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runaway.

⟢ pairing: mydei x f!reader

⟢ word count: 10k

⟢ tags: modern!au, cto!mydei, romance, angst, mydei becomes the victim of someone's hot girl summer, slightly problematic reader, based off my favourite k-drama lovestruck in the city

After a sun-soaked summer in Carmitis, you return to normalcy in a shoebox apartment in Okhema City. You accept a job at Kremnos Engineering, determined to rebuild your life, only to find out that your new boss is a familiar face — the same fling that you'd vanished on a year ago without a trace.

⟢ chapters: one | two | three

Mydei is a man of routine.

Once, he might have described his life in these words: dull, perhaps not quite tedious, but certainly monotonous. They aren’t insults, though. To Mydei, routine is a familiar comfort — the ease with which shoes slip on after being moulded to the shape of one’s feet, the instinctive reach for a toothbrush by the sink in the wee hours of the morning. An amalgamation of small habits worn smooth over the years, the accompanying notes that make up the ostinato of a song.

And on the first Saturday of each month, that ingrained rhythm brings him to Kephale Plaza.

He makes the twelve minute drive into the city center, evening lights bleeding into long, liquid streaks across his windshield. The parking spot outside Halovian is narrow and difficult to access — which is why it’s usually left empty. He takes it. The air has turned cool with the edge of autumn, and so Mydei pulls on his coat as he steps out of the car.

The rest of the way he could walk with his eyes shut. He crosses the busy road first, then takes a quick left. Fifteen paces down, another turn, following the bend until the glare of the city fades. It’s quieter in the park, shielded from the commercial billboards by a line of maple trees, and the air carries with it a damp, earthy scent. Mydei lets his fingers brush over the flowers as he crosses the arched bridge, the edges of their delicate petals curling inward from the cold.

He steps down to the river. They call it a river, but it isn’t, really. Kremnos Engineering designed it years ago, back when Okhema was still growing — a narrow waterway cutting through the heart of the city. An attempt to incorporate nature into an otherwise concrete landscape.

A facsimile, pretending to be something that it’s not.

Mydei arrives at its southern bank at exactly seven fifty-five. He glances down at the shallow, warbling stream, the thirteen stepping stones that will take him back to the other side.

He doesn’t cross them.

Instead, he sits on one of the stone benches nearby, hands tucked neatly in his pockets. Every few minutes, his head lifts at the sound of footsteps on the path: a jogger with headphones and a sweat-darkened collar, an old couple shuffling past sedately arm in arm, a man being tugged along by his dog. And each time, his shoulders fall almost imperceptibly, before his gaze drifts back to the water again.

Still, Mydei waits. He waits until the sun has long set behind the glass-steel spires in the distance, until the lamps lining the water have lit up like fireflies and the wind rolling off the water nips at his throat. Then, the clock tower in Kephale Plaza begins its usual toll.

A bronze note that he knows by heart. It rings out nine times — just as it has, every time — and each one sinks into Mydei’s bones like the stones in the river below.

He holds his position for one more moment. Then, with a sigh, he rises from the bench and turns his back on the water. His steps carry him along the path, back towards the city’s bright, beating, indifferent heart.

Alone.

Kremnos was once a small engineering firm in Castrum Kremnos. It’d started out in a single, rented room above a machine parts wholesaler, located in some industrial district whose name Mydei can barely remember. Now, decades later, it stands as the biggest EPC in all of Amphoreus.

Their Okhema headquarters occupies the top five floors of a prime commercial tower in the central business district, and overlooks a skyline shaped by their own hand — Adriose shipping port and the Bastion flyover being just a couple of mega-projects they’ve undertaken in the last decade. And in the evening, the sky burns an orange-ochre ombre as the sea catches the dying light, flint sparking against the waves. Investors and partners always seem more amenable when faced with the view.

Unfortunately, Mydei doesn’t have the time to enjoy it. His attention is fixed on the wall of monitors in front of him instead, each one displaying data from a digital twin of the Dome — a megastructure meant to crown Aidonia’s newest international airport. He studies the screens in silence, eyes flicking between readouts and models, only looking away when a soft knock comes at his door.

“Come in.”

His secretary steps inside, a cardboard box in her hands. “Your things from the old office,” she says as she sets it down carefully. Mydei looks up, surprised. “You’ve been talking about going back for these for a while, but looking at your schedule…” She shoots him a sympathetic look. “I told the courier to be extra careful with it.”

