You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
WORD COUNT: 6.5k
NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.
MASTERLIST | part 2
The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.
A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.
You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.
You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.
You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.
That he’d be behind his desk, maybe. Pen in hand, papers meticulously arranged in little towers like the ones he builds in your mind—precise, unreachable, always half-tilted toward something you’re not allowed to see.
You thought you might say something rehearsed but kind. A line you practiced in the mirror, gentle but final. You didn’t want to hurt him. You just wanted to end the slow bleeding before it became a hemorrhage.
But the office was empty.
The silence hit first.
Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.
This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.
Zayne wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.
You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The room smelled like him—mint and paper, a trace of cologne sharp as memory. The blinds were half-drawn, the light filtering in like a sigh through cracked ribs.
You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.
Gently. As if it were made of glass.
As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.
Why stay in this marriage when the instigator is already dead? It wasn’t a cruel thought. Just… practical. Your mother had orchestrated it all, hadn’t she? Down to the embroidered napkins and the painfully bright chandelier you never wanted. She'd made you both promises you never consented to, and now she was gone, buried in roses and obligations.
That question had come to you in the silence after her funeral, when the guests were gone and the condolences had dried into something brittle. You weren’t looking for liberation. You weren’t angry. But there was a kind of clarity that only grief could offer—harsh, clean-edged clarity that cut deeper the more you looked at it.
You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.
You didn’t hate Zayne.
God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.
But love had never bloomed between you. Not really. It had been all frost and formality, glances across long tables, the occasional brush of his coat sleeve as he passed you in the hallway. You learned his silences. He learned your smiles. But you never learned each other.
And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.
You weren’t completely blameless either.
You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.
Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.
And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.
Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.
He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?
But the part of you that still ached—the part that hadn’t quite given up—wished you didn’t have to do this alone. Wished he’d been here so you could have said something. Anything. So you wouldn’t have to walk out with your heart still clenched, still wondering if this was mercy or cowardice.
You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.
His chair was slightly angled toward the window. A mug of coffee sat abandoned on the side table, still half full. A scarf hung on the back of the chair, the one you once bought for him because he never remembered to dress warm in winter. He never wore it in front of you.
Maybe he wore it when he was alone.
Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.
Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.
Maybe it was.
You didn’t wait to find out.
You slipped out of his office as softly as you had come. No tears. No dramatics. Just the sound of your heels clicking against the tile, carrying you away from the life you tried to build without being given the tools.
Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.
It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.
Or the last thing he expected.
Either way, the decision was made.
You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.
It was born out of surrender.
And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.
You go about your day.
Mechanically, precisely. Like if you move fast enough, you won’t feel the weight of what you just did. Like if you keep your hands busy, they won’t remember how they trembled when you left the envelope on his desk.
You have dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. The kind with mood lighting and cutlery that costs more than your first paycheck. The waiter greets you by name. You’ve been here before. Enough times to build a familiarity that feels almost like comfort.
You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.
Around you, couples lean close, forks clinking gently against china, knees brushing under tables. You sip your wine and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re above it all. That you chose this. That you’re fine.
You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.
You stop at a shop on the way home.
There’s a window display with crystals and tiny gilded mirrors and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. Useless things. Luxuries. Trinkets that mean nothing and say everything. You buy a pair of earrings that you’ll never wear, a satin ribbon you don’t need, and a music box that plays a lullaby you didn’t realize you remembered.
It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.
By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.
The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.
You draw yourself a bath. You pick out the bath salts your mother once gifted you—lavender and sandalwood, soft and laced with memory. The water fogs the mirror, curls against your skin. You sink in, hoping the heat will coax something loose. The ache. The numbness. The way you still listen, stupidly, for the sound of the door opening behind you.
But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.
Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.
After, you do your skincare. Layer after layer. Toner. Serum. Cream. A ritual. A mask. You look at your face in the mirror and wonder when you started looking so tired. You wonder if Zayne ever noticed. You wonder if he’d care.
You go to bed.
The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.
Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.
And stay there.
Still.
Quiet.
You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?
You left the papers.
You left him.
But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.
And if he does—
You wonder if he’ll miss you.
Or just the absence.
You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.
Your eyes blink open slowly.
The room is dim, only the amber spill of the hallway light trailing in like a whisper beneath the door. The sheets have tangled around your waist, your body curled in that way it always is when you sleep alone, when there's too much space and too little warmth.
And then you see him.
Zayne.
Kneeling at your bedside.
His head is bowed, his hands gripping yours like lifelines, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His shoulders are trembling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks—silent and luminous in the half-light. His palms are cold, clammy, too tight around your fingers, but you don’t pull away.
You can’t.
Because you’ve never seen him like this.
Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.
No. This is Zayne—undone.
“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.
The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.
Your breath catches.
You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.
But he looks like he is.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice breaking like something rusted. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to be your husband. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to be. I thought—” His grip tightens, desperate. “I thought you were happier without me. I thought I was giving you space. I thought it was what you wanted.”
You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.
“I saw the papers,” he says. “I came back and I saw them and—” A pause. A shudder. “I felt something inside me go still. Like the part of me that hoped you’d someday choose me… just stopped breathing.”
You swallow.
Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.
Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.
But he’s begging now.
And it breaks something in you.
“I don’t care about the arrangement,” he says, lifting his eyes to yours for the first time, and—God. They’re red-rimmed and wet and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. Not even when his mentor died. Not even when yours forced a ring onto your finger. Because that's exactly what she was—a mentor before a mother.
“I don’t care who started it. I care that I can’t sleep knowing you won’t be there. That I won’t see your shoes in the hallway. Your cup in the sink. Your voice in the morning. I know I’ve been gone—I know I made you feel alone. But I never stopped—”
He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.
“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”
And then he says it.
“Because I do—”
Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.
“—I do love you.”
You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.
Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.
And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.
Waiting for you.
His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.
And yet—your hands stay in his.
You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?
But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on.
Zayne’s eyes are still on you—pleading, ruined, impossibly gentle. And you hate him for it. You hate him for coming to you like this now, when your chest is raw and bandaged over with resignation, when your heart has learned to live with its hollow space.
You don’t know what to say.
You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.
But now?
You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.
“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”
His brows draw together.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”
You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.
“You weren’t there,” you murmur, looking somewhere past his shoulder. “Not when I waited for you to come home. Not when I made tea and poured two cups out of habit. Not when I cried so quietly I thought I’d go mad from the silence.”
He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.
“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”
“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”
Zayne looks like he’s in pain.
Real pain.
The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.
“I’m not saying this to punish you,” you whisper. “I just—I need you to understand. I don’t know how to believe you now. I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering me, when all I’ve ever known is how to be alone in this marriage.”
He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.
“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”
There’s a pause.
A long, trembling pause.
Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.
He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.
“I don’t expect you to believe me right now,” he whispers. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after. I just want you to know—I’m not leaving. I won’t run from this again. From you. Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you never say those words back.”
You stare at him.
Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.
But something inside you shifts.
Not healed.
Not certain.
Just—listening.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
He stays kneeling for a long time.
Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.
He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.
Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”
It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.
He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.
So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.
He doesn’t assume.
He stands for a beat longer than necessary. Hands fidgeting. Shoulders tense. And then he moves—quiet as snow—and slips beneath the covers, staying on top of them at first, as though unwilling to cross some unseen line.
The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.
This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.
His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.
You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.
Your mind is loud in the hush. Not with words. With fragments. Ghosts. That night at the wedding when your mother held your hand too tightly and whispered that love is just a fantasy. The first time you saw Zayne sleeping at his desk, collar loose, lashes brushing his cheek, more beautiful than anything you were allowed to say. The moment your fingers twitched toward him once, and you stopped yourself. Every almost. Every if.
You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.
Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.
You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.
And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.
Barely a touch.
Just a presence.
I'm here, it says.
You don’t move. You don’t speak.
But you let him stay.
The sheets rustle as he slides down slightly, mirroring your position. His forehead brushes your shoulder. His breath warms the back of your arm. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist like an apology without words.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
You fall asleep like that.
Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.
Just… not alone.
For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.
She didn’t just control the room—she was the room. Her presence seeped into the walls, into the silence, into the decisions you hadn’t even made yet. She knew what you’d wear before you opened your closet. She could recite your schedule before you checked your calendar. She didn’t raise a daughter—she built a reflection.
And she expected that reflection to obey.
At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety.
“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”
“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.”
“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”
But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.
It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.
And then Zayne entered the picture.
A calm man. A blank page. A voice with the temperature of winter mornings—cool, crisp, distant. You hadn’t even fallen for him. You’d simply watched as your mother’s attention pivoted from micromanaging your life to orchestrating your marriage.
He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.
She didn’t ask if you liked him.
She didn’t need to.
She assumed you would be grateful.
And in some ways, you were.
Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.
He left you alone.
There was no suffocating presence. No list of expectations folded into every meal. He didn’t demand you dress a certain way. Didn’t police your volume, your mood, your silences. He didn’t ask much of you at all.
And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.
Autonomy.
Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.
Freedom.
At home, your mother would barge into your room with unsolicited opinions. In Zayne’s apartment, you had a key to your own space. At home, your mother would correct you mid-sentence in front of relatives. Zayne would barely notice if you said something silly, let alone make you feel small for it.
He didn’t tether you.
And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.
He was distant, yes.
But he was not cruel.
When your mother visited your new house for the first time after your wedding, you saw her try it—try to step into your space like she still owned it. She scanned your kitchen with sharp eyes, criticizing how you stored the spices. She told you you were putting on weight. That you needed to stop being lazy, that Zayne would leave you if you didn’t “keep up appearances.”
She said it lightly, like a joke.
Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.
He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.
“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.
And you…
You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.
He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.
But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.
Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you.
Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.
And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.
You hadn’t cried then. Not even when the door slammed shut and silence filled the apartment again. But you remembered the tightness in your chest. The way you stared at the floor like you were thirteen again, except this time you weren’t helpless.
Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.
You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.
Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.
But he didn’t apologize for defending you.
He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.
And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.
He gave you space.
He gave you a shield.
And somewhere in the folds of that cold, quiet marriage, you started seeing him not just as the stranger you were legally tied to—but the man who, even in silence, stood between you and the woman who broke your voice.
He might not have held your hand.
But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.
And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.
But it was protection.
And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.
You wake before the sun.
The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.
There’s a moment, a breath, where you forget. Where you wake as if from a dream and all is suspended. The air is cold against your cheek. The sheets heavy with the imprint of two. And there’s warmth behind you. A weight.
Zayne.
Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.
He's still here.
The realization sinks in slowly, like tea bleeding into water. At some point in the night, he must’ve shifted closer. One of his arms is draped around your waist, tentative but real. His chest rises and falls against your back, the rhythm steady, anchoring. And his face—God, his face is tucked into your shoulder like it’s the only home he’s ever known.
You don’t move.
You just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, your body stiff with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has no name. You're not sure what it is you’re mourning. Only that it’s something vast. Something invisible. A version of this marriage you never got to live. A thousand versions of yourself you never got to be—with him, beside him, for him.
There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.
You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.
You think about how easy it would be to slip out from under his arm. Walk away before the sun catches you both in this quiet trespass. Before the ache turns into expectation. Before kindness gets mistaken for forgiveness.
And yet—you stay.
Not because anything has been resolved. Not because his whispered apology last night has undone the loneliness you watered for so long it grew roots inside you. But because you're tired. And his breath is warm. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re not waking up to a silence that only belongs to you.
He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.
The tears come before you can stop them.
Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.
You wish you could hate him.
You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.
Because now there’s a crack.
A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.
And through it, something stirs.
Not hope. Not yet.
Just the unbearable truth that he’s still in there, somewhere—beneath all that absence. That maybe he always was. That maybe, just maybe, he had been mourning it too, all along, but in his own cold, closed, unreadable way.
Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.
You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.
It hurts.
Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.
You close your eyes again.
You don’t move.
You don’t wake him.
There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.
And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.
The eggs are overcooked.
Zayne stares down at the pan like it offended him personally, the browned edges curling up as if mocking the silence that’s wrapped itself around the kitchen. The yolks aren’t runny the way you like them. He used the wrong kind of salt. The tea might be too bitter. Everything’s a little off today.
