search of your daughter. Phone in hand as you wait for any text that Mel might send you.

…

Just like it didn’t take long for Mydei to notice she was missing, it didn’t take him long to find her either.

He breathed a sigh of relief and texted you that he found your daughter, waiting for you to reply before pocketing his phone.

The field is loud in the way only campus events can be—whistles cutting through the air, laughter spilling over from picnic blankets, parents calling out to their kids with easy familiarity. It’s bright, full, and alive.

And somehow, that’s what makes it feel so quiet when Mydei finally spots her.

Melina sits alone on the bleachers, a few rows up, elbows on her knees, chin resting on clasped hands. She isn’t on her phone. IShe’s just picking at the skin beside her fingernails. Just… watching.

Watching the families gathered below, the ones that fit together without effort.

Mydei slows his steps.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything—just takes it in. The way her shoulders are slightly hunched. The way her gaze lingers a second too long on a father lifting his kid onto his shoulders, on a mother brushing grass off her son’s shirt.

He exhales quietly and walks up the steps.

The metal creaks softly under his weight, but she doesn’t turn.

He lowers himself beside her anyway.

Not too close. Just enough to give her space if she wants that, and enough that she can lean on him if she wants to. For a while, he lets the silence sit between them, lets the noise from the field fill the space instead.

Then, gently, he tries.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Melina blinks, like she hadn’t expected that, but shakes her head quickly, “No, Dad, you didn’t…” her voice falters, just slightly, “It’s just… I heard some people talking.”

Mydei hums, low and patient, eyes still forward, waiting for her to continue.

She shifts then, leans—just a little—until her shoulder presses against his arm. Not quite a hug. But close. It’s enough for Mydei.

And then it all spills out.

“You and Mom have been nothing but good to me,” she starts, words rushing over each other like she’s afraid she’ll lose them if she slows down, “you both didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just…”

Her voice wavers.

She swallows hard, shoulders trembling like she’s holding herself together by sheer will.

“It’s me.”

Mydei’s arm comes around her without hesitation, pulling her closer, anchoring her to him and Melina presses her face into his side, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve.

“I feel like it’s wrong,” she admits, the words muffled but heavy, “I know you and Mom divorced years ago, I know that, I get it, I should be over it, but—” her breath stutters, “—but here, today, it just feels like…”

She squeezes her eyes shut.

“Like we’re not really a family.”

The words land heavier than anything else.

“Like we’re just… pretending. Like we’re faking it for me.”

Mydei’s chest tightens.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t correct her.

He just listens.

“And I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” she continues, voice cracking now, slipping past the point of control, “because I am happy, I am, I swear, but then I see them and it just—” she chokes on the rest, shaking her head against him. 

“It feels wrong that we’re not like that.”

A pause.

A breath.

And then—

“Why can’t you and Mom try again?”

Mydei stills.

For a moment, the world narrows down to just that question.

His throat tightens and the corners of his eyes sting. He takes a moment and inhales slowly, deeply—like he’s bracing himself against something unseen.

When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, rougher, like it pains him to try to answer it—because it does.

Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?

“Meli…”

She doesn’t look up.

So he continues anyway.

“From the moment I lost you and your mom… I never found anyone else.”

Her grip on his sleeve tightens.

“It’s always been her for me,” he admits, the words sitting heavy on his tongue like something long kept in, “there wasn’t anyone after. There isn’t anyone now. There won’t be anyone else.”

He lets out a small, breathless exhale.

“That woman you saw at the office—she meant nothing. Truly. I was just doing my job.”

Melina sniffles, but she’s listening.

“I love your mom,” he says, more firmly now, even if it costs him something to admit it out loud, “I still do.”

A beat.

“But…” his voice dips, quieter, “I don’t think I’m right for her anymore.”

Mel pulls back just enough to look at him.

Really look.

And then—smack.

Her hand hits his bicep. Not hard, but definitely not gentle.

“If you love her, then tell her that!” she bursts out, eyes still wet, frustration cutting through the tears, “You can’t just decide that for her, Dad!”

Mydei blinks, caught off guard.

“Meli—”

“No!” she cuts him off, shaking her head, “You always do that! You just… decide things on your own and don’t even ask! That’s probably why you ended up here in the first place!”

That one lands heavily.

It makes him wince.

She sniffles again, wiping at her face with the back of her hand, breathing uneven but steadier now that it’s all out.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Then slowly…

Mydei exhales.

A small, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips, “…Okay.”

Melina frowns, “Okay?”

“I’ll tell her,” he says, softer this time, “I’ll… try again.”

She searches his face like she’s making sure he means it.

Then, she nods.

They fall into silence again, but it’s different now, lighter, like something that had been pressing down finally shifted. The wind picks up slightly, brushing against their faces still sticky with tears.

Mel leans against him again, this time without hesitation.

Mydei glances down at her, then sighs quietly.

“You know,” he starts, tone shifting just enough, “we really have to limit your book purchases at JnV’s.”

Mel groans immediately “Oh, be quiet, Dad.”

And just like that she sounds like herself again.

…

Whatever happened on those bleachers, neither of them told you.

Melina came back first, eyes a little red, nose still pink from sniffling, but smiling softly, like something inside her had finally settled. Mydei followed a few steps behind, expression calmer than you’d seen it in weeks, the usual tension in his shoulders eased just enough to notice.

You didn’t ask.

You didn’t need to.

There are some things a parent learns to recognize without words—and the way Mel slipped her hand into his sleeve for a second before letting go, the way he rested his palm briefly against her head as he passed by—you could make a pretty good guess.

Whatever it was, it helped.

The strange distance that had crept in over the past few weeks seemed to dissolve after that day. Mel laughed more, talked more. Fell back into that easy rhythm between the two of you, and with him. The quiet heaviness that had followed her around finally lifted, replaced with something lighter. Something closer to how things used to feel.

Things were good.

Melina ended up applying to The Grove of Epiphany University in the end, where Phai went—after weeks of deliberation, second-guessing, and late-night rambling about pros and cons that changed every other day.

When she finally told you and Mydei, she looked… proud and certain.

“That’s a good school,” you told her, squeezing her shoulder.

Mydei nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face before it softened, “Your grandmother would’ve liked that.”

Mel tilted her head, “Grandma Gorgo?”

He hummed, “She always wanted me to go there.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” he agreed, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “We went to—” he paused, frowning slightly like he was trying to recall it properly, “Gibranipar—no, wait—”

“Garbaniphoro,” Mel corrected immediately, grinning.

“Right. That one,” he said dryly.