Mornings before sunrise, nights long after dark — he hasn’t even had the time in the past few weeks to make the drive downtown himself. Becoming CTO of a multinational corporation does that to you, unfortunately. Regardless, he’s grateful. “You have my thanks.”

She smiles, gives a polite nod and moves to leave. Mydei waits until the door has shut behind her to pull off his glasses, setting them on his desk before he sinks back into his chair. His eyes are sore from staring at the screens, and there’s a dull ache in the back of his neck that no amount of ergonomics will fix. Exhaling slowly, he drags the heels of his hands down his face, before glancing at the box.

He pulls it over and eases the lid off. Inside is a collection of familiar artifacts that had once littered his desk — a battered calculator with its numbers worn clean off the buttons, an ugly clay lion his mother had got for him while holidaying in Jericha. A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth when he pulls out the photostrip. To commemorate our final finals, Phainon had joked, terribly — all of them crammed into a booth too small for five almost-but-not-yet-quite adults. Mydei runs a thumb across their bright grins, unweathered except for the shadows under their eyes, before he carefully sets it aside.

The last thing inside the box is a photograph. Mydei lifts it carefully, fingers brushing over the wooden frame as he does. Within its borders is a memory preserved in perfect colour — a sun bleached stretch of sand, and a turquoise wave captured forever in a perfect curl.

The beaches in Carmitis had been perfect for surfing. He’d gone there for a two month sabbatical, as a reward to himself, for closing a deal of a lifetime. The project would propel Kremnos beyond the shores of Amphoreus into international renown, and his father had been happy to grant him the time off. Two months of salt air and the horizon, trading the gravity of responsibility for the buoyancy of the tide.

But that summer, it hadn’t been the waves that had swept him away.

Mydei’s fingers curl around the photoframe. As though if he grasps it tightly enough, he would be able to shatter the glass and fall back through time itself, back onto that sandy beach. Then he might be about to hear your laugh again, to run his fingers through your salt stiffened tangles, and this time Mydei would be smarter, know better — and he would cherish each moment like a shining treasure, hold on to you tighter so that—

His phone vibrates on his desk. The screen lights up with a familiar name.

“That was fast,” Phainon remarks the second the call connects, his tone laced with that usual, quick amusement of his. “You usually let me wait longer than that. Feeling sentimental today?”

“No,” Mydei says, and knows instantly that it has come out too sharp, too quick. “Why are you calling?”

His friend just sighs, frustratingly perceptive. “Let me guess,” Phainon says, brushing past Mydei’s question entirely. The words pierce just like his mother’s sharp eyed gaze does, and Mydei hates the way it makes him feel — like a child once more, caught with one hand in the cookie jar and crumbs all over his small mouth. “You were thinking about her again.”

Mydei doesn’t respond. He looks down at the photo in his hand again.

“You are. I can practically hear you sighing over the phone.” Phainon pauses a second in his ribbing, almost as though he’s weighing whether to press further. He does. “It’s been a year, Mydei. You knew her for two months. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Mydei answers automatically, although his eyes keep drifting back to the photograph. “I’m over her.”

Phainon snorts, the sound thick with disbelief. He sounds thoroughly unconvinced. “Right.” Another tactical pause. “Well, in that case, you wouldn’t mind meeting my cousin. She’s smart, funny, maybe a little quiet — but a real riot once you get to know her. You two can talk brutalism and art deco and mid-century modern whatever. It’ll be cute.”

This again. Mydei pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar ache blooming behind his eyes. “No, Phainon.”

“Come on, just one drink. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“An evening of polite conversation that ends with both of us relieved that it’s over,” Mydei replies bluntly. His gaze is still fixed on that wave, frozen in time. “I’m not interested.”

Phainon is silent for a few seconds. Mydei is wondering whether he should hang up when he speaks again, and when he does it’s to grumble at him. “You’re a certified social hermit,” Phainon mutters, and Mydei braces himself — he can feel the familiar lecture building up already. “The only reason you didn’t graduate four years of university with a net zero friend count is—”

“—because of you, I know—”

“Because I practically adopted you! I should get tax deductibles for charity work, honestly.” Phainon sounds exasperated, even over the phone. He still ends up relenting with a huff, though. “Fine. No cousin. But you’re still a human being, and human beings need to see other human beings outside of boardrooms and suits. So, we’re hanging out.” His tone turns bright, like he’s already made the decision for Mydei. “The gang hasn’t seen your face in forever.”