Or maybe he is.
Zayne places the plate gently on the table, careful not to make too much noise. You’re sitting across from him, wrapped in your robe, a thin line between your brows as you butter your toast like it’s a task that requires precision. You haven’t spoken much. Not since waking up to find him still there, hovering in the doorway with eyes swollen from a night spent begging the universe to turn back time.
He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.
And he aches.
Not with longing, though that’s part of it.
No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.
He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.
Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.
That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.
He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.
He hadn’t known the man for long—barely a few months, a blip in the timeline of his tightly folded life—but William had burned bright. Reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly intuitive. He had a way of making people feel seen. A way of cutting through Zayne’s silence with nothing but presence.
And then—
Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.
He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.
And then he met you.
He looks up.
You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.
You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.
Zayne doesn’t blame you.
He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.
He wishes he knew how to ask.
He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.
And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.
You glance up.
Your eyes meet.
There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.
Zayne swallows.
He wants to tell you everything. About the nightmares. About the way guilt has hardened in his chest like a scar tissue. About how hard it is to come home to a soft, warm bed after you've learned to sleep beside death. About how sometimes, when you smiled at him, he looked away not because he didn’t care—but because it hurt too much to hope.
But he doesn’t say any of it.
He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.
He watches you spread jam on toast with careful, robotic movements before you casually reach over and add two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, and thinks—I should’ve told her sooner. I should’ve told her everything.
But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.
There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.
He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.
Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.
But he can’t.
So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.
Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:
Burnt breakfast.
Too many silences.
A table full of ghosts.
And you—still here.
Not forgiving.
Not forgetting.
But here.
And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.
His phone vibrates against the table.
He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.
You don't look up, still quietly chewing, lost in that dreamless place where sorrow goes to sleep in you like a second skin. But Zayne reaches for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, half-expecting some emergency at the hospital. A late case. A consult. Another impossible situation to fix so he doesn’t have to fix himself.
But it’s a text from Greyson.
"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."
He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing.
He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.
He hasn't thought about the gala either. Usually an excuse for donors to parade their goodwill in overpriced suits, for surgeons to trade horror stories over cocktails, for the hospital to raise enough funds to keep the rural outreach programs going another year.
Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.
You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.
Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:
Perhaps not all is lost.
Maybe not everything has calcified into endings. Maybe not every door has shut. Maybe there's still a sliver of future that hasn’t collapsed beneath the weight of what went unsaid. You hadn’t kicked him out last night. You hadn't pulled your hand away when he clutched it like a lifeline in the dark.
And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.
He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.
Maybe… maybe he could take you.
The thought startles him with its tenderness.
Would you even want to go? Would it feel like a poor excuse to make up for everything? A bandage over a bullet wound? Would you dress up just to stand beside a man who once vanished when you needed him most?
Zayne’s thumb lowers.
He doesn’t reply.
Instead, he watches you butter another piece of toast with slow, mechanical grace. He memorizes the way your lashes cast shadows down your cheeks. The way your hand trembles just slightly, like you’re barely holding yourself together.
You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.
He knows better now.
Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.
He slips the phone screen-down on the table.
Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.
You glance at it.
He meets your eyes again.
And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.
The moment passes too quickly.
Your eyes lower again, lashes shuttering the fragile connection. You spread the jam he offered, slow and deliberate, as if trying not to let your hands betray you. Zayne watches the knife tremble ever so slightly in your grip. Not enough for someone else to notice. But he does. Of course he does.
He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.
And now, you.
You, trembling under all that quiet.
He clears his throat.
It’s not a loud sound, but it slices through the morning hush with a clean, surgical precision. You blink up at him, guarded again. As if waiting for him to say something devastating, or worse—dismissive.
Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.
“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.
You set your knife down.
Zayne exhales softly through his nose, schooling himself into coherence. He can do this. He speaks to grieving families, for God’s sake. Tells them about cardiac arrests and brain deaths and the final moments of their loved ones. He can string a sentence together.
But this—this is harder.
“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”
You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.
Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.
“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”
There.
He doesn’t look up immediately. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see your hesitation, your polite refusal, the way you’ll swallow your discomfort and say maybe next time when you know there won’t be one.
But then—
“Why?”
Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.
Zayne looks up.
You’re watching him now, one brow faintly raised, lips parted slightly—not in expectation, but confusion. Sincere confusion. And something deeper beneath it—wariness, perhaps. The kind that comes from being wounded too many times in the same place.
He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.
“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.
Because I want to be seen with you.Because I want to try again.Because I miss being beside you even when we weren’t really together.Because I can’t bear the thought of showing up alone and being reminded of what I let die between us.Because I want to be yours.
Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.
“Because I’d like you to be there.”
You don’t answer.
Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.
You study the way his hands are folded, the way his jaw is clenched not with arrogance but restraint. The hair still damp from his morning shower. The sleeves of his dress shirt slightly creased because he didn’t take the time to iron them.
He’s not posturing. Not performing.
He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.
And finally—finally—your lips part.
“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.
Zayne blinks.
Then breathes.
“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”
You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.
“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.
And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.
He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.
Zayne finishes his tea in silence.
And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.
summary: You've been engaged to Sunday since you were both children, and though he plays the part of a perfect fiance, he hasn't been honest with you in years.
notes: 3.2k words, author's notes, commissioned by @stellamancer, arranged marriage au, ambiguous + complicated relationships, some slight powerplay, reader wears jewelry (specifically a necklace)
You first met your future husband when you were eight, dressed in new, shiny patent-leather shoes that pressed your toes and a smart, dove-grey coat, threading your fingers together and trying to keep still.
Your mother chatted with Gopher Wood, gloved hand covering her mouth as she laughed pleasantly, and you hovered just a step behind her. Sunday was buried in Gopher Wood’s robes, anxious, chubby fingers clutching the fabric as he looked at the ground.
He glanced up at you, and before he could glance away, you mouthed, “Hello.”
He stared before tentatively waving his free hand. You smiled at him, pleased, and then he broke eye contact, looking down at the ground again, red blush staining his pale ears.
After that, your mother and Gopher Wood left the two of you alone over china cups of black tea and a rainbow swirl of macaroons in order to get to know each other better. You promptly got up to sit next to him on the plush, rose-pattern fabric, plopping down so close that Sunday’s wings fluttered in agitation.
You held out your hand, and said your full name. “What’s yours?” you asked.
“I’m Sunday,” he murmured, startled, perhaps, at your proximity and how bold you were. Your mother always chided you for acting too forward, but what was wrong with knowing what you wanted?
“Your name is pretty,” you said. “Sundays are my favorite days of the week.”
Sunday blushed again, and you really did think he was pretty, the prettiest boy you ever saw. Whenever you came over for weekly visits, an effort meant to increase the intimacy between the two of you, he would shyly ask how you were and if you wanted anything to hear about what he was reading that day.
You were the one to decide the pace of your relationship, taking his hand and dragging him around to explore the libraries, to ramble in the gardens, to spy on the grown-ups and eavesdrop on their conversations. No matter what you wanted, he followed obediently, trailing after you like a baby bird whenever you took his hand in your own.
Arranged marriages aren’t about love, and yours is nothing more than a political engagement between the Oak and Iris Families. At the time, though, you thought you could love him. Fancied yourself a little in love with him already, but then your cute little bird changed. It was gradual, the way he became more withdrawn, how he let go of your hand and started talking to you in the same polite tone he used with shareholders and political opponents.
It’s not as if he’s cruel these days, either. Sunday is courteous, respectable, responsible. He takes you out to lunch once a week at noon sharp on Fridays, with a long-standing reservation at a restaurant you enjoy. He sends you gifts of jewelry, necklaces with delicate golden chains and dewdrop gems nestled in creamy wrapping paper. He opens doors for you, keeps a hand on the small of your back, brings you back home before nine and never asks for anything except for a chaste kiss on his cheek.
No, on the surface, you have no reason to complain about your fiance. It’s just that you’re aware of the truth, always lurking under every interaction: Sunday shut you out, and he’s never let you back in.
—
You’re alone in your dressing room, staring at the vanity’s mirror, necklaces and bracelets and earrings spread around you in an indulgent feast of gold and jewels. There’s a party in half an hour, but it’s really just an excuse for political maneuvering and sucking up to those in power. You’ve grown up attending such events as the heir of the Iris Family, so you know how to smile and flatter, how to shut down the wrong people attempting to get into your good graces.
Knuckles rap on the doorframe, but you don’t startle. There’s only one person who could enter your room so freely. Besides, your mirror captures the edge of your door, so you can see the shine of Sunday’s gold cuff links on his black silk suit jacket, his pressed pants perfectly creased down the middle, as he likes it.
“You’re not ready yet,” Sunday says. You keep your eyes steady on the mirror as Sunday approaches, stopping a polite distance away from you.
“Well, I’m stuck,” you drawl. “I just don’t know what jewelry would match with my outfit.” You’re dressed in white and black silk, something that slinks down your body and matches with Sunday’s outfit.
Sunday flicks a glance across the dazzling array of jewelry. “Why not this?” he asks, pointing at a simple gold pendant, a modest white diamond its only adornment. He gave it to you for some holiday or the other, an obligatory gift that you never wore, though Sunday has given you so much jewelry it’d be hard to find the occasion to flaunt all of it.
“It doesn’t fit,” you say. “I was actually thinking of…” Your fingers dance on your vanity until they loop around the chain of a silver necklace, awash with blue and green gems that sparkle in the low light. It’s just shy of ostentatious, but it’s the opposite of the sort of subtle, classy jewelry Sunday prefers. “...this.”
“That’s from one of the IPC’s Stonehearts, isn’t it. Aventurine, I recall?” Sunday asks. His face still retains its poised expression, and his voice is perfectly pleasant, but it dips in tone, the only sign that your choice has any effect on him.
You smile at him in the mirror, your lips curling with the weight of your own self-satisfaction. “Oh, is that so? He was quite charming, wasn’t he?”
“The IPC’s presence here doesn’t bode well,” Sunday says, voice sharp, the barest edge of a blade.
“Well, it’s not as if we want to get on their bad side, either, do we? This could be a show of good-will.”
“All the same, we’re not here to bend to their demands,” Sunday says. “Besides, the necklace I showed you would suit your outfit more.”
“I think you just like gold,” you say, twirling the necklace around your fingers. “No, I’ll wear this one.”
“If you already had your eye on a particular piece, I fail to see how my input was necessary.”
You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe I just like hearing the sound of your voice, Sunday.”
Sunday doesn’t look away. “And if you wanted to hear me talk, you have more than ample opportunity at our engagement tonight.”
“You’re so touchy,” you grumble. “You already know you’ll be busy with everyone trying to suck up to you to spare a single thought for me.”
“Fulfilling our duties is the only reason we’re here in the first place,” he says.
“Fine, fine. I’ll be out in a bit, hm?” You waggle your fingers to dismiss him.
Sunday doesn’t move. “Let me help you put your necklace on.”
You dip your head slightly in acquiescence, and Sunday pinches the delicate chain of the necklace with both hands, bringing it up to rest against the hollow of your neck. You watch as he gazes at the necklace in the mirror, evaluating it against your skin.
His movements are slow and deliberate as he fastens the necklace together, the brush of his silk gloves cool against your nape. He lowers his gaze in concentration, eyelashes shadowing his cheeks. For a second, neither of you speak, and in the dim lamps floating around the room, his eyes shimmer, molten gold that threatens to swallow you whole.
“We’re leaving in five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone, vanishing from your mirror, footsteps receding behind you.
You sigh, fingering the cold gems that rest against your collarbones. It’s not as if you can blame your deteriorating relationship solely on Sunday. But as forward and obstinate as you are, Sunday is just as stubborn and unyielding. And if teasing him like a child and playing petty games is the only way to crack his facade, then what other choice does he give you?
“You could have at least told me I looked nice,” you grumble at your own reflection, but there’s no one to respond.