She snorted.

You found yourself smiling too.

It was easy, in moments like that, to forget everything that came before.

…

It’s one of those quiet evenings during your week with Mel.

Nothing particularly special—just the hum of your home settling into the night, papers half-graded on your desk, your phone lighting up every now and then with notifications you don’t feel like checking yet.

Until it buzzes again.

You glance down.

Honey Imma be sleeping over at uncle phai’s !!  for movie night 😎 Pls say yes

You smile, shaking your head slightly.

You Don’t stay up too late. Honey no promises THABKU LOVEU [ <3 ] reacted by You

You let out a soft huff and set your phone down—only to pick it up again a moment later, already opening your messages with Phainon.

You Is this true or is she plotting something?

It doesn’t take long for him to reply.

Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 Wow… no trust. I'm hurt. [ haha ] reacted by You No, yeah it’s true, I invited her over. I’ll pick her up from school in a bit. [ <3 ] reacted by You You Alright. Have fun, just keep her alive please. [ <3 ] reacted by Phainon Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 No guarantees. [ ?! ] reacted by You

You roll your eyes, but there’s a fondness in it.

You set your phone down again, and a few minutes later, it lights up once more.

Mydei She texted you too?

You blink, then pick it up.

You Yep.

There’s a pause.

Just long enough for you to think the conversation’s over.

Then—

Mydei Can I see you?

You freeze.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unmoving.

Almost six years.

Six years of schedules, of updates, of polite conversations that begin and end with Melina at the center of them.

And this… This is the first time he’s asked for something that isn’t about her.

The cursor blinks.

Waiting.

You What is this about, Mydei?

There’s a pause. Longer than usual. Long enough for your chest to tighten in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.

Mydei It’s important.

You stare at the message.

Important.

Your fingers hover again, hesitation curling at the edges of your thoughts. Somewhere deep down, something stirs—something you buried months ago, something fragile and dangerous and entirely unwelcome.

Hope.

You press your lips together.

No.

You’ve already made peace with this. With him. With what you are now.

You shouldn’t.

And yet.

You Okay.

…

He arrives twenty minutes later, ringing your doorbell with a bag of ingredients slung over his shoulder like this is just another normal night. Like he hasn’t just tilted something off balance with a single message.

You stand at the door and he stands there, staring right back at you.

“…Hi.”

“Hi…”

God, it’s awkward.

You step aside anyway, letting him in.

He moves through the house like he remembers it—like muscle memory guides him more than thought. Straight to the kitchen. His kitchen.

Just like he used to.

Before…

You linger by the doorway for a moment before closing it and following after him. He’s already unpacking the bag, pulling out ingredients, setting them down with quiet efficiency. You lean against the counter, watching as he does so.

“You didn’t change anything in the kitchen,” he comments, taking note that it looked just like how he customized it.

You shrugged, “Didn’t have the chance to back then, you know. I never really set foot in here until maybe a year after it all.”

He keeps quiet about it and starts to wash the ingredients.

“Now, I don’t really see a reason to change it, I don’t think there’s a need to.”

Mydei takes a look at you and hums, “I see.”

“…Did you just come here to cook?” you ask, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice, “Is that the important part?”

He huffs softly, not quite amused.

“No,” he mutters, focusing a little too hard on chopping, “I’m… working up the courage to say it. Okay?”

You blink.

Mydei? Working up courage?

That’s… new.

“…Okay,” you say slowly.

You don’t push.

Instead, you give him space—moving back to the island where your papers are spread out, laptop open, red pen in hand. You sit, trying to focus on grading, but your eyes keep drifting up to him, sneaking glances every now and then.

And every now and then, his eyes drift back to you.

It’s quiet.

Not uncomfortable, exactly.

Just… charged.

Like something is waiting to happen and neither of you knows when it’ll break.

…

“I’m almost done,” he says eventually.

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts.

“Oh, okay.”

You stand, moving automatically, grabbing plates, setting them on the table. The motions come easy, it’s familiar. Pause. Too familiar, actually… It feels… domestic.

Again.

And yet—there’s something different now. Something cautious. Like the two of you are circling each other, careful not to step too close too fast. Like you’re both trying to test how far the other is letting this go on for.

You decide you’ll wait for his move. The ball is in his court and it’s his turn to do something.

But for now, you sit, he serves, and you’ll both eat.

The lasagna comes out of the oven still bubbling at the edges, the surface a perfect, blistered gold where the cheese has melted and browned just enough to crisp. The smell hits first—rich, slow-cooked tomato, garlic softened into sweetness, a deep savory warmth that wraps around you before you even take a bite. When he cuts into it, the layers give way with a soft, satisfying slide—tender sheets of pasta, velvety bechamel, and a thick, meaty ragu that’s been simmered long enough to taste like time itself.

Steam curls up from the slice on your plate, carrying that same intoxicating aroma, and when your fork sinks in, it’s almost effortless. The first bite is warm in a way that settles deep in your chest—the cheese stretching slightly before melting on your tongue, the sauce rich and full, balanced with just a hint of acidity that keeps it from being too heavy. It’s indulgent, comforting, and familiar.

It tastes like something made with patience.

Like something made for someone specific.

Like home.

“This is really good,” you compliment with a smile, “I haven’t had your cooking in years.”

He pauses mid-bite and raises a brow, “…I’ve been packing food for Melina to bring home,” he says slowly, “What do you mean?”

Oh.

You wince, shrugging a little. You couldn’t tell him that you couldn’t stomach the thought of his cooking back then, because you were… you were angry. At him. But that was back then, therapy had made you come to terms with these feelings, so you try to pivot the conversation back into a safe area.

“I just thought they were for her specifically,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t matter, “You know… I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

The silence after that is so thick and heavy it’s as if the air’s been knocked out of the room.

“Myd—” you try to start and he interrupts you quietly with your name on his lips.

You immediately backtrack, “Hey, it’s okay, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just—”

“It was always for you.”

You stop.

You blink.

He’s looking at you now.

Really looking.

“I cooked extra because I knew you’d be there,” he continues, voice tight, “I just thought… I thought you knew.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, shaking your head, “It’s fine, I’ll—I’ll eat the next one you send, okay?”

He looks… pained, as you tell him that.

“I thought we were okay.”

“We are—”

“Then why does it feel like you’re avoiding me?” he cuts in, frustration slipping through, “I know we’re not… great, I know I fucked up, but I thought we were okay enough to… to—”

He trails off and you sigh, rubbing your temple. 

“Mydei,” you say softly, “why did you come here tonight?”

That stops him.