—
The party is hosted by the Oak Family, and like everything Sunday likes to do, it’s a dazzling, opulent affair, positioned to show both prestige and power. In the Dreamscape, where everything can be bent to his whims, musician-less instruments strum a dreamy waltzy in the corner, silver plates piled with delicacies from across the galaxy waft through the air, offering themselves to the silk and jewel encrusted members of Penacony’s most elite society.
You and Sunday walk through the entrance together, your hand safely tucked around his arm, and you press yourself to his side, the picture of a beautiful, engaged couple. A flock of admirers drift around you the entire time, socialites eager to get into your good graces, members of other Families hinting for more funding, more support.
It takes a while before you can shake most of them off, and when you do, you practically drag Sunday towards a cluster of floating drinks, swirling with ruby red liquid.
“Hyenas,” you murmur, snatching a thin-stemmed glass out of the air. “You’d think they followed the Voracity instead of the Harmony with the way they act.”
“Everyone is drawn to the promise of Penacony’s sweet dreams,” Sunday says. “But that’s what this party is for, to contain their ambitions. As long as they understand their role in things, there won’t be any issue.”
You glance at Sunday. The way he talks makes him feel like a stranger at times, a thousand miles away from you. What happened to the child who used to hide behind curtains with you at stuffy, formal events, sneaking more sweets than your guardians would ostensibly allow?
“The two of you look quite well this evening.”
You whirl around, raising your glass to your lips to hide your grimace at the voice, creamy smooth and decadent to the point it makes your hackles raise.
“Aventurine,” Sunday greets, and you can’t tell whose smile is less genuine.
Aventurine is dressed in a shimmering green suit that shifts under the light, the top three buttons left undone, dripping with silver and blue jewelry. His eyes crinkle when he sees you, and as he lowers himself into a bow, he reaches out a hand.
You give him your free one, and he presses it to his lips.
“Your necklace suits you,” he says. “I’m glad you liked it enough to wear it for this party.”
“Why, it was so beautiful I couldn’t resist,” you say, a charming smile of your own plastered to your face. “Thank you for such a treasure.”
“It’s a trifle, really,” Aventurine says, waving one careless hand. “It’s the least I can do for a new friend, hm?”
On the surface Aventurine and Sunday are nothing alike. He’s rakish, oozing with charisma and sweet words, and Sunday is formal, courteous, benevolent if a bit distant.
But you’ve been raised by politicians, surrounded by entertainers and performers. You know a liar when you see one, no matter how skilled. Everything both of them do is calculated, from the number of buttons Aventurine leaves undone, to the way Sunday hides behind manners and decorum.
“I hope we can become good friends, Aventurine,” you say.
“Me, too,” he says, his voice a purr. “I think we could do excellent things for each other, don’t you?”
For a split second, you think Sunday is going to say something. His face has smoothed into something blank and impenetrable, eyes cold. But then he smiles, all kindness and charm, and expertly secures your hand around his arm again.
“If the opportunity arises, then I’m sure we’ll all get along quite well,” Sunday says. “But if you’ll excuse me, my fiance and I must get going. There are some members of the Bloodhound Family we can’t afford to neglect.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to hog your attention all to myself,” Aventurine says. “Another time, then, friends.”
Sunday leads you along, all but steering you away from Aventurine. You try to quell your rising irritation as the two of you bounce from guest to guest, Sunday never letting you stray from his side. He traps your hand with his own, keeping it securely pressed to his arm.
When Sunday moves towards another group of guests, you instead tug on his arm, dragging him towards the end of the hall, past a door that opens just enough for the two of you to slip through. It’s an area that no ordinary guest can access: the end of the sweet dream, where you’ll be safe from prying eyes. In the party’s backstages, blue bubbles float and burst, furniture wheeling in a chaotic jumble overhead.
“What are you doing?” you say, voice low.
Sunday appraises you, his eyes flicking from your expression to the way you slide your hand off his arm.
“Do you have a problem with my conduct?”
“You’re acting strange, Sunday,” you say. “Ever since we talked to Aventurine. Do you expect me to just smile and act like it’s nothing?”
“I simply found that man and his transparent ulterior motives irritating. There’s nothing to be gained from the IPC taking an interest in Penacony.”
You fold your arms. This time, it’s your turn to appraise Sunday, the flutter of his wings, the way he folds his hands in front of him, pristine and untouchable. His expression is mild, relaxed, but his head is tilted up, so it feels like he’s looking down on you as he speaks.
“Sunday. Are you jealous?” you say.
“Jealous? Why would I be? You’re my fiance.”
It’s the way he says it, so dull and careful, as if you’re another asset, unwilling to let any emotion affect his voice that makes your temper spike. Even now, in private, he’s incapable of letting his facade slip, just once.
“I’m only your fiance in name,” you snap. “Please. We all know this is just a marriage of convenience.” You take a step forward, jabbing your finger at his chest. “I don’t know why you bother with putting on an act in public. Everyone knows this is a sham. You might as well just break our engagement and find someone else. I know anyone will do for you—”
“Anyone will do?” Sunday’s voice is quiet, intense, as he grips your outstretched hand. His touch is firm and possessive, the pressure just shy to crush your fingers. “You think I would be happy with just anyone else?”
“Yes,” you snarl, jaw clenched, unwilling to look away from his eyes, those unfathomable pools of gold, deep enough to drown you. “You haven’t given me any reason to think differently, have you? The last time you were honest with me was when we were children, Sunday.”
“I am not going to break off our engagement,” he says. “That has never been a possibility. It will never be a possibility.” His free hand snakes alongside the back of your neck, gloved fingers toying with the clasp of your necklace. “This color is abominable. Gold has always looked best on you.”
You let out a breath, and then, jerking your hand out of his grip, you shove Sunday, hands flat against his chest as you push him with enough force that he stumbles. For a fleeting moment, you savour his bewildered expression, his eyebrows knitted together, mouth open with shock. Your childish games, your childish rewards.
“Really?” you say coldly, rubbing the back of your neck, fingers pressing into flesh, as if you can rub away the memory of his touch, or press it deeper into your skin. “I find both gold and silver awful colors on me.”
“It’s a shame we disagree.”
“Why don’t you talk to me?” you say. “Tell me the truth. Tell me how you feel. I can be here for you, like I was when we were children.”
The silence stretches out, taut and fragile as a spiderweb. For a moment, you think he’ll do it. He parts his mouth, but then he scrubs a hand across his face, smoothing his expression back into something placating. The face of your fiance, the heir and the head of the Oak Family. “Things are much too different from when we were children. If you’ve finished composing yourself, then we should head back.”
Bitter disappointment seethes in your stomach, but you manage a careless wave of your hand as you turn from him. “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m done with my temper tantrum. You’ll have to go back to the party without me. Otherwise I might be liable to embarrass you.”
“As you wish.” Sunday moves past you as you dig your hands into your outfit, slippery silk crushed in your hands. At the doorframe, he pauses. “Why haven’t you broken off our engagement, if you’re so unsatisfied?”
A memory surfaces of a shy little boy fluttering after you, hand reaching out to you. Back then, he wasn’t afraid, because he knew you would always, always take his hand. “Because it’s too much trouble, I suppose.”
“I see.” The door cracks open, letting in a swirl of light and laughter, and then he’s gone.
—
After your first meeting with Sunday, you and your mother rode home in a chauffeured car, sleekly winding through the streets of Penacony like a snake. You snuggled into her side, as content and satisfied as a kitten.
“What did you think of Sunday?” your mother said, glancing out the window, where Penacony was nothing more than a smear of a dream, bright colors running together.
“He’s cute! I like him a lot,” you said, giggling, as she ran a fond hand through your hair.
“That’s good. This may be a political marriage, darling, but it makes a world of a difference if you like the person you’re marrying.”
“Oh. If I said I didn’t like him, then does that mean we’d be unhappy?”
“I’m not sure,” your mother said. “It depends on the person. Even if you didn’t love each other, you could still be partners. There are different types of relationships.”
“Well,” you said, toying with the rings on her hands. Your own mother was cordial with your father, business partners. You were an asset, you knew, but in rare moments, she indulged you like this. “I want to like him, but even if he doesn’t like me, we’re going to be together forever, right? Then I just gotta do my best until he does.”
—
A few days after the party, a gift shows up at your door, packaged in sleek white paper, wrapped with a blue ribbon. You twine the ribbon around your finger as you rip the package open, revealing a gold necklace nestled in a little box.
There’s no note or address, not that you need one to know who it’s from.
You let the slinky chain run through your hands as you marvel at the craftsmanship, the solid weight to the gleaming gold. You press the necklace to your lips, a cold kiss, before you throw it onto your vanity, where it bounces carelessly onto the wood.
You want to stain Sunday’s heart, sink into him and mark him as deeply as he’s marked you. It’ll never be enough, not until you have him right where you want him: by your side, where leaving isn’t an option.
You’re tired of necklaces. For the next party, you don’t think you’ll wear any at all.
Zayne's eyes widen, caught, as he slowly sets the candy down. You shake your head as you mix the icing, handing him a broken gingerbread man.
"Here. You can eat this instead." He hums, inspecting the cookie missing a leg. You use this distraction to pour the icing into piping bags, setting them next to you as you arrange the pieces for the gingerbread house.
"These are clean margins for a transtibial amputation." Zayne remarks as he looks at the cookie.
"Well, maybe if I was a surgeon our schedules would line up better and we wouldn't be making this on Christmas eve." You pretend not to notice him sneaking a few gum drops from the bowl.
"Unlikely. Many of my coworkers are still working tonight." His foot bumps yours under the table, taking the piping bag from you to begin building the house.
"I'm glad you managed to get the night off. This wouldn't have been nearly as much fun without you." You don't admit you probably wouldn't have baked gingerbread at all, and you definitely wouldn't have been wearing matching Christmas pyjamas and drinking hot chocolate.
"I agree. I never saw the point in doing things like this before. Now, I see the appeal." He smiles just a little, and you can't help but lean in to kiss him.
"You taste like candy." You murmur against his mouth, pulling away to see the entirely not-guilty smile on his face.
"And you taste like gingerbread. It sounds like we're a perfect match."
Zayne has known he loved you since the day he met you.
He remembers it vividly. The rush of people in the hospital, the song playing through the speakers, the nervous, almost confused look in your eyes.
Of course, he hadn't known it was love then. He knows now, looking back at the memory. It was silly to believe in love at first sight and yet, there's no other name for it.
But that had been a childish kind of love, shown through refrozen popsicles and misshapen seals. The day Zayne realized he really loved you had come much later.
"Five more minutes?" You mumbled, still pressed into his side. He reaches over you to snooze your alarm, before brushing his thumb along your cheek.
"You said that ten minutes ago. If you don't get up now, you'll be late." He tries to untangle from you, but you only cling tighter.
"Who cares if I'm late? You're so warm and comfy..." You sigh, eyes still squeezed shut. He can feel the beat of your heart under his fingertips, the steady thumping calming something in him that never seems to relax unless you're near. Seeing the peaceful look on your face, the words slip out instantly.
"I love you."
He practically feels your heart skip a beat. Your eyes snap open, and he nearly jumps in surprise as you sit up all of the sudden.
"What?" There's pure disbelief in your eyes and it almost makes him laugh. He's sure you knew he loves you, just as he knows you love him. But of course, hearing it is different.
"I love you." He repeats again, quieter this time as he pulls you back down in bed. A smile starts to grow on your face, one so wide he just wants to kiss you. He will in a minute of course, but he wants to hear you say it back.
"I love you too." You murmur, winding your arms around his neck.
After a long day, you have a special routine of eating take out, taking a long, boiling shower, setting your phone on 'do not disturb' and passing out in your bed. It's your sacred alone time that you don't allow anyone to disturb.
Of course, there’s one person your ‘do not disturb’ setting doesn’t apply to.
“Zayne?” You answer, still half asleep and squinting at the too bright screen in front of your face.
“Hi.” He answers, though it almost sounds like a relieved exhale, as if he’s calling just to hear your voice.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Zayne takes sleep (your sleep in particular) very seriously, so you know he must have a reason for calling at such an hour.
“Nothing's wrong.” He states in a tone that sounds like a lie. It's the same tone he uses when you ask what happened to the ice cream you put in the freezer.
You’re already climbing out of bed, pulling a hoodie over your pyjama top. As much as you tease Zayne for knowing you better than you know yourself, it's a point of pride that you know him just as well.
"Are you at home?" You ask, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you hop into your socks. There's a silence, and then he answers.
"Yes." His voice is softer now, like he knows exactly what you're doing, as if he's watching you stumble down the stairs and out to your car.
Neither of you speak as you drive over, the route so familiar you could do it with your eyes closed. You don't hang up either, just listening to the quiet sounds of his breathing.
There's not a chance to use your key, the door swinging open the second you reach the threshold. A hand grasps your wrist, ice cold. It doesn't faze you, and neither does the brutally tight hug you're immediately wrapped in.
"You came." He whispers, so quiet the wind almost carries the words away. The door shuts behind you, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, too-big house.
You’re pretty sure you’re going to cry from exhaustion.
Every bone in your body aches. You don’t think you’ve ever been this tired in your entire life. But even now, every step towards your apartment only makes you feel worse.
You had left your place a mess. There’s bound to be stuff on every resting surface, which will only make sitting down that much more complicated.
Even worse, your fridge was bare. Ordering food was an option, but it’s likely your stomach will digest itself before it arrives. So, it was looking like sleep for dinner tonight.
The second you open the door, you do cry. Tears well at the sight of your formerly disastrous apartment is now neat and tidy. You can hear Zayne in the kitchen, and your feet unconsciously seek out the food you smell.
“Did you have a good-what’s wrong?” Zayne abandons the pot he’s stirring at the sight of your teary face, quickly reaching you. You melt into his embrace, sobbing.
You’re sure he’s confused and definitely worried, but all you can do is cry as you cling onto him.
When you finally manage to contain yourself, you tilt your head up to meet his concerned gaze.
“I love you.” You sniffle quietly, breathing in his cologne as you start to calm down. Understanding fills his eyes as he rubs your back soothingly.
“I love you too. I’ll take care of you now, okay?”
Mostly, it would be helpful to not have to wash your hair yourself. But also because the view was just...incredible. I mean really, how is it fair that a man with that big of a sweet tooth is in such incredible shape?
There was of course, the downsides of trying to agree on a temperature. Seriously, you knew Zayne liked it on the cooler size, but it felt like you were about to freeze to death.
You're about to beg to turn up the hot water just a little more when you hear a familiar crackle of ice. The small shower turns chilly, but before you can turn to see what's going on, a sharp pain flickers on your arm.
"Ow!" You gasp, looking to see what nicked you.
There's ice covering Zayne's arms, spreading along to his hands. But he's not focused on that. No, instead, his eyes are trained on the line of blood on your arm, slowly starting to drip downward.
"...Get out."
It's a soft plea, one your body aches to disobey. But you know Zayne. So you know he needs a minute, leaving you to quietly slip out of the freezing shower.
You're sitting on the bed when he comes out, dressed in his lounge wear, his hair still dripping. He says nothing. But the hesitant glance towards the bandage on your arm speak volumes.
"Are you alright?" You ask hesitantly, trying not to let too much worry seep through your tone. Still, his frown only deepens as he opens the drawer and pulls out his work clothes.
"I'm going to check on some patients. You should go to sleep without me." He gets dressed without looking at you, the knot in your throat growing by the second.
"But Zayne-" Finally, his eyes meet yours.
You almost wish they hadn't.
There's desperation in his eyes, one you've never seen before. He's begging you, pleading for you to just drop this, to let him go just for tonight. You know what he's thinking, as clear as if he's whispering the words in your ear. He can't be here right now, can't lie next to you with this bandage on your arm, can't shut his eyes without hearing the sound of your small body slumping to the ground all those years ago. So, as much as it pains you to do, you nod.
an incomplete list of things anaxagoras treasures, for a scholar must never forget that love is the other half of reason, and he is nothing if not dutiful:
-the humble dromas, countless in their virtues.
-fine tools made with intention and purpose. a good quill is a writer's most staunch ally.
-the way your eyebrows draw closer by a centimeter when you're deep in thought. your hand fidgets with the page of a book as you dwell on the thoughts it gives you. he likes seeing your mind work, in whatever way it is expressed through your body.
-his clever, hard-working sister, may she always know peace. when he sees the caprists at work with their animals, he sees her taming creatures with a patient hand.
-the tea, coffee, or fizzy horseradish vinegar that you bring him while he works. somehow his drinks always taste better when you're involved. he guesses it's because having you around is sweeter and more fleeting than any earthly flavor.
-how you sleep beside him so peacefully, trusting your bedmate to watch over you during your most vulnerable moment. anaxagoras knows that nothing lasts forever, as much as he would cherish this peace for an eternity, so he counts the seconds of your breaths over and over until his eye droops closed.
-your handwriting, whether neat or scrawling, which gives him insight into your myriad ideas. a note stuck into a book, a letter penned from far away, or an article you published in your field. he rereads these things, taking care to commit each detail to memory and comprehend your thoughts. "understanding" is also a part of love, and he prides himself on being the one who knows you best. he will not accept anything less.
-the miracle of meeting you. no, not a blessing wrought by uncaring gods, but one born from the smallest of odds converging to form the best possible outcome. that he should be alive at the same time as you, and your paths should have crossed at just the right time for the two of you to fall in love, is something he does not take for granted. he doesn't presume to wish for any more from this nonsensical world, but as he burns himself up in each life he lives, he also makes a promise that one day the two of you will have the sincere, unfettered happiness that you desire. it just won't be "this" anaxagoras, this fallible body that fails to follow you into the future. you will have to live for him.
-the heat of your soul, so all-consuming that he too must be drawn in, as a moth to a flame and heroes to their demise. anaxagoras smiles to himself thinking that perhaps it's you who will be his undoing, rather than time or violence. he would prefer it if his end came at the incidence of love, even if he doesn't say so.
-the perfect coincidence of a leaf falling into your hair as you walk by. a reminder that you are a part of this world, as a person who loves him, and not just an apparition born from the wishful thinking of a lunatic. he thinks his sister would like you too.
hi hiii its me againn!! you can ignore this one for now since you are already working on my previous idea but i didnt want to forget about this one so uh yes !!
imagine, that our dear Anaxa has been overworking himself lately which lead him to being really stressed. So we decide to take him the bathhouse(the private one ofc)!! Just a selfcare day for our lovely scholar where he can properly rest and of course, spend time with us(and then we can drown him in affection) <3
of course its up to you if you want to write it or not, i thought it was a cute idea so i wanted to share it :). if you decide to, take your time and do it when you are in the mood to ♡
have a lovely day !!
Bathhouse Remedy (Anaxa x Reader)
A/N: Hi again. :) Thank you so much for the request. I already told you I loved this premise, and writing it genuinely relaxed me too (which I apparently needed). Sorry for the wait. I hope all the affection and tenderness in this piece will make up for it. :)
Side note: I had “I’ll Take Care of You” by Beth Hart & Joe Bonamassa on repeat while writing this. It’s also one of my favorite tender songs (my dad actually recommended it to me years ago) and honestly, it fits the whole theme and mood so well. Just saying.
Enjoy! 💙
Tags: Fluff. Comfort. Established Relationship. Overworking (Anaxa). Exhaustion (Anaxa). Private Bathhouse. Gentle Care. Physical Affection. Hair Washing. Massage. Soft Intimacy. You Take Care of Him.
Word count: 1334
___
Anaxa doesn’t even notice how bad it’s gotten. But you do.
The way his sentences trail off mid-thought, ideas dissolving before he can capture them. The subtle tremor in the hand holding his pen. The stiff, locked tension in his shoulders that makes him look smaller somehow. The way he blinks too slowly, like his mind is running on emergency reserves and forcing his eye to stay open takes conscious effort.
He’s surrounded by open books, scattered quills, half-rolled scrolls, faintly smoking flasks that he’s forgotten to properly seal. A whole constellation of overwork orbiting around him, and he sits at the center like he doesn’t even see it anymore.
“Anaxagoras,” you say gently, touching his wrist.
He startles. Just barely. A small jolt that shouldn’t happen to someone this aware of his surroundings. That alone tells you everything.
“Beloved?” Anaxa asks, tone sharp from concentration but frayed badly at the edges.
You lift the notebook out of his hands with careful firmness.
He stares at the empty space where it was. Then at you. Then at the notebook in your hands, expression confused, almost affronted.
“…I was working.”
“I noticed,” you murmur. “And now you’re not.”
He opens his mouth. No doubt to argue, to explain in precise terms how he is perfectly fine, how his research is at a crucial juncture, how one more hour will make all the difference, how stopping now would be illogical…
He gets three syllables in.
Then stops.
Because his body betrays him. A flicker of dizziness passes over his face, followed by a slow exhale he didn’t mean to release, shoulders sagging slightly before he catches himself.
You take his hand, threading your fingers through his.
“Come with me,” you say simply.
He blinks, still processing. “Where?”
“The bathhouse. The private one.”
A beat of silence.
Then he blinks again, slower this time, like the words took a moment to register. “…Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
He hesitates—pride flickering visibly in his posture, in the way his spine straightens slightly, in the barely-there lift of his chin—but the moment you tighten your fingers around his, something in him yields.
“…Very well,” he murmurs. “If you insist.”
You do.
He doesn’t object again.
Inside the bathhouse, warm steam greets you immediately, coiling lazily around the stone walls and carved pillars. Soft lights flicker along the edges of the pool, throwing liquid gold across gently rippling water.
Anaxa stops at the edge, exhaling quietly as the heat wraps around him.
“It is warm,” he says softly, as if that surprises him. As if he’s forgotten what warmth without purpose feels like.
You step behind him and start undoing his robe with careful hands.
He tenses immediately. “Beloved, that’s…”
“Shh.” You kiss the back of his neck, right at the top of his spine. “Let me.”
The robe slides off his shoulders, revealing the line of his back and the tension still locked in his muscles. He breathes in sharply when your fingers trace down his spine. A featherlight touch that makes him shiver.
You guide him into the water with a hand on his arm.
The moment he sinks in, his entire body loosens like a puppet with cut strings. Shoulders drop. Muscles unclench. His head falls back against the smooth stone edge with a low, unguarded sigh that sounds almost pained in its relief.
“…oh,” Anaxa breathes.
It’s barely a word. More like the sound of something breaking open, tension flooding out all at once.
You slip into the water behind him, settling so he can lean fully against you, your legs bracketing his waist, your chest supporting his back.
When your fingers slide into his damp hair, he melts.
A visible shiver runs through him, head tilting back instinctively. His breath hitches audibly. His eye flutters shut, and his entire weight shifts backward into you without resistance, giving himself over completely.
“This is…” He pauses, voice soft and dazed, almost wondering. “More pleasant than I anticipated.”
“Good,” you whisper, massaging slow, firm circles into his scalp. “You needed it.”
He makes a quiet sound—something between a hum and a sigh—and you can feel the tension draining from him under your hands like water through a sieve. His breathing deepens, evens out. The furrow between his brows smooths.
You wash his hair carefully, methodically, pouring warm water over it and watching the stress slip away with each rinse, each gentle touch.
“You’re overworking yourself again,” you murmur, not accusatory. Just observant.
He sighs against your shoulder, breath warm on your damp skin. “I had obligations. Multiple experiments requiring precise timing. Papers to revise. And several lectures to prepare. I did not…” He pauses, swallowing. “…realize I was fraying.”
“I did.”
He inhales. A soft, shaky sound that catches slightly in his throat.
“…I should listen to you more often.”
“Yes,” you say sweetly, pressing a kiss to his temple.
He huffs a tired, fond laugh that sounds more like an exhale.
You glide your hands down to his shoulders, kneading gently at the knots you find there. He tenses at first—pure habit, body not used to relaxing—then melts into your touch with an unguarded exhale that borders on a groan.
His voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the gentle lapping of water.
“…I did not want to burden you with my exhaustion.”
Your fingers pause in their massage.
He doesn’t open his eye.
You lean forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You’re not a burden,” you murmur against his skin. “You never could be. Not to me.”