Completely.

For a moment, he just sits there.

Then he exhales and something shifts.

“I didn’t fight for you.”

The words hit you like a blow.

Your heart stutters.

“…What?”

“When you gave me the papers,” he continues, voice low, steady only by force, “I didn’t fight you. I didn’t ask you to stay. I didn’t even try.”

You shake your head slightly, “Mydei—”

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, a bitter edge creeping in, “I thought… if you were unhappy enough to leave, then the least I could do was not make it harder for you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I told myself it was respect,” he continues, “that I was respecting your decision. Your autonomy.”

He laughs dryly, “But really, I was just a coward.”

You stand up from your seat, the chair scraping off of the floor and you back up, “Don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in, sharper now, standing as he does so, “you don’t understand.”

You take a step back, “Don’t do this, Mydei.”

“Please—”

“No, please,” you echo, your voice breaking, begging, as months of therapy start to unravel at the seams, your heart bleeding out in your hands once again in this very kitchen, “please don’t do this.”

“It’s you,” he says, stepping forward.

You shake your head, another step back.

“It’s always, only ever been you.”

Your back hits the island.

You didn’t even realize you’d been retreating.

He’s there in front of you now.

Close—Too close.

“Despite everything,” he murmurs, voice dropping, hands coming up—hesitant at first, then certain and gentle as they cradle your face, “it’s still you.”

You feel dizzy.

Like the ground’s been pulled out from under you.

His forehead presses against yours. His scent flooding your senses.

The sensation too warm, too familiar, and eternally devastating.

“Please,” he whispers, breath uneven, “tell me what I have to do to win you back.”

Your vision blurs.

This is—This is everything you ever wanted.

For him to fight, to choose you, to try. 

And now that he is—you don’t know what to do.

“I’m scared, Dei.”

The nickname slips out before you can stop it, and it breaks something in him.

You feel it.

The way he inhales sharply. The way his grip tightens just slightly.

“…I know,” he murmurs.

You shake in his hold, barely able to contain the tears that spill out from your eyes.

“How do I know it won’t end the same way?”

It’s barely a whisper, but it carries everything.

Every late night, every empty chair, every broken promise.

Mydei’s hand trembles as he brushes a tear from your cheek.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss against it.

“I won’t let it happen again,” he says, voice fierce despite the quiet, “I lost you once. I won’t—” his breath catches, “—I won’t let it happen again.”

His hand slips down, finding yours, intertwining your fingers.

He brings it up between your face as he looks up at you—despite being taller—and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Gentle.

Reverent.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “if you’ll have me.”

Your chest heaves, your eyes burn, and you nod.

Just once, but it’s enough.

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and broken.

He’s crying too.

You realize that distantly.

And then—softly—just like the first time.

“I, Mydeimos Gorgo, take you,” he continues, voice steadier now, like he’s anchoring himself in it, “to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

“I don’t have perfect words, I never did. But I know this—every version of my life that meant something had you in it. And every version without you… didn’t feel like mine.”

“I vow to come home to you—not just in place, but in heart. I vow to make space for you in every part of my life, the way I should have from the beginning.”

“You are not an afterthought. You never were. You are my first choice.”

“And if you let me again—I will keep choosing you. Every day. For the rest of my life.”

Your breath catches.

He remembered.

After everything—he remembered.

A breath.

“I do.”

“Do you,” he begins, voice trembling, “take me, Mydeimos Gorgo, as your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you sob, nodding through tears, the words breaking on a hiccup.

He smiles at that and slips a ring you didn’t even know he had into your ring finger. His face soft as his heart remains aching.

“I know this may be sudden, but I think this is long overdue, what about you?”

Your hands come up, cupping his face like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

You answer him by pulling him down and crashing your lips against his. Like you’re dying of thirst in the desert and he’s the only thing that can save you.

It feels the same.

God, it feels the same.

And that’s what breaks you.

You sob into the kiss, your fingers tightening against him, and he smiles—smiles—against your mouth, holding you like he’s afraid to let go.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again and presses a soft kiss to your nose.

Your breathing is uneven. Your chest is aching. Your mind spinning from trying to process everything, but you feel lighter.

So much lighter.

“…Meli’s going to be ecstatic about this,” he murmurs.

And despite everything—you laugh.

…

Meli DAD UPDAET Plss im dying of anticipaton here Meli HEY DONT LEAVE ME ON DELIVEREED DADD !!! On nikador bro i swear u are taking So longgg read at 8:04 pm Meli HEY I SEE U READ IT Dad reply pls oh my strife Uncle phai and i are dying here Meli Give update to revive pls pls pls Dad [ sent a photo: ring in someone’s finger, hand covering her face as she’s leaning against someone’s clavicle ] Got her back. [ <3 ] reacted by Melina Meli THATS WHAT IM FUCKING TALKING ABOUT !!!! Dad Language. Meli God forbid a girl is happy she's no longer a child of divorce. [ haha ] reacted by Mydei

…

Bonus scenes!

You Meli and I are on the way to the grocery store. Do you want anything? Dei <3 My beautiful wife and daughter home safe You Corny. [ <3 ] reacted by Mydei

…

Favorite Niece 5Ever Can u sneak me out and drive me to a party It starts at 11 On the 12th Pls pls pls u would be blessed with a gf w a big ass Coolest Unc 5Ever Girl what ?? Your mom AND dad will kill me. Favorite Niece 5Ever Soo is that a no…? Coolest Unc 5Ever If your mom catches me we are soo dead. Send me the addy. [ <3 ] reacted by Melina Favorite Niece 5Ever THX LUVYEW 5EVER !!!! [ <3 ] reacted by Phainon

…

Mom Melina Hera Gorgo. Where are you. You are so grounded when you get home.

usagi's note: can u guys pretty please tell me what melina looks like for u guys PLEASEEE i begggg, anyway i have another mydei fic coming up soon, can u believe i did this in 2 days? me neither. i am so insane wtf. stream dawtde!

@usagiarchive 2025. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

[quasarus-catt]

Are you ready for the show? 🎭

[laceatelier]

✦ letters | phainon x reader

synopsis he’s injured and refuses medical care from anyone but you. despite being his ex, you reluctantly come to help but discover a few letters while searching for medical equipment.

tags ex bf phainon x reader, fem reader, second person pov, hospital setting, does ts count as modern au cause i hope it doesn’t and does amphoreus even have medical equipment, snooping, pre 3.4 mission, 1.8k wc

a/n jonny, why couldn’t you be ready, too? i was ready, ready to.. be happy. ready for that long look that never ends. /lyr anyways i was originally gonna write this for kaiser but..