His breath catches. He tilts his head back slightly, resting it against your collarbone, water rippling gently around both of you. His hand finds yours under the water, fingers intertwining.
“…Your certainty is very…” He swallows. “…grounding.”
The admission sounds like it costs him something.
You kiss the side of his neck, slow and deliberate.
He shivers, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with temperature.
“Beloved,” he whispers, voice suddenly thin and unsteady. “If you continue that, I may fall asleep in this water.”
“Then sleep,” you murmur against his skin, kissing the spot just below his ear. “I’ll keep you safe.”
His hand reaches back blindly until it finds your thigh, fingers curling gently, gratefully, holding on.
“…you always do,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.
After the bath, you help him rise from the water, wrap him in a soft, warmed cloth, and guide him to sit while you dry his hair with patient, careful strokes.
Anaxa allows all of it. Quietly, like he’s not quite sure how he earned this tenderness but doesn’t want it to stop.
You kiss his temple.
His cheeks flush a soft, visible pink. “You’re very affectionate today,” he murmurs, voice warm, gaze not quite meeting yours.
“You needed affection today.”
He swallows, throat working visibly. And then…softly, almost under his breath, he mutters, “…I always need you.”
The confession hangs in the air between you, fragile and honest.
You take his hand and lead him to a secluded resting area nearby—cushions piled soft and inviting, a low couch draped in fabric, warm lamplight casting everything in amber.
He lies down immediately, no hesitation, head settling on your lap like he belongs there and nowhere else. His hands rest gently on your waist, thumbs tracing absent, unconscious patterns against your hip.
You stroke his hair, fingers combing through the damp strands slowly, repetitively, soothingly.
He sighs. Long, content, and utterly undone.
“Stay,” Anaxa mutters, eye already drifting close. “Just like this.”
You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle and lingering.
“As long as you want.”
He hums softly. A sound of complete contentment.
“Then…” His fingers curl in your clothing, holding you close even as sleep pulls at him. “…forever.”
And he falls asleep with his head in your lap, completely unguarded for once, the ever-turning wheels of his mind finally, blissfully still.
At peace.
___
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)
I miss him… More Anaxagoras to follow shortly (you know me).
It's so important to me that Amphoreus is a story about and sustained by love that chooses self-love - the ego - as its final conclusion and starting point. Phainon, whose deep love for others was the fuel for a destructive hatred, stepping into the epilogue having let go of that obsession and slowly beginning to nurture wishes that are finally his own. Cyrene, fractured into shattered memories, finding hope in telling a story that she loved to herself and in doing so, allowing herself to fall in love with the forgotten storyteller in turn. When they learned how to extend that boundless love to themselves, they disproved the Scepter's answer to the prime mover of life - not hatred, not destruction, not lament nor sorrow. A being who was made to embody hatred found peace in letting go of his rage and despair. A being whose essence was lament found beauty in partings and endings.
Amphoreus is a story that loves itself, and asks you to love it in turn. It's a story that loves you, and asks you to love yourself in turn.
phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him
word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell
before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark out) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell of any errors
commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig
You meet Phainon when he’s twelve.
You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.
You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough.
But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby.
The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older.
It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”
The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”
Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air.
You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.
This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself.
Except…nothing happens.
The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”
And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you.
And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea.
“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.
“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe.
“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”
He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind.
“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”
“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”
“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust.
“And I’m going home,” you say flatly.
You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)
But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”
“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.
“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”
“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”
He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.
(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)
— — — — — — — — — —
Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore.
(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore.
Still, he always does in front of you.
Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)
It happens on a Friday night.
You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited.
Until you’re not.
You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do.
It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there.
It guts you.
You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)
In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )
You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon.
“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”
“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”
He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text.
But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”
“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”
“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”
“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”
“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”
He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that.
“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”
“Then don’t,” he offers.
You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.
“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”
“Are you buying?” you perk up.
He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”
You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.
He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his.
“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.
“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”
“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.
He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”
“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”
“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”
“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)
“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”
“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”
“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.
You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh.
Your eyes widen as you realize.
Oh.
Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over.
There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.
“Yo, what the fuck—”
“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)
“Who the hell are you—”
“What’s your fucking problem man—”
“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)
Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means.
But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily.
Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange.
Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face.
“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”
“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”
He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”
“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”
“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)
“You’re still a crybaby!”
“Am not!”
“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)
He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”
“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.
“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore.
But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature.
But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away.
“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”
He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”
You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”
(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)
— — — — — — — — — —
You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it.
You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)
It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon.
“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)
“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.
“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”
“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”
“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.
“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share.
He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes.
Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different.
“What?” you ask.
Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”
You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.
His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his.
“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.
You don’t ask what he means. You already know.
It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now.
You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him.
“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”
“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”
It won’t.
It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.
“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”
“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.
And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on.
He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders.
“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”
“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.
“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly.
“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”
You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)
“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”
“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease.
“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”
“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”
He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)
“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”
“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”
He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”
“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.
Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever.
His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him.
“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”
“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”
“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.
“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”
“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”
He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”
“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”
With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give.
He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears.
“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.
He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”
You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”
“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”
You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound.
It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that.
Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.
“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.
“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you.
He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm.
“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.
“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”
“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”
It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of.
“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.
“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers.
He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”
“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you.
“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”
“Good,” he hums.
His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.
“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”
“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”
“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”
He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.)
“When did they change for you?”
“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”
“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”
“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin.
He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.
You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”
His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.
“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”
And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it.
“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”
“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”
He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp.
He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily.
“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it.
He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”
You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady.
“Is this okay?” you whisper.
“More than okay,” he says, voice strained.
“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again.
It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion.
“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…”
He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”
“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one.
(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before.
Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you.
The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.)
It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.
“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.
“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this.
This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him.
“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”
With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon.
“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”
Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need.
“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”
“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls.
“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.
“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace.
It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly.
“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”
“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”
“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit.
Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.
He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak.
When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.
“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.
“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”
“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”
You snort. “Is that why you cried?”
He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”
“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.
“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”
“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”
“Yeah?” he beams.
“Yeah,” you grin.
(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)
— — — — — — — — — —
You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants.
He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.
And then it rains.
It rains hard.
You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it.
You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water.
He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.
“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”
He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder.
This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you.
And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life.
“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”
“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out.
“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.
But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.
So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching.
You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand.
“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks.
You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed.
Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you.
Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.
It’s that simple. It always was.
He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”
“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”
He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently.
“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”
You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you.
You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three.
“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”
“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little.
“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy.
And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you.
“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”
You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”
“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”
“Still you,” you snort.
He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.
“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”
“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”
(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)
well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me
imagine, prof naxa with a reader who's so indecisive yhat they dont know whether they should confess, or like, drop hints, avoid him, or the secret fourth option🤫 and naxa's just "what am i gonna do with you.." and just, grabs the confession from reader's mind🙊
THANK YOUUU I REALLY LIKED YOUR REPLY TO MY PREV ASK TOOO🎉
-❄️ Anon
Chaotic Confession Protocol (Or: “What Am I Going To Do With You?“) (Anaxa x Reader)
A/N: Hi again ❄️ anon. :) I‘m so glad you enjoyed After the Quiet. :) And thank you so much for this request, your idea was so much fun. :) I couldn‘t stop giggling the entire time I was writing this. :D I hope you enjoy how it turned out. :)
Tags: Pining. First Kiss. Chaotic Reader. Confessions. Fondly Exasperated Anaxa. Anaxa Notices Everything.
Word count: 1769
It starts with your indecision. Or rather—it starts with Anaxa noticing your indecision.
Because of course he notices.
He notices everything.
Week One:
You walk into his lab with a question, forget it the moment he looks up, and leave without saying a word.
He watches you go, eye narrowed slightly, but says nothing.
Week Two:
You bring him tea he didn’t ask for. Set it down. Stare at him for approximately seven seconds. Leave.
“…Peculiar,” Anaxa mutters to the empty room.
Week Three:
You hover in his doorway for a full minute, open your mouth three separate times as if to speak, then flee like the Titans themselves are chasing you.
Anaxa sets down his pen very carefully.
Tilts his head.
“Interesting,” he says to no one.
Week Four:
You’re standing beside him as he works, and your behavior has reached what he can only classify as “statistically anomalous levels of agitation.”
You’ve handed him notes he didn’t request. Explained things he already knows. Rearranged the objects on his desk twice—no, three times now—with the nervous energy of someone preparing for something they haven’t decided to do yet.
Your hands are shaking slightly. Your breathing is elevated. You keep starting sentences and abandoning them mid-word.
Anaxa has been observing this pattern for twenty-three minutes.
He’s been observing you for significantly longer than that, but he’s trying not to examine why too closely.
“You’re agitated,” he says finally, not looking up from his work.
“I’m not,” you lie.
Badly.
“You are,” he replies, tone flat. “In fact, I would estimate your current agitation at approximately 73% higher than your established baseline.”
You go very still. “You… have a baseline for me?”
He glances up, and the look he gives you can only be described as obviously, don’t be ridiculous.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful in your chest.
You turn away quickly. “I’m not agitated.”
“You’re perspiring.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“The ambient temperature is adequate,” he says. “A regulated environment I calibrated myself. Your perspiration is not environmental in origin.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Your stomach flips.
Your mouth opens and—
“I— I— I—”
Nothing comes out.
Anaxa closes the ledger he was annotating. Calmly. Deliberately. The sound of parchment meeting wood is unnaturally loud in the quiet.
Then he turns in his chair to face you fully.
“Tell me what is wrong.”
“Nothing!”
His eye narrows in that particular way it does when someone is lying and doing it poorly. “Your vocal pitch increased by approximately half an octave. Your pupils are dilated despite adequate lighting. Your hands—” he gestures, “—have been fidgeting with that pen for the past four minutes without writing a single word.”
“I’m just—”
“You’ve visited my lab numerous times in the past month,” he continues, voice taking on that analytical quality that means he’s been thinking about this. “Each visit following a similar pattern: approach, hesitation, retreat. Your behavior suggests intent without execution. A decision unmade. Or rather—” his gaze sharpens, “—multiple decisions, all contradicting each other.”
You can’t breathe.
“Furthermore,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to your internal collapse, “you’ve been avoiding direct eye contact for approximately two weeks, which is notable given your previous patterns of—”
You can’t take it.
You can’t take him.
You can’t take that sharp gaze dissecting you while your heart tries to escape through your ribs and your brain screams at you to do something—
You grab the front of his robes and kiss him.
It’s not elegant.
It’s not coordinated.
It’s not even remotely planned.
It’s pure instinct. Panic. Desperation. A confession in motion because your words keep failing you and your body has apparently decided to take over.
For one endless, terrifying moment, Anaxa goes absolutely, spectacularly still.
You can feel his sharp intake of breath against your mouth. Feel the way his entire body has frozen, tense with surprise. Feel the moment his brain catches up to what’s happening—
Then, slowly—incredulously—his hands rise to rest at your waist.
Tentative.
Uncertain.
So utterly unlike him that it makes the world tilt sideways.
His fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your clothes, not pulling you closer but not pushing away either. Just holding, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves wrong.
You pull back only when you remember you need to breathe.
His eye is wide. Wider than you’ve ever seen it. His lips are parted, still slightly wet from the kiss. His hair—his stupidly pretty seafoam hair—is mussed where your fingers tangled in it without permission.
He looks… undone.
By you.
By this.
By the realization that the hypothesis he’s been trying not to confirm has just kissed him senseless in his own study.
For several long seconds, neither of you moves.
Then he exhales. Long and quiet and almost wondering.
“…What,” he says softly, voice gone rough at the edges, “am I going to do with you?”
Your knees stop working entirely.
“I— I didn’t mean— I mean I meant— I mean—”
“Clearly,” Anaxa murmurs, and one hand rises to brush his thumb across your cheek with gentleness, “verbal articulation is not your strong suit at the moment.”
“I was trying to tell you,” you manage. “Differently. But I kept— I don’t know— panicking every time I tried.”
“Yes,” he says with the weary fondness of someone who has gotten used to your particular brand of chaos. “I noticed.”
You want to sink into the floor and never emerge.
Instead, Anaxa looks at you thoughtfully. Almost tenderly, which is somehow worse for your composure than his usual analytical stare.
“If you cannot tell me with words,” Anaxa says slowly, fingers lifting toward your temple, “then perhaps I should simply extract the information directly.”
“What are you—”
“Attempting telepathy.” He says it so seriously you almost believe him. “If I can theorize complex alchemy, surely I can succeed at reading thoughts.”
“You can’t do that,” you say breathlessly. “It’s impossible.”
“I’ve achieved several things that were deemed impossible.” His fingertips brush your temple, feather-light, and you shiver. “Hearing your thoughts should be…comparatively simple.”
A smile tugs at his lips. Small and teasing.
You can barely think. His touch makes you nervous. His closeness makes your head dizzy. It feels so good to be near him like this, to see him looking at you with something other than analytical detachment. You still remember the taste of his lips. The way he’d gone so still and then so careful. You want more of it. You can’t hide anymore.
“I’m in love with you,” you blurt before you can change your mind for the eighteen hundredth time.
Anaxa inhales sharply.
His hand freezes at your temple. His eye widens again, and you watch several emotions flicker across his face too quickly to name—surprise, confusion, something that looks almost like relief—
“Ah,” he breathes finally. “So it was that.”
You want to hide. To flee. To sink into the ground and never face him again.
But then he cups your face with both hands, and the gesture is so tender it steals whatever protest you were forming.
“For future reference,” he says, voice warm and maddening and far too composed for someone whose cheeks are visibly red, “simply telling me would have been more efficient.”
“I tried—”
“Yes. Disastrously.” But there’s no sting in it. Just fond exasperation and something softer underneath. “Seventeen failed attempts.”
“You were counting?”
“Of course I was counting.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like keeping track of every time you’ve approached and retreated is a perfectly normal thing to do. “I’ve been attempting to determine the cause of your behavior for weeks. The variables were… frustratingly unclear.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he says quietly, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones, “the information makes significantly more sense.”
His gaze drops to your mouth, and your breath catches.
“Though I must admit,” Anaxa continues, voice dropping lower, “your approach was highly unorthodox.”
“I panicked.”
“Clearly.” But he’s smiling now. Small and real and unmistakably fond. “Next time you wish to confess something…”
He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips.
“…either use your words like you just did…”
Closer still.
“…or simply do what you did before.”
And then he kisses you.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Thoroughly.
Not the desperate panic-kiss you’d given him, but something more intentional. Something that feels like a response, like reciprocation, like yes, I understand now, and yes, I feel the same.
His hand slides into your hair, angling your head just so. The other stays at your waist, pulling you incrementally closer until there’s no space left between you.
When he finally pulls back—far too soon and exactly when you need air—you notice warmth and satisfaction in his gaze.
“Now,” Anaxa says, voice slightly rougher than usual, “stay close. Right here.”
You do, because your legs aren’t working anyway.
“Very good,” Anaxa murmurs, and you can see him fighting back a broader smile. His thumb traces your lower lip, gentle and possessive all at once. “And for the record—in case this was somehow unclear—the feelings are mutual.”
Your face goes hot.
He’s smiling now—properly smiling, the kind of expression you’ve rarely seen on him. Soft and genuine and directed entirely at you.
“Though I do hope,” he adds, settling back slightly but keeping you within reach, “that future confessions will involve less chaos and more coherent sentences.”
“I make no promises.”
“Somehow,” he says dryly, pulling you down into his lap with familiar confidence, “I enjoy the thought unreasonably so.”
You let yourself lean against him, and his arms come around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Anaxagoras?”
“Mm?”
“You really kept a baseline of my behavior?”
“Obviously.” He presses a kiss to your temple. “I keep detailed observations of anything I find significant in my notebooks.”
“Am I significant?”
“Naturally.” He says it matter-of-factly, like there is no doubt about it. “You’ve disrupted my research, occupied my thoughts during lectures with alarming frequency, and caused me to question several long-held hypotheses about my own emotional capacity.”
“Is that… good?”
“It’s terrifying,” he admits. Then, softer, he murmurs, “But yes. It’s very good.”
You smile against his shoulder, and feel him hold you just a little tighter.
“What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs again, but this time it sounds less like exasperation and more like affection.
“Love me?” you suggest.
Anaxa goes quiet for a moment.
“Yes,” he says simply. “I will.”
And in the end, that’s the only conclusion that matters.
___
A/N: Fondly exasperated Anaxa is one of my favorite Anaxa flavors now. :D Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. :) More Anaxa to follow shortly (but what else is new). :)
MASTERLIST.
Wc: 21.8k+ (woops)
Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.
Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji).
Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!
CHAPTER I
You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul.
But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.
You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner.
Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?
You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here.
It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.
Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide.
Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.
“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”
Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light.
From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones.
The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.
When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine.
It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure.
“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.
That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders.
You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.
You tried. You really did.
Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come.
But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.
Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity.
Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols.
You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind.
You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.
You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times.
Then, light emerged from below you.
A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred.
You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.
The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.
There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.
You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.
That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats.
Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered.
You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”
You weren’t sure if you believed it.
As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.
When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.
The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.
The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.
“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.”
You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here.
You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.
You even tried to make yourself look pretty.
You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?
Right?
You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?
You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?
You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.
Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.
Minutes passed.
Then hours,
The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.
Still, he did not come.
You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you.
When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.
Was it supposed to be like this?
You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.
But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest.
Were you not worthy of his presence?
Had you done something wrong?
A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.
Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?
Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.
After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.
The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”
That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”
You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice.
The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.
You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.
Hesitantly, you spoke.
“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued.
“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.
“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”
You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.
Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.
Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less.
Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.
You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls.
Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.
Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside.
The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.
It had been a long time since you’d last visited.
You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.
You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.
But it wasn’t the same.
The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.
You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.
You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.
You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?
You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.
You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.
You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night.
You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom.
A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.
Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.
Has he… abandoned me?
You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.
CHAPTER II
You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.
The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.
You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now.
So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.
“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…”
The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.
The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.
As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.
As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.
“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”
Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea.
Your footsteps slowed to a halt.
You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air.
You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.
But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.
For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances.
It wasn’t worth it.
Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.
What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?
Your heart skipped.
Could you even do that?
It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore.
You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.
Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take.
With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
This temple was built like a damn fortress!
Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest.
Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple.
You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone.
When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.
They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed.
After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching.
But then you saw it.
Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned.
It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something.
Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.
If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.
You would need luck. Even divine intervention.
The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?
You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?
You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god.
You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.
But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.
Or straight into a trap.
You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face.
Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.
You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.
It was almost suspicious, even.
You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.
With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.
Now.
You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.
You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.
For the first time in months, you felt free.
The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded.
Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration.
You were finally here.
You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.
Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.
“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”
Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”
You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”
She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”
“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.
Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”
“Of course,” you said with a grin.
Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.
The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.
He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.
“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.
“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.
You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.
“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.
He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”
“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.
His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.
Your bag. A rustle.
You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.
“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.
You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.
A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.
“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”
He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.
The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.
You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.
He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.
Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”
You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…
You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.
You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”
He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”
“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.
He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”
The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.
You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.
Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.
“Thank you, pretty lady.”
You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.
The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.
Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.
You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”
He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”
You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”
You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.
Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”
Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”
Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.
You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”
Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”
Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”
You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”
She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”
You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.
“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”
She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”
You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind.
“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”
You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”
He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”
You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”
Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.
“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.
You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”
He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”
“...Alright.”
The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face.
Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.
You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”
An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.
“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”
“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.
“I never told you my name, did I—?”
But he was gone.
The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.
Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.
Maybe you would see him again.
CHAPTER III
Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.
You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.
That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.
…Were those snores?
Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?
But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through.
There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.
Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it?
You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.
They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.
You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.
The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps.
Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!
For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber.
You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.
Sleep came quickly that night.
The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.
You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder.
“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”
Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced.
You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed.
You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.
The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.
“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”
Your breath caught. Then you blinked.
What.
“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”
“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”
You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.
“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”
Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”
The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”
You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”
“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”
Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.
“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”
You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.
“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked.
You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.
“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.
Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!
“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied.
He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”
You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.
You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”
“Yes?”
You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”
He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”
The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”
You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…
Why won’t he speak to me?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it.
You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue.
Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.
You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.
“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile.
He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades.
The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled.
And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.
You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.
“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”
Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.
“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”
You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.
Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.
“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.
You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.
Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.
You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.
Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.
You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.”
Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”
You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.
Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it.
You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.
And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…
But guilt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.
The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.
Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.
Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.
Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.
Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.
Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.
If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned.
Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.
When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf.
You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—
“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”
You froze.
“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.
“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”
“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”
Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others.
Just… before you came.
You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”
“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.
He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”
You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”
The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”
You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more.
You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.
Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.
You ran.
You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.
You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.
Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs.
You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone.
The months of hoping for something — anything.
“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”
She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”
Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”
You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”
“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”
“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”
You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you.
“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”
You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.
Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar.
But eventually, the moment had to end.
You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.
“I love you, too, mother.”
You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now.
You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.
“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance.
You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.
You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.
CHAPTER IV
The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.
The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his.
Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened.
With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.
Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.
His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.
“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began.
The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.
“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”
Ah. That exchange..
“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.
“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”
Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered.
“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”
The Archbishop remained silent.
“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”
“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.
“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The wedding day arrived.
Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.
You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.
And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.
Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.
He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon.
As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed.
As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.
His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?
He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?
That was his first mistake.
“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”
Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”
A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”
Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.
And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed.
That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below.
On you.
There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.
Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious.
Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.
Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.
He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves.
“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.
“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.
Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”
He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”
His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea.
“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”
Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”
He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”
She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps.
He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone.
He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.
He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.
You were… fragile.
He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?
He withdrew.
Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.
He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised.
And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.
He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.
It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection.
You began to whisper your loneliness.
At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.
But then, he noticed something… odd.
Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.
Suspicious. Curious. Restless.
Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.
And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost.
Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.
Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.
Then came the night of your escape.
Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.
With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.
There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.
But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.
Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.
He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.
“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.
Then you looked at him expectantly.
Oh. You were waiting for a name.
He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.
Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.
He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—
“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”
He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”
“Then I'll insist.”
There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?
So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.
His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.
Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.
“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.
Your cheeks turned crimson.
Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.
He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.
He wanted more of that.
But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family.
After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.
But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks.
“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”
His brows knit together. Him? Strict?
“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.
You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.
“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”
Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.
“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.
“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
The words landed like a stone in his stomach.
When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.
The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.
He owed you that much, at the very least.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.
You had begun to bloom.
Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar.
You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.
It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.
Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.
Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.
What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?
But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.
He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.
You still remembered him.
Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.
After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.
It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.
Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.
He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.
And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.
You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.
You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.
You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared.
He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain.
To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.
But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.
A stranger.
That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?
No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.
When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.
When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.
He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.
The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.
Until he heard your sobs.
At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.
Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.
It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable.
Then, loud sobbing.
Phainon stilled.
His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.
“What's the matter—?”
But Phainon was already gone.
He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.
“I hate him!”
He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.
“I hate him.”
No.
No, no, that can’t be right.
He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.
Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”
The air around him cracked.
“I hate him!”
His heart stuttered.
“I hate him!”
Stop... please—
“He left me!”
No. No. I’m right here–!
“I don’t want to go back!”
That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.
I hate him.
He left me.
I don’t want to go back.
He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.
The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.
Why?
Why did you feel this way?
He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.
So why did you hate him?
He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.
Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.
The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.
It was all because of him.
Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.
And he didn’t understand.
Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.
This... this was heartbreak.
Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.
“You hate… me…” he whispered.
You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.
He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.
Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations.
High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.
But this one had become… excessive.
Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge.
A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.
Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.
She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Without another word, she vanished from her realm.
In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way.
And there he was.
At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.
Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.
No response.
She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”
Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.
Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”
Still silence.
Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.
“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”
At last, his jaw shifted.
“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.
“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”
She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below.
“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”
Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.
“She said she hated me.”
Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”
“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”
“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”
His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.
“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”
“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”
“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.
Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.
“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”
Khaslana looked away.
“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”
Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”
The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling.