Could Hyacine not have employed her own faculties in the management of such an affair? She bore, after all, the sanctioned offices of physician and healer, duly entrusted to her within the dominion of Amphoreus. It felt as if you had been dragged through an inescapable rip within the ocean once you had received the call Hyacine conferred, aware you had been summoned to tend to a patient you found displeasing to ameliorate. For it was Phainon whom you discovered; his occupancy had not slipped unnoticed, evident in your scrutinising gaze. Where the room was rendered too bright—as though the building itself tried to void any shadow—and saturated by the pungent redolence of antiseptic, never failed to provoke a subtle aversion regardless of all your frequent visits to such walls. Had the words of your coworkers been truthful when reporting how Phainon declared he would refuse medical care from anyone but you?

Phainon’s coat lay absent from his battered body. White sheets were curled against him, and your peripheral vision caught a hummingbird visiting a white lily flower. The bleak white of the bed reflected Phainon’s own childish air, something unguarded within him. In your presence, his reason seemed calmer, his composure quietly undone; for there was, in the way you carried yourself, an omnipotent power to enthral him, to entertain a brief and fragile world in which he was no longer burdened by the name of Deliverer, but permitted—if only for a moment—to exist simply as Phainon. The heavy weight of his gaze was drawn to your attention against your will, the way one becomes aware of heat: gradually, and once it has already settled and suffocated you. Sunlight—gentle in its heat—had filtered through the window, resting upon Phainon’s enlivened smile and eyes that seemed to admit more colour in the interval you occupied him. You draw on your gloves. You do not inquire after his comfort. You do not ask why Phainon specifically required your name. His plaintive gaze lingered on the motion of your hands, precise and unhesitating, in a way that said your actions were out of inclination, and not warmth. When you pressed near an old wound—one long since healed but never forgotten—his breath faltered.

“This mark,” you observed lightly. “It’s improperly healed.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t fathom the action to report such a wound to Hyacine?”

“No.”

Your head inclined, neither approving nor reproachful. “You ought to have.”

“I’m aware.” A light chuckle escaped his lips. The admission came too readily. You did not remark upon it. There are habits you have trained yourself not to indulge in. When you reached for the gauze, you realised the drawer was empty. You turn to the cabinet behind him, shoulders brushing the edge of the bed as you pass. The cabinet was open just enough to suggest use. Inside: medical supplies. For when your fingers abruptly brushed paper, you came to a halt. The bundle was narrow, tethered with fraying twine, and concealed in a way that spoke of something forbidden. One page slipped free. You recognised the handwriting at once. You should’ve put it back, but your thoughts were restless, and you couldn’t help but pry into the page’s contents. You should’ve closed the cabinet. You should’ve taken the gauze and left the rest untouched. Instead, you took the papers with you. Phainon’s eyes flicked up the moment he heard the sound. Something tightened in his jaw. Once you returned to him and set the stack down on the metal tray beside his bed, you did not dare to let your eyes linger too long on the inked paper.

“Those aren’t medical records,” you say.

“No.”

“You shouldn’t keep personal items in here.”

“I had not planned to.”

You resumed tending his wound. Phainon had not spoken again until you were done. Until your gloves were discarded and the bandage was secured. Only then did he say, in a hushed tone, “You don’t have to read them.” You did not reply. In the docile room of the rustling of clothes, the coarse bandage chafed against your palm as you finished binding the last knot against Phainon’s forearm, as if keeping your hands busy would’ve resolved the unsettled words of your circumstances. Your chair glided back and squeaked against the floor.

“You don’t have to leave immediately.” Phainon shot up, despite sustaining injuries that would have immobilised any other man. A silence followed.

“I do.”

You picked up the papers, and the door clicked behind you. Later, much later, you sat unattended.

Letter I

I am writing this with the understanding that it may never be read. That knowledge is, in some ways, a relief. It permits a degree of honesty I would not trust myself with otherwise. I love you. I loved you when I first gazed upon you, when our first argument unfurled, when I dozed next to you in the baths; my love for you still endures. Often, my thoughts replay conversations, not to revise them, but to gain a deeper understanding. In your absence, I have unearthed the habits I have not yet learnt to let go of. One of them is the instinct to reach out whenever anything happens, though I’ve realised now that you’re not there for me to run to anymore, and with this, the true weight of your absence is soon to crush me.

Had I engaged more time, more capital, more endeavours with you, would this have never happened? I will not contest the separation. My failure to listen when it mattered was the catalyst for your conclusion. I recognise that now with a clarity that admits no defence. I was attentive to outcomes, to solutions, to what I believed necessary. I was not attentive to you. That distinction, once overlooked, now appears decisive.

But there were times when I was upset, too, and I would have never gone to drastic measures like these. I am enraged at you, at the casual certainty with which you walked away. You left, and with that leaving, you left me behind—not merely hurt, not simply disappointed, but reduced to the absurdity of wanting something that has already departed. But ultimately, I am most enraged at myself. I should loathe you, and a part of me does, but you were never cruel. Every attribute of you that I should have treasured more carefully was merciful, compassionate even. Hate is too linear a concept. What I feel for you is an unruly and unforgiving love that defies all virtue. You have done nothing wrong, and you are still an amazing girl.

( Some of the ink has smudged due to what looks like teardrops. )

Letter II

I dreamt about you, and I find that my thoughts have been plagued with ‘what ifs.’ Perhaps it was not quite a logical deduction from my premises, but my soul yearns for you. Come hither, be mine once more. I’d incline towards a do-over of the past few years with you. Because I’ve rationalised now. My errors were not born of confusion, but of confidence. I believed myself correct too often to claim innocence in the result. That is what failed us. I wish I had contended and fought for us more then. You were the woman of my heart, and a flawless model of the benevolence one seldom sees. You’ve brought the most delight into my world and yet, the most anguish, too.

No piece of sword is heavier than my heart. No battle has punctured such a hole of sorrow into me. While the chance for the black tide to relinquish its terror over Amphoreus is greater than the chance for us to reunite, I am still consumed by my desire for you—despite knowing I hold no weight in your life anymore. What I accomplish from now on will not alter your judgment, nor get you to take back your words that day; that is what pains me most. Childishly enough, I cannot help but gratify the frivolous hope that our split was but a momentary error of judgment, and that you might yet be persuaded to return to me.

If I had been cognizant enough, I could have prevented this conundrum. I had not loved you amply. I knew you, but I did not understand you. And now, with the recollection of your words oppressing me, I bring to thought that a bright and serene future without you in it is a future I am not in the humour for. I ought to have done more.