“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.
“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”
“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”
“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”
Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”
Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”
He was quiet. Then, softly:
“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”
His claws curled against his palm.
“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”
Aglaea was silent for a long breath.
Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”
Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.
“She hates me.”
“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.
He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”
But Aglaea only stepped closer.
“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”
She stepped back.
“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”
And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed.
For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day.
You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal.
Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening.
Then came a knock at your door.
You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed.
“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.
You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.
“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him.
He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence.
He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled.
“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”
Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders.
“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.
The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”
You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.
“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”
His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”
You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”
The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his.
“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it.
You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”
He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said.
Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.
You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him?
You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger.
You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was useless.
No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.
How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!
You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach.
You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates.
The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you.
Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky. The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step.
But you pushed through it anyway.
Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.
By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier.
“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came.
The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.
“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”
Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.
“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.
“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.
“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster.
A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.
A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.
He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.
Radiant and terrifying.
Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.
His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.
You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.
You dared a glance upward.
He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.
With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.
“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”
Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.
“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,
The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out.
“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”
Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”
“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”
Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.
“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”
“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”
And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.
Phainon stood before you.
You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”
He frowned, looking away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”
“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”
“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”
“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”
“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.
“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”
His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”
Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.
You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”
You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”
Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.
“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”
Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.
It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.
Then another fell. And another.
You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.
His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared.
You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything.
You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke.
“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”
A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.
His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield.
“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”
“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours.
“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”
His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”
Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”
“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”
You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.
“I see…” You murmured.
Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”
You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”
Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.
Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”
You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”
Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.
He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake?
But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.
You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”
His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.
When he looked up, he smiled.
“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.
You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”
CHAPTER V
When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.
You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.
“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”
And with that, he vanished.
Just like that.
You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.
No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.
Still…
You sneezed again—sharper this time.
You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers.
Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.
Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.
You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.
Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.
After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed.
“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”
His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”
Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”
And so you talked. For hours.
The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.
Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then.
You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.
In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.
Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun.
He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.
He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.
Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”
There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.
Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.
Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual.
Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”
His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.
You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.
You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.
“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.
Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.
“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”
“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”
Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest.
You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”
His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”
You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”
He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.
He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.
“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.
You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.
“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”
He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.
Phainon froze.
He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”
He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.
“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.
Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.
“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.
So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter.
You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.
He chuckled.
You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.
“My turn.”
In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.
You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.
His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again.
You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was different now.
Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.
Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear.
He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.
Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.
And then, he bites.
It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended.
But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.
“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.
“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.
He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, It’s—”
“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.
“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”
For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.
“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”
In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.
Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath.
There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.
“Better?” he asked softly.
Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.
Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.
He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.
You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.
Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.
Phainon noticed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.
You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”
His frown deepened. “Why?”
You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”
Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.
“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained.
Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”
He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.
He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you.
“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.
“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.
You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…”
“More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer.
“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.
Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you.
“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.
“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.
“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions.
He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head.
“Okay… you can go a little faster.”
With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.
You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.
But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure.
With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.
As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.
“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.
You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.
“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.
You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.
He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.
Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.
Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before.
As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.
Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.
You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”
His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking.
With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you.
His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.
But not this morning.
This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.
You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.
Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.
And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.
His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.
Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.
From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.
“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.
“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.
You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation.
The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen.
You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.
in which: you shouldn't have taken the vacant spot next to phainon, should have turned around before you could fall for his bright demeanour (but he would chase after you with double the fervour).
warnings: gn!reader, no pronouns used, modern!uni!au, hyacine and reader are roomies, making out, very suggestive but nothing explicit, grinding T^T, reader and phainon both down bad, alcohol tw, drunk!phainon, horror movies and reader is bad with violent stuff. lots of dialogue.
a/n: no beta bc i don't wanna read this another time, and just wanted to get this out of my darn drafts. m'kay, love you, take care <3
Hyacine is a perfect roommate.
She's clean, always tidying after herself and conscious about where her things are. She's got an amazing personality, all bubbly and positive, yet diligent enough to stay on top of her studies and budgeting properly to never rant to you about financial troubles, or try to pinch some money off you. She's responsible, a great friend that you can talk freely with, and overall, you think you won the roommate lottery with her.
What does not help, however, is that her friends are all really hot.
You meet them all one day without warning, coming home from a long day at the library to see the group of the prettiest people you have ever met, all relaxing in your living room.
While they all looked like models off-duty, you were like a deer in the headlights. Your hair was slightly tangled from how much you ran your hand through it, your headphones were halfway from falling off your head, and your arms were loaded with study materials.
"Y/n!" Hyacine exclaims. "Welcome home!"
"Hey," you mutter as she skips over to you. "Who are these people?"
"You didn't see my text?"
"No, I've been on 'do not disturb' all day, I'm sorry. What did you need to tell me?"
"I asked if it was okay for my friends and I to have a movie night here."
You hang your keys on its holder and drop your bag to your feet, using your free hand to notch your headphones to your neck. "Oh, yeah, I don't mind." You turn to the bunch on the couch with a small wave. "Hi everyone, I'm Y/n."
Hyacine introduces them all. Castorice, who had a gentle demeanour, smiled and spoke softly. Mydei, who slightly intimidated you with his naturally stern expression. Cipher, who seemed to always be up to no good with her sly, yet deceivingly innocent mannerisms, an ever-present purr in her voice.
Phainon, who was dead set on ruining your life for the rest of the year.
Well, maybe not literally. He was one of the kindest people you have ever met, so sweet that it could give you cavities, and the way he beamed so brightly blinded you every time he smiled. When he introduced himself in a carefree, bubbly manner, you had no idea you'd fall into such a deep rabbit hole of delusions and chasing moments.
You should have slept the night at the library instead of come home that day.
When introductions were out of the way, you grabbed your bag, ready to return to your room and stay there for the night. "Nice to meet you all. Have fun-"
"Don't you want to join us?" Phainon chirps. His invitation catches you by surprise, but no one protests. Instead, they all look at you expectantly.
"Oh no, I'd hate to impose."
"Don't be silly!" Hyacine reassures. "You're not imposing on anyone, besides, you've been studying all day, it's time for a break!"
"Are you sure?"
"Positive!"
"I haven't had dinner yet."
"Neither have any of us, we were thinking of ordering some takeout."
You shrug, "you know what, I'm down. Let me put my things down first."
When you return, you take the vacant spot beside Phainon on the loveseat, sinking into the cushions as you sit with your knees up.
"What movie are we watching?" You ask the white-haired.
"Some thriller that Mydei and Cipher have been wanting to watch for a while."
You sink back slightly, a grimace on your face. "Thriller? Is it violent?"
"It's only rated M. Why? Don't do well with gorey things?" You shake your head. "Don't worry, I'll protect you!"
"Protect me?"
"I'm really good at lightening the mood."
"My knight in shining armour," you say sarcastically. He simply flexes his clothed arm, dopey smile on that handsome face of his.
Throughout the movie, he's the most vocal, never keeping his opinions to himself. Cyrene and Mydei both tease him the most for it, while you simply make noises of agreement, nodding and agreeing, or fanning the flames even more.
"Oh, he's gonna be right behind them, isn't he?" Phainon murmurs, hand perched under his chin.
"Nah, probably gonna be in front of them," you mumble, just in time before a jump scare that proves you correct, a sudden crescendo in the music causing most of you to jump.
"Titans," he curses and you flinch, closing your eyes just before a brutal scene, simulatenously hiding the screen with your raised knees. When the grotesque sounds stop and the music quiets, Phainon taps your leg. "You can look now, it's fine."
"You sure? 'Cause if you're lying I'm gonna be mad."
"Promise."
True to his word, the scene is over when you look back. He gives you this reassuring smile and a double thumbs up, and the fleeting skip of your heart was more terrifying than any gruesome scene from some movie could be.
That was when you realised you should have brushed off the invitation instead of accepting the spot beside Phainon on the loveseat, because you would never have anticipated the budding feelings you'd leave that night with.
But how could you help it? He was so eager to talk to you, blue eyes fixated on your face and listening attentively whether you were talking about yourself or some abstract topic. He had this uncanny talent to know exactly what to say or how to make you laugh, so charming in his speech and mannerisms.
It didn't help that he was also really cute. Features illuminated in all the right way by the light from the screen.
You should have bailed as soon as the movie finished, excused yourself before you inevitably fell down a deeper rabbit hole, yet no part of you makes a move, even as takeout is ordered. In fact, you stay snug on that couch, right next to Phainon, comfortably spending time with the group until the night grows late.
Before he leaves, he asks for your social media, smoothly handing you his phone.
You should have lied and said you don't have an account, because you would have never anticipated staying up late just to chat with him more that night. The first thing he does is send you a photo of his dog, Snowy, as promised earlier. How it snowballed to a myriad of other topics? You don't know.
Talking to him was easy, the time and effort it takes to keep a conversation going is spent on trying not to laugh so loud that it disrupts a bustling train. It's spent snickering behind your hand while Hyacine is making lunch, quietly hoping she won't ask what's making you so giddy.
You find yourself secretly hoping that he's already at home, leaning over the kitchen counter to greet you with that genuine, boyish smile. Then you'd pretend like your heart wasn't thundering while taking your shoes off and placing your keys in the small ceramic tray Hyacine picked up from a local market.
Your wishes would come true more often than not.
Given how close you lived to campus, the group would relax and nap on your sofa during breaks between class. Sometimes, Cipher would just spend the night there before going for her 12pm the next day, sprawled out on the cushions like she paid rent.
The proximity, however, also meant that Phainon would be a frequent guest, too.
He'd text you whenever he was coming over, his voice chirp as he asked if it would be okay for him to intrude. ('Please, intrude for as long as you'd like', is what you'd like to say, but most times you just opt for a conventional 'of course'. You don't know when he began calling you instead of Hyacine for permission, but when you're out and tell him to ask her instead, he just hums flippantly before asking when you'd be back, and you really have to swallow your embarrassment after stammering a pathetic 't-three pm'. )
Like now, as you ring him in and wait near the door for him, unlocking it as soon as you hear his knocks.
"Hey!" He exclaims as soon as he sees you, striding in.
"Hey, Phai, you look nice," you compliment.
"Thanks!" He beams, "I'm seeing a friend today for dinner, we haven't seen each other in a while so might as well put some thought into my outfit. Otherwise, she'd grill me like a hog over a fire."
You chuckle, "who's your friend?"
"Her name's Cyrene. I've known her since we were in diapers."
"Wow, that's impressive."
"You should meet her! I think you'd get along quite well- actually, she's throwing a house party in two weeks, come along then!"
You can't hide the scrunch of your nose. A party sounds fun, sure, but in two weeks? Your final submissions for multiple units will be due then, and you'd rather spend the time studying then spend it at a party where you knew no one. Well, maybe apart from Phainon. "Maybe…"
"C'mon, it'll be super fun, trust me!"
"I'll think about it. So why are you here?"
"Trying to kick me out?"
"Me? Never," you try your best to sound indifferent, flopping onto the couch with one leg crossed under the other. "No one I'd rather have crash at my place."
He raises a brow before sitting down beside you.
"Better than Cipher who probably spends more nights here than at hers," you shrug. "Do you wanna watch something?"
"Nah, lets just talk before I have to go in an hour."
"An hour? You're having dinner this early?"
"We both like early dinners, good for your digestion."
"That makes sense. You didn't answer my question yet, by the way. You don't have class today, so why'd you make a stop at mine before having to go to dinner? Isn't that just extra hassle?"
"Is it a crime that I want to talk to you?"
Your heart stops for a moment. He said it so easily, yet his tone was sincere, almost gentle. "I-I guess not. So, how was your day?"
Even after diverting the conversation, your mind still lingers on his words, your traitorous heart still thundering as you prepare some drinks. When he leaves, bringing you into a tight embrace that presses your nose to where he spritzes his cologne, you become so flustered that you need a moment to calm the thrum through your nerves.
What was his problem? What was your problem, letting Phainon affect you like this? You feel so… helpless, yet, you still want more. You want him.
No- no, the next time he shows up at your door, you won't let him in.