Letter III

I had intended for the previous letter to be the finale. That resolve has not held. There is a flicker of ironic dishonesty in pretending that my awareness alone is ample to heal my heart. I am aware that what follows is improper, that it does not align with the values I have so intensely facilitated since that day. With that, I state this openly, knowing my words will never reach you.

I do not want you to belong to anyone else.

I think of you more often than I can allow myself to reminisce while still free of guilt. You haunt me, and I cannot decipher whether that is beneficial for me. I’d label you a disease that I’ve been plagued with yet do not wish to be cured of, but that would mean I’d have to picture you in a negative light to connotate you with something as corrosive as disease.

I’d prefer to believe this dilemma is superficial and easily answered, that it is my vigilance misdirected, or that sense of heroism I often find embedded in me. But I have come to terms with the conclusion that lying to myself may govern the myriad of impulses I have, but, unfortunately, it does not eliminate those impulses. I am woefully conscious of the many grounds I should not permit myself to give a speech to. This letter is not a confession, nor is it an appeal for you to love me back. I have no claim, no ownership upon you, but even with that, the knowledge that another might assume the place I once held does not settle comfortably with me. I fear they would be ignorant and flippant about the things I learnt too late. I imagine an error. Their unfamiliar hands drifting where they are not yet cognizant of when and where to be careful, their words spoken too quickly, and their minds will misunderstand your intricate and beautiful character. If another were to gaze at you with that particular attention, it compels me to experience a sense of unease in a way I cannot reason rationally. For you to be pursued by someone who is not me makes me want to take measures unbecoming of reason, even to the consideration of violence.

I seldom require your affection, and I must not relish the idea of your presence. I demand only the certainty that no one else will enjoy you in my stead.

I shall never utter this to you aloud.

© FVRINA 2025 do not repost, edit, or translate any of my work

[icedoatlatte29]

The Unsent letters

the grand master is finally here <3

cross-posted on ao3

To the girl who stole my fishing rod

Sister says we have to practice writing. I told her I don't like writing. She said write anyway.

So I'm writing to you.

Remember yesterday? You threw my fishing rod into Cider Lake because I wouldn't let you use it. You stood there with your arms crossed, looking so proud of yourself. I was furious. I wanted to push you in. But then you jumped in to get it for me and came out shivering with that stupid, triumphant grin. And I wasn't angry anymore.

I think you're the best person I know.

Don't tell anyone I said that.

—V

To the girl who fell off the tree

You're an idiot.

That's the nicest thing I can write. You're a big idiot.

Who climbs to the highest branch of the oldest tree in Mondstadt just to prove they're not scared? You. You do that. And then you fall and break your arm, and I have to carry you all the way to the cathedral while you cry into my shoulder and get snot all over my shirt. I told you not to climb that high. I told you a hundred times. But when you looked at me with those eyes, I couldn't say no. I never can.

Your arm looked wrong. All bent. I wanted to throw up. But I didn't. I just kept walking and told you stupid stories until you stopped crying. You fell asleep before we got there. Your head against my neck, your breath warm, your tears still wet on the collar of my shirt. I stood outside the cathedral for a long time before going in. Just holding you. Just pretending.

Don't do that again. Please.

—V

To the girl who hides in confession booths

You were found asleep in the confession booth again. The parish came to dinner tonight and told my father about it. Said you told him you were "contemplating divine silence." My father laughed so hard he choked on his bread. I laughed too. But inside, I was thinking about how you always find the best hiding spots. Remember when we played hide and seek with all the kids in the city, and no one could find you for three hours? Everyone gave up and went home. I kept looking. I found you in the bell tower, reading a book you'd stolen from the library. You looked up and smiled and said, "Took you long enough."

I sat with you until the sun went down. We watched the whole city from up there, all the lights coming on one by one. You pointed to your house and said, "That's where I sleep." You pointed to mine and said, "That's where you sleep."

—V

To the girl who fell in the fountain

Remember when we were at the market and you leaned too far over the fountain trying to see the coins at the bottom? Remember how you fell in?

I remember. I remember how you came up shivering, your hair plastered to your face, your dress ruined. I remember how everyone stared. I remember how you started to cry. And then I remember jumping in after you. Fully clothed, boots and all. Standing in that fountain with water up to my waist, just so you wouldn't be alone. We walked home soaking wet, leaving puddles everywhere. Your mother was furious. Mine was too. But you laughed the whole way, and that was worth every scolding.

I'd jump in a thousand fountains for you.

—V

To the girl who isn't afraid of anything

There's a stray dog near the windmill. It's hurt its leg  bad, and it won't let anyone near it. The adults say it'll die soon. They say there's nothing to be done. You've been bringing it food for three days. I know because I followed you. Today it let you touch it. I watched from behind a barrel as you sat in the mud, not caring about your dress, and let the dog sniff your hand, and then very slowly, very gently, touched its head. It whimpered and leaned into you. You stayed with it for hours. I stayed too, watching. When you finally left, you were crying. You didn't think anyone saw.

I went back later with my father's old cloak. I wrapped the dog in it and carried it to the healer. Cost me all my saved coins, but they fixed its leg. I told the healer to tell you someone found it and brought it in. Not me. Just someone.

You smiled for a week after that. That was enough.

—V

To the girl who wants a blue bird

The traveling merchant came through town with his painted wooden birds. You wanted one so badly. A little blue one, with glass eyes. You stood at his stall for an hour, just looking at it.

You had no money. Your family couldn't spare any. I watched you walk away, and I made a decision. I stole it for you. I know. That's wrong. Stealing is wrong. I'm not proud of it. But I couldn't stand seeing you want something and not have it. I snuck into his stall while he was at the tavern. Took the bird. Left three copper coins I'd saved from chores. It wasn't enough, and I knew it. But it was all I had. I left it on your windowsill that night. Didn't knock. Didn't stay.

The next day, you had it in your hand. You kept touching its wings, its eyes, its little painted beak. You kept smiling. You asked everyone who gave it to you. No one knew. You'll never know.

That's okay. The smile was enough.

—V

To the girl who punches boys

A boy called me clumsy today. In the market, in front of everyone. Said I walked like a baby deer, all stumbling and awkward. Before I could even react, you punched him. Right in the face. Knocked him flat. He was two years older than you. Twice your size. Didn't matter. You hit him so hard his nose bled.

His mother came to your house that night. Your mother made you apologize. You said sorry through clenched teeth, and I could tell you meant none of it. Afterward, you found me at the training grounds. You sat next to me on the beam where we carved our names and you said, "No one calls my friends clumsy."

I wanted to kiss you. I didn't. I never do.

But I wanted to.

—V

To the girl who reads too much

You borrowed a book from the library today. A thick one, with no pictures, about saints and miracles and things I don't understand. "Why do you read so much?" I asked. You thought about it. "Because books take me places I can't go. Because they show me people I'll never meet. Because they make me feel things I wouldn't feel otherwise."

"That sounds sad," I said.

You shook your head. "It's not sad. It's... more. Life is just one thing. Books are everything."

I didn't understand then. I think I understand now.

You were right. Life is just one thing. But you... you're everything.

—V

To the girl who prays

You've been going to the cathedral more lately. Not just for services, but in between. I see you there when I walk past. Kneeling in a pew, hands folded, head bowed. I asked you once what you pray for.

You said, "I don't pray for things. I just... talk. To someone who listens."

"Does anyone listen?"

You smiled. "I think so. Not in words. But in... feelings. In peace. In knowing I'm not alone."

I wanted to say: You're not alone. I'm here. I'll always be here. But I didn't. I just nodded and walked away. I don't understand prayer. I don't understand faith. But I understand you. And if being in that cathedral makes you happy, makes you peaceful, makes you feel less alone then I'm glad you go.

Even if it takes you further from me.

—V

To the girl who told me

You told me today.

After choir practice. You grabbed my sleeve and pulled me aside, and your eyes were so bright, so certain. You said you'd received your calling. That you'd enter the novitiate next spring.

I said, "That's great. You'll be the best nun ever." You laughed and punched my arm. "You're supposed to say congratulations, you idiot." Congratulations.

I walked home and sat on the roof for three hours. Mother called me for dinner. I didn't go down. I'm writing this by candlelight, and my hand is shaking. Not from cold. I should have said something else. I should have said "Don't go." I should have said "I love you." I should have said a thousand things. But I didn't. I never do. You'll be a nun. You'll wear a habit and pray for people you'll never meet. You'll give your whole life to someone who never answers.

And I'll be here. Watching. Wanting. Writing letters I'll never send. This is stupid. You're happy. That's what matters.

I'll keep this with the other ones.

—V

To the girl who is leaving me

Tomorrow you take your vows.

I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be writing this. I shouldn't be anything to you anymore. But I'm sitting in the barn, where we used to hide during thunderstorms. It's late. Everyone's asleep. I climbed through your window an hour ago and I watched you sleep for a while.

You looked peaceful. Happy. Like you'd already gone somewhere I couldn't follow.

I wanted to wake you. I wanted to say something that would make you stay. But what could I say? What could I offer that compares to what you've found? Nothing. I'm nothing. Just a boy with a sword and a stack of unsent letters.

So I left. I climbed back down and walked here, to the barn, and I'm writing this by the light of a lantern I stole from your kitchen. Tomorrow you'll kneel before the altar. You'll speak the words. Poverty, chastity, obedience. You'll give yourself to Barbatos, and I'll stand at the back of the cathedral and I'll watch you become someone I can never have.

I should have fought harder. I should have said something years ago, when we were children and the world was simple and loving you didn't feel like a sin. But I didn't. And now I never can.

Goodbye.

—V

To the girl who saw me during your vows

I wasn't going to come.

The ceremony. Your final vows. The moment you became truly, completely theirs. I told myself I had training. I told myself I had reports to file. I told myself a hundred lies.

But I came.

I stood at the back of the cathedral, where you couldn't see me even if you looked. And I watched you walk down the aisle in your white robes, your hands folded, your head bowed, your face so peaceful it hurt to look at. You knelt before the altar. You spoke the words. Poverty, chastity, obedience. Each one like a knife.

And when you rose, when you turned to face the congregation for the first time as a devotee of the Anemo Archon, your eyes swept over the crowd, over all those faces, and for one impossible moment, they stopped. On me. You couldn't have seen me. You couldn't. I was too far, too hidden, too much a coward to step into the light. But your eyes stopped. And you smiled. Just a little. Just for a second.

Then you looked away, and the moment was gone, and I slipped out the side door before anyone could see me crying. I walked to the training grounds and broke three practice swords against the dummies. Then I sat on the beam where we'd carved our names and I didn't move for hours. I should have fought harder. I should have said something. Anything.

But I didn't. And now I never can.

—V

To the girl who still lives in every corner of this city

I saw you today. At the cathedral.

I was delivering a report to the Deaconess, and there you were, walking through the cloister with another sister. You were in your full habit, like you'd always worn it. Like you'd never worn anything else.

You didn't see me. You stopped to talk to a child who was crying about something. You knelt down, right there on the stone, mud soaking through your robes, and you listened. Really listened. Then you wiped her tears with your sleeve and said something that made her laugh. I stood there like an idiot, holding my report, watching you walk away.

You were always good with children. Remember when we used to watch the little ones during festivals so their parents could dance? You'd tell them stories  about brave knights and clever maidens. They believed every word. So did I, honestly. I went back to the headquarters and swung my sword until my hands bled.

I don't know why I'm still writing these. I should burn them. I won't.

—V

To the girl who once told me she was afraid of thunderstorms

The storm outside is ridiculous. Even for Mondstadt. Thunder shaking the walls, lightning so bright it hurts through closed eyes. The whole camp is shaking.

I hate storms.

No, that's not true. I used to love them. Remember? We'd sit in your family's barn and watch the rain come down, and you'd count the seconds between lightning and thunder, and I'd pretend I wasn't terrified. You knew, though. You always knew. Halfway through, you'd lean against my shoulder and fall asleep, and I'd stay awake the whole time, just so you wouldn't be alone.

I wonder who you lean on now. I wonder if you ever get scared anymore. You seem so steady, so certain. Like you've found something to hold onto that won't let go. I'm glad. Truly.

But tonight, in this storm, I miss you so much it feels like someone's sitting on my chest.

—V

To the girl with the blue wooden bird

The Nod-Krai expedition is official. We leave at dawn. It will be years before I return. If I return at all. They asked me what I wanted to do before I left. Say goodbye to anyone special. Settle any affairs.

I said no. But I went to the cathedral anyway. Late at night, like always. I stood in the shadow of the bell tower and looked up at the windows, wondering which one was yours. Wondering if you were awake, if you ever thought about me, if you ever wondered why I always seemed to be just out of sight.