"It's open!" You call into the buzzer, hearing Phainon exclaim a chipper 'thanks!' before disappearing from the comm. You wait by the door, fixing your appearance in the hallway mirror, waiting for him to knock.
And when he does, you open it a little too quickly for your liking.
"Hey!" His smile fades into something smaller when he notices you're in pajamas, reading glasses hanging off your nose. "So, you've decided to not come tonight?"
You sit down on the couch, Phainon following suit. "To Cyrene's? No, I'm still suffering under all these final submissions."
"Oh," his eyebrows furrow, subtle disappointment lining the creases in his forehead. "I get that, but you shouldn't overwork yourself, you know?"
"I know, but I'm swamped, and frankly, stressed out of my mind. I'm bummed I can't come, though. Hopefully one day there'll be another chance."
He shrugs, eyes darting to the side awkwardly. "I'll send Cyrene your regards. She really wants to meet you."
"I didn't realise she knew who I was," you push your glasses up, "She isn't expecting me, is she?"
Phainon rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, "well, it'd be a lie if I said no, but it's fine. She'll understand."
"What! That makes me feel so bad, I was under the impression it'd be just another party where anyone was invited."
"Well it is that, she's quite social, but you were going to be my plus one."
You tilt your head. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"You shouldn't discard your work for a party!" He exclaims.
"I know! But now I feel bad!"
"Don't, it's fine. I can organise a brunch or dinner for us."
"Really? Are you sure it's okay?"
"Absolutely. If anything, she'd be more impressed by your diligence. She'll understand."
"Alright, but if she has a bad impression of me then I'm blaming you." He raises his arms in surrender, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he says something about 'being happy to take the fall'.
Your laptop and study materials sit discarded on the coffee table, where you were studying prior to Phainon's entrance. Now, the soft music you were playing occupies the space, and you let out a drowsy yawn.
"Tired?" He asks.
"I'm fine. Just gotta study for a little longer. So… you told Cyrene that I'd be your plus one?" You readjust your position on the couch. "What did you tell her about me?"
His cheeks flush red, just noticeable in the dimly lit room. "Nothing you wouldn't approve of."
"Is that all?" You cross your arms, ignoring the thumping inside your chest and ears. "Aren't I more interesting than that?"
"You are," he reassures, "but maybe some things are better left unsaid."
You raise a brow, suspicious. "Yet, you told her something that made her excited to meet me?"
"Well, perhaps."
A vague sense of knowing clings to your gut, the tension in the atmosphere slowly building thicker as he refuses to break eye contact, but you don't want to be hopeful. You don't want to soar high just to fly too close to the sun and come crashing down to a harsh reality.
You won't allow yourself to hope around Phainon, not when he has the ability to shatter your heart into pieces with the vice grip he has over it.
You sigh, before pushing yourself up. "I guess I'll just find out at this inevitable meeting of ours. Hyacine and Mydei should be here soon, would you like some water before you leave?"
He blinks at you, as if forgetting how to speak for a second before he croaks out a pathetic 'yes, please', following you across the short distance from the couch to the kitchen. When you're pouring the water into two empty cups, a warm presence lingers behind you, and you realise the hand he's put on one side of the counter, half-trapping you in.
Your hand is shaking at this point, it's a miracle you can even set the jug of water down with how nervous you are, anticipation thrumming through your veins.
"The reason why she's so excited to meet you is… I-" he falters, you can hear how shaky his words are as they're breathed softly into whatever space is between you two. "She likes you because she knows I do."
You turn around, glasses forgotten about as you glance up at his nervous expressions, feelings finally laid bare, now vulnerable to however you will treat them.
Luckily for him, you have no intention of being cruel. Quite the opposite, really, because your chest feels like its any second away from collapsing under this tension.
"Phai," you murmur, and he leans forward, listening intently to every whisper, as well as the silence in between. Your eyes roam over his face, no words needed when your hand gently comes up to hold his cheek.
It's him that surges forward to close the gap, hesitant at first until you return the favour.
Phainon's hand roams to your waist, the other still holding his weight against the kitchen counter, as yours slowly creep up to his shoulders, keeping him close to you, but there's still a courteous (awkward) amount of space between you. Your teeth keep clashing, and your noses relentlessly bump into one another, the angle not helping whatsoever.
Finally, he parts from you, but your mind is too hazy to register what he might be doing until you feel cool plastic slipping from your ears, his fingers nimbly removing your glasses before his mouth is back on yours. This time with more passion and decisiveness.
"That's better," he mumbles against you, before his lips mould with yours again, your knees involuntarily buckle under his intensity.
The two of you stumble back over to the couch, your hands clumsily gripping along the counter to avoid any bumps, as Phainon keeps himself practically glued to you, lips never straying too far from yours.
He sits first before unceremoniously dragging you down onto his lap, your knees resting on either side of his thighs as his body heat engulfs you.
"We shouldn't do this here," you pant, breathless. "What if they walk in on us?"
"Fuck that," he murmurs before kissing you again. This time, your hands creep rest around his neck, fingers creeping through his snowy tresses as he devours you relentlessly.
With a bite to your bottom lip, he pries your mouth open and slips his tongue inside, desperate to feel every part of you possible. Yet, his mission ceases when your hips roll forward slightly, hitting the metal of his jeans, causing his head to roll back from the sudden sensation.
When you do it again, he groans, hands gripping your hips even harder. "Titans, you're going to kill me right on this couch," he hisses.
"Sorry," you giggle before grinding against him again, keeping your chest pressed flush against him this time. Despite how he whimpers, reduced to nothing but a flustered mess, he doesn't tell you to stop.
If anything, the large hands that are sat snug between the crevice of your hip and thigh assist, urging you to continue with subtle push and pulls, all the while as he presses shaky, open-mouthed kisses to your exposed neck and collarbones. You falter when he uses teeth, lost in the heat as his hands keep dragging you back and forth.
"Now I'm wondering if it's even a good idea to go to this party," Phainon murmurs, words slightly slurred as he sucks on your skin, "got something way better right here."
You're about to counter when the jingle of keys breaks you from your trance like a knife through butter. Sitting up straighter, you hear the voice of Hyacine being frustrated with your dodgy lock system before practically rolling off his lap, trying to play it cool when your roommate and Mydei materialised on the other side of the door.
"Hey!" You exclaim, but your voice gives out halfway through, shrinking into a thin and raspy sound. You awkwardly clear your throat. "We've been waiting for you."
"Sorry to have kept you guys waiting, hey Phainon!" Hyacine innocently calls from the hallway, missing the way your hair is slightly mussed and lips thoroughly bruised. Not to mention, there might be budding patches of colour along your skin.
"Ready for the party?" You stand, walking over to the two innocently as the white-haired keeps staring from where he's sat, still dazed.
"Almost, I just need to change but I'm still so sad you can't come with us."
"Me too, I've been slaving away at this stupid assignment for too long, but you guys deserve to have fun."
Both you and Hyacine retreat to your respective rooms for some privacy. Your reasoning, however, was arguably far more debauched and unacceptable with hers, because you just made out with her friend, on your couch. Well, technically he's your friend too, but can you even call him that now?
She likes you because she knows I do.
Goodness, you can still remember how his breath felt against your neck when he said that.
The damage Phainon did to you wasn't as bad as you were expecting, the swollen lips were noticeable if you looked too hard, and your hair could be salvaged with a few swipes. Suddenly, you hear a knock on your bedroom door.
"It's me, Phainon."
On the other side, he waits for you like a puppy for a treat. "You okay, Phainon?"
"Won't you come to the party tonight?"
"I-I shouldn't."
"I know you have work to catch up on, but what if we leave like almost immediately? We don't even need to stay around for long, just say hi to Cyrene and then come back."
"That's not what friends do, Phai, if you're going to go then stay for her."
"But if I stay, you won't come."
"So? That's your childhood friend, go."
"I want you to come with, though."
Mydei's deep voice cuts through your whispered conversation, calling for the white-haired who still looks dejected. You sigh and reach up to smooth his hair and jacket, before pushing him down the hall and to the front door.
"Ready to go?" You turn to your roommate. "Hyacine, you look so cute!"
"Thank you, Y/n! Are you sure you don't want to come with us? We can wait a few a little longer for you to get ready."
Phainon practically bores holes into the side of your head, and you can faintly hear his voice echoing around in your mind, begging you to agree. In the interest of self-preservation, you decline the invite, and swallow the regret.
It's only half past midnight when Hyacine texts you.
roomie <3: mydei is coming now with phainon.
roomie <3: he's kind of… rly drunk. i don't want him going home since he lives so far.
roomie <3: said he could crash on our couch. is that okay?
Hyacine… you and your unshakeable kindness.
y/n: of course! i'll wait for mydei
So, when you opened the door to the sight of two burly men, one slung over the other's shoulder, you're stunned into silence. Never have you seen Phainon so… like a ragdoll. When Mydei drops him down on the couch with a grunt, Phainon's head lulls side to side.
"This HKS drank more than he could handle."
"Is he a lightweight?"
"No, but he had too much in a short time span. He'll be fine soon, feel free to kick him out then."
You sit Phainon up, letting him lean against the comfortable back of the couch, his head falling back. "He's really out of it," you murmur, slightly concerned.
Mydei is oddly silent for a heartbeat, but what comes from his mouth makes your heart drop. "He's been asking for you all night."
"What?" You snap your head to look back at him.
"He was pretty bummed you couldn't make it. Then made a fool of himself by accepting shots from anyone, but he always seemed like he was looking for someone."
You don't know if you want Mydei to keep talking or to shut up, heartbeat thrumming wildly in your chest. "Really?"
"Phainon can be a royal idiot sometimes, but he is a genuine guy. If you're wondering whether or not it's worth giving him a chance, you might not regret choosing him."
"How- how did you know?"
He shrugs. "Intuition."
You rub your eyes, chuckling in disbelief. "Maybe audacity, but thank you. I can take care of him from here, are you okay to go home?"
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
You farewell Mydei, closing the front door behind him gently. However, you linger near the entrance longer than necessary, his words echoing inside your mind as you try to steel your nerves that thrum with something you can't quite name. A mix of anxiety, premonition, and hope.
"Phainon?" You call out softly. The white-haired groggily opens his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust to the light coming from the corner of the room.
"Y/n?" He slurs, trying to sit up.
"I'm right here, relax," you try to guide him back so he won't exert too much energy and end up toppling over.
"Where… am I?"
"At my place."
He closes his eyes, cheeks flush with red as his hair falls before his face. After a few beats of silence, you deduce he might have fallen back asleep, so you take the time to quickly get some essentials for dealing with a drunk person: a bucket wrapped with plastic and some water.
When you return, Phainon is still in the same position, limp as his chest rises steadily.
You sit next to him, gently brushing white strands away from his eyes. He's warm- hot under your touch, just how many shots did this guy take?
You really don't want to leave him until he has at least enough strength to sit upright, so you turn on the television and play a random series, the volume low so as to not wake him. Despite the fatigue that clung to your eyes, and how desperately you wanted to sleep, you force yourself to stay awake.
Thankfully, not too long later, Phainon stirs with a grunt, eyes opening wider this time, revealing more of his bright blues.
"Y/n?" He says first this time, "you're still here?"
"Of course. Didn't want to leave you while you're drunk."
"Not drunk," he insists.
"Don't even try to play it cool right now."
He sits up, never breaking eye contact as he leans closer to you. There's a faint tinge of booze on his breath, but you can't pull away, you don't want to.
"At least you're here now. Or, I'm here now, technically."
"How was the party-"
"You're so pretty," he interrupts, leaning in closer. "It drives me crazy. Was waiting for you all night, h-hoping you'd surprise me and- and appear before me, but you never came."
'but he always seemed like he was looking for someone'.
"But you're here now, and I'm- I'm happy."
"Phainon," you coo gently, pinching his cheek. "You barely even survived two hours at that party without getting shitfaced, did you really miss me that much?"
He nods shyly, eyes cloudy and lip slightly jutted out in a pout.
"Stay," he whispers, head lulling to the side, "don't leave me right now."
This time, you agree without a second thought, sinking into the cushions of your couch.