I thought about climbing the wall. Like when we were kids, and I'd sneak into your room to show you the stars through your window because your parents wouldn't let you out after dark. I didn't climb. I left something instead. Small. Hidden in the garden wall. A little blue wooden bird, with glass eyes. I carved it myself. It's not as pretty as the merchant's, but it's mine. All mine. You won't find it. Or if you do, you won't know it's from me.

But I'll know.

—V

To the girl who would hate this place

We've been traveling for months. I'm writing this by firelight, huddled in a tent while the wind screams outside like something wounded. Nod-Krai is endless snow, endless grey, endless cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there.

You would hate it. You always complained about Mondstadt winters, even our mild ones. I remember that one year when it snowed for three days straight, and you refused to leave the cathedral except for absolute necessities. I brought you soup every evening "from the kitchen,"  but really I made it myself, burning my hands on the pot, ruining three batches before I got it right.

You never asked who made it. You just thanked the cook and drank it by the fire, wrapped in blankets, your nose red from the cold that snuck through the ancient windows. I wonder if you still get soup brought to you. I wonder if anyone makes it just the way you like it, extra pepper, hold the onions, with bread for dipping.

Probably. You're easy to love. You always were. The others are asleep. I should sleep too. Tomorrow we push further north. I should be thinking about strategy, about survival, about the mission. Instead, I'm thinking about your laugh. The way it echoes in the cathedral during choir practice, even when you're trying to be quiet. The way it used to make me smile, no matter how terrible my day was.

I haven't heard it in so long.

—V

To the girl who made me promise to come back

You never actually made that promise. I realize that now, writing this. You never asked me to come back. You never asked me for anything. But I remember something you said once, years ago, when we were sitting on the city walls watching the sunset. You said, "The world is so big, Varka. I hope you get to see all of it." And I said, "I hope you're here when I get back." You laughed and bumped your shoulder against mine. "Where else would I be?" Here. There. Everywhere but where I can reach you.

We found ruins today. Ancient things, buried under the ice. The kind of place that makes the hair on your arms stand up, that makes you feel like you're being watched by something older than the gods. I went inside alone because I needed a moment away from the men. Away from the constant pressure of leading, of deciding, of being the one they look to when things go wrong.

Inside, the walls were covered in paintings. Faded, crumbling, but still visible. People dancing. People praying. People loving. I stood there for a long time, looking at a painting of a man and a woman with their arms around each other, their faces turned together, their bodies curved toward each other like they couldn't bear to be apart. And I thought about you.

I thought about all the times I could have held you. All the times I could have turned my face toward yours. All the chances I let slip away because I was too scared, too careful, too convinced that your path and mine could never cross. I was wrong. I know that now. But knowing doesn't change anything. You're still there, in your cathedral, living your life. I'm still here, in this frozen wasteland, living mine.

And neither of us will ever be the people in that painting.

—V

To the girl who never liked silence

You used to hate silence. Remember? You'd fill every empty moment with humming, with chatter, with questions you didn't really want answered. "Why is the sky blue?" "Where do the birds go when it rains?" "Do you think the wind gets lonely?" I asked you once why you couldn't just be quiet. You thought about it for a long moment and then you said, "Because if I'm quiet, I might miss something important. Someone might say something, and I won't hear it. Someone might need me, and I won't know." You always needed to be needed. That's why you became a nun, I think. Not because you were particularly holy, but because you needed to be useful. To matter. To be the person someone turns to when they're scared or sad or alone.

I turned to you once. Do you remember? It was after my first real battle. I was seventeen, and I'd killed a man, an enemy, a threat, someone who would have killed me if I hadn't acted first. I know it was justified. I know it was necessary. But knowing doesn't stop the dreams. I found you in the garden, late at night. You were supposed to be in bed since novices had strict rules, but you were there, sitting on the bench, looking at the stars. You didn't ask why I was crying. You didn't ask what happened. You just moved over, made room, and sat with me until the sky started to lighten.

I didn't say thank you. I should have said thank you. Here in Nod-Krai, the silence is endless. Acres of white, miles of nothing, hours of wind and snow and the sound of my own breathing. I've learned to tolerate it, even appreciate it. But sometimes, late at night, I miss your voice. I miss the way you filled the world with sound, with life, with yourself. I wonder if you're quiet now. I wonder if the years have taught you to sit with silence, the way they've taught me. I hope not. I hope you're still humming during chores, still chattering at the orphans, still filling every empty space with the sound of being alive.

Someone should.

—V

To the girl who loved the wind

Today we climbed the highest peak in the region. The weather cleared unexpectedly, the first clear day in months, and from the summit, we could see forever. Mountains and valleys and rivers, all of it white, all of it frozen, all of it beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. The wind up there was fierce. It tore at our clothes, our faces. Some of the men had to turn back. But I stayed at the summit for a long time, just letting it howl around me. And I thought about you.

You always loved the wind. When we were children, you'd stand on the city walls with your arms spread wide, eyes closed, letting it whip your hair and dress around you. "Can you feel it?" you'd shout over the gale. "It's alive, Varka. It's alive." I never understood what you meant. Wind was wind, just air moving from one place to another.

But today, standing on that peak, I understood. The wind up here doesn't care about you. It doesn't know you exist. It tears through you like you're nothing, like you're less than nothing, and for a moment you understand your place in the world. You're small. You're temporary. You're a breath, here and then gone. But you're also here. Right now, in this moment, you're alive. The wind proves it, because you can feel it, can fight it, can stand against it and refuse to fall.

You taught me that. You taught me that being alive means feeling things, even when those things hurt. Even when they tear through you and leave you gasping. I'm still standing. Still fighting. Still refusing to fall.

But gods, I miss you. I miss you like the wind misses the places it can't reach.

—V

To the girl I should have told

One of my men died today.

His name was Henrik. He was twenty-three, from a farming family near Springvale. He joined the Knights because he wanted to see the world, to prove himself, to make his parents proud. He had a sweetheart back home, a girl named Liesl who he wrote to every week, even when we had to burn precious supplies to keep the ink from freezing.

We were crossing a glacier. The ice gave way. One moment he was there, walking beside me, complaining about the cold. The next, he was gone. We couldn't even recover the body. I had to write the letter to his parents tonight. To Liesl. To tell them that their son, their sweetheart, their Henrik won't be coming home. It's the worst part of this job. Worse than the cold, worse than the fighting, worse than anything. Sitting here with a pen and paper, trying to find words that will somehow make it better, knowing there are no words that will make it better. I thought about you while I wrote. I thought about all the letters I've written you over the years, all the words I've put on paper that you'll never read. And I wondered: if I died tomorrow, if the ice swallowed me the way it swallowed Henrik, would anyone write you a letter about me?

Would they tell you that I thought about you every day? That I carried you with me through every storm, every frozen night? That the only thing that kept me going sometimes was the hope that one day, somehow, I'd find a way to tell you? Probably not. They'd write a formal letter, full of duty and honor and empty phrases. They wouldn't mention the way your laugh sounds like bells. They wouldn't mention the barn during thunderstorms. They wouldn't mention the wooden birds hidden in the garden wall. Only I know those things. Only I remember. And if I die here, in this frozen wasteland, those memories die with me.

I should have told you. I should have said the words out loud, where someone else could hear them, where they could survive beyond me. But I was a coward. I am a coward. Still writing letters I'll never send, still hoping you'll somehow know, still too afraid to take the one step that would change everything. Henrik won't get to be a coward anymore. He won't get to make mistakes or have regrets or wish he'd done things differently. I will. I'll carry this cowardice with me for the rest of my life.

Unless...

No. There is no unless. There never was.

—V

To the girl who probably forgot me

It's been years since I saw the cathedral, since I walked the streets of Mondstadt, since I stood outside your window watching your shadow move across the curtain. Four years since I left that bird in the garden wall. I wonder if you found it. I wonder if you've found any of them.  Probably not. You have more important things to think about.

We've found something. Something wrong. Traces of the Abyss. Not just traces. Something active. Something growing. I've seen the Abyss before. We all have. But this is different. This is old. This is patient. This has been waiting. I'm sending a message back to Mondstadt. Official report, full of careful words and measured assessments. But the truth is simpler: I'm afraid. Not for myself, I've made peace with whatever happens to me. But for the men under my command. For the people back home. For you.

If the Abyss rises here, none of us will be safe. Not me in Nod-Krai. Not you in your cathedral. Not anyone. I should tell you to run. To leave Mondstadt, to go somewhere far away, to protect yourself. But I know you won't. You'll stay with your orphans, your prayers, your duty. You'll stay because that's who you are, the girl who couldn't bear to miss something important, who had to be there when someone needed her. I need you. I've always needed you.

But I'll never say it. And you'll never know.

—V

To the girl who gave me courage

The Abyss rose today.

Not fully. Not completely. But enough. They came pouring through, creatures of shadow and corruption, things that should not exist. We fought for hours. We lost good men. I killed more of them than I can count. I'll dream about them tonight. I always do. But I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting.

When we were children, you used to call me brave. Remember? After I fought those older boys who were teasing you, after I stood up to your mother when she was unfair, after I climbed the tallest tree in Mondstadt just because you said you wanted to see what the world looked like from up high. I wasn't brave. I was terrified, every time. I just didn't want you to know. But you knew. You always knew. And you called me brave anyway, because you understood that courage isn't about not being afraid. It's about being afraid and doing it anyway. I'm afraid now. More afraid than I've ever been. The Abyss is here, and it's growing, and I don't know if we can stop it.

But I'm still fighting. Still standing. Still refusing to fall. Because somewhere, in a cathedral in Mondstadt, you're probably praying. Not for me, you don't know what's happening, but for someone. For the orphans, for the sick, for the world. You're on your knees, hands folded, eyes closed, And somehow that gives me strength.

I can believe that I'll see you again.

One more day. One more fight. That's all I need to get through. Just one more.

—V

To the girl who taught me how to hope

The fighting has been constant for months. The Abyss pushes. We push back. They push again. We're losing ground, slowly, but we're losing it. I've stopped counting the dead. That's terrible, isn't it? That I can no longer put numbers to the faces, to the names, to the families who will never see their sons again. I still write the letters. I just don't count anymore. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, there's a lull. The rifts are quiet. The creatures have withdrawn. My men are sleeping. Actually sleeping, not just pretending.

And I'm sitting here, writing to you, because it's the only thing that keeps me sane. I found something today. In the ruins of an old watchtower, buried under centuries of ice. A book. A journal, really, written by someone long dead. A knight, I think, from some forgotten order. He wrote about his home, his family, the woman he loved. He never went home. I found his bones in the tower, still wrapped in his cloak, the journal clutched to his chest. I read the last entry. He wrote: "If anyone finds this, tell her I thought of her at the end. Tell her I loved her. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't come home." I buried him in the ice. Said a few words. Took his journal.

And I thought: that's going to be me. Someday, somewhere, I'm going to die alone, and no one will know that I thought of you at the end. No one will tell you that I loved you. No one will say I'm sorry. Unless I write it. Unless I say it. Unless I stop being a coward. I'm going to come home. I'm going to find you. And I'm going to tell you everything.

I promise.

—V

To the girl who waits

Do you wait? Do you ever think about me, wonder where I am, hope I'm alive? Or have you moved on, found peace, forgotten the boy who used to climb  and leave birds in your wall?

I don't know. I'll never know. But I hope you wait. Just a little. Just enough.

The Abyss is retreating. We're pushing them back. It's slow, brutal work, but we're winning. The rifts are closing. The corruption is receding. Another year, maybe two, and we can go home. Home. I've been gone so long I barely remember what it feels like. Warmth. Green things growing. The sound of the fountain in the square. Your voice. I remember your voice. I could never forget your voice. Someday, when I come home, I'll find you. And I'll say the words.

I'm coming home. Wait for me.

—V

To the girl in all of my letters

The Abyss is broken. Not destroyed, you can't destroy the Abyss, but driven back, sealed away, pushed into the dark places where it belongs. The rifts are closed. The corruption is fading. We've won. We're coming home. I'm writing this on the last night in Nod-Krai. Tomorrow we begin the long journey south. Years of cold and death and fighting. Years of writing letters I never sent.

I have a stack of them now. Thick as my arm. Every one addressed to you. Every one full of things I should have said out loud, years ago, when we were young and stupid and had all the time in the world. I'm going to give them to you. I don't know how. I don't know when. I don't know if you'll even want them. But I'm going to find you, and I'm going to put this stack of paper in your hands, and I'm going to say… I don't know what I'm going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe the letters will say it for me.

But I'm done being a coward. I'm done hiding in shadows and leaving birds in walls. I'm done pretending that what I feel for you is anything less than everything. I love you. I've always loved you. I will love you until I don't exist anymore. And when I get home, you're going to know it.

Wait for me. Just a little longer.

—V

[argentits]

my god it's so good my jaw dropped lawwd

[autophage]

You make soup in a big bowl. You serve it in a smaller bowl. And then you convey it, using a spoon, to your mouth. But what is the spoon? Simply a smaller bowl still