He’s busy, Mydei wants to say. But he knows his friend means well, and that knowledge warms him almost as much as it unsettles him — the quiet discomfort of being read so easily. It’s a quality that Mydei has always admired in him, which is why he finds himself quite unable to resent the man’s habit of bulldozing straight through his boundaries — all with a grin and no apology.

Unfortunate, he thinks dourly to himself.

“Alright,” he concedes at last. “Drinks at our usual place. I’ll pay.”

“Deal! But don’t even think about driving home — I’m going to make sure you actually enjoy yourself this time, got it?”

Mydei shakes his head, unable to help the small smile that threatens him. “I’m hanging up now.”

The line clicks dead. Silence settles over his office once more, only broken by the low hum of his laptop. Suddenly weary, Mydei sets his phone back down, before his gaze falls to the photograph in his hand once more.

He allows his thumb to trace the frame for only a second longer. Then he sets it on the desk, turns it down so that the waves are no longer in view, and returns to work.

The cardboard box lands on your kitchen floor with a dull thud.

“Is that the final one?” you ask, from where you’re crouched by the sink. The remainder of your cleaning supplies are lined up next to you, a row of half-emptied soldiers standing at attention. Phainon lets out a groan as he straightens up, strands of white hair plastered to his damp forehead with sweat. He tugs at the hem of his shirt to wipe at it.

You throw a cleaning rag at him. “Keep your clothes on, whore.”

He catches it mid-air with an athlete’s reflexes, pretending to aim it at you with a snort before he lets his arm drop. “One, two… yeah, that’s the last of them,” he confirms for you, his voice echoes lightly in the small, sparse space. Phainon’s gaze sweeps the apartment quickly — not that there’s much to see, anyway — before it comes back to you with a warm, unguarded smile. “It’s nice. I like it.”

Nice is probably a generous term for the old studio apartment, but you accept the compliment with a nod regardless. After the ordeal with your previous inconsiderate roommates, securing this place had felt like a dream — four walls of your own, a miraculously functioning toilet, and most importantly, rent that wouldn't eat your paycheck whole.

It had been everything you needed. The only real drawback to this place was the three floor walk-up, which had made the thought of moving in without professional help a nightmare. But Phainon seemed to be able to anticipate that, somehow, even without a word from you. You’d opened your door this morning to him dressed in an atrociously faded tank top and grinning on your doorstep, quite literally strong-arming his way into assistance with a stubborn willingness to lift heavy things.

And well, you weren’t exactly in a position to refuse.

“Thanks for your help,” you tell him as you stow away the last of the cleaning supplies. “I would have killed my back carrying all those boxes up on my own.”

Phainon shrugs, casually. “Don’t sweat it. I think of it as a free gym session.” He flexes a bicep and you flash him a look of pure disgust, which just makes him laugh. He braces a hip against the counter to watch you with those impossibly blue eyes. “You know,” he says, and his tone softens just a fraction, “you could have just moved in with me.”

You don’t have to look at him to know he means it. Your cousin hasn’t changed a bit ever since you were kids, even after moving here from Aedes Elysiae for university. Sure, he’s shot up at a terrifying rate and put on some muscle — a lot of it, actually — but he still cries at sad movies and somehow manages to retain a heart too soft for Okhema’s relentless grind.

He’s all wrong, you think fondly. The face of a fuckboy without an ounce of the ego that should come with it. It actually wouldn’t be terrible, sharing an apartment with him. But you shake your head.

Phainon gives you a searching look, but you drop your gaze, busying your hands with an open box on the counter. Among all your relatives, he’s the one that you're closest to. But his concern has a tendency of spilling over into smothering — though you’re fairly certain that’s more your issue than his — and the fact that it comes too close to pity grates on you, too.

Even now, you can feel the weight of the questions perched on the tip of his tongue. Like there is a firm dam in place, holding back his curiosity to avoid dredging up old memories. Knowing that he’d be walking on eggshells in his own home because of you is more than enough to make you firmly refuse.

“Nah. I need my own space, I think.” You hold up a hand. “Besides, you snore like a nine point five magnitude earthquake.”

Phainon looks extremely scandalised by that accusation. “Excuse me? I sleep on my side now, thank you very much.” He lobs the damp washcloth you’d thrown at him back in your direction and you dodge, laughing. His smile is fond as he studies you for a beat with those too blue eyes. “Well, I guess it must be nice to have some peace and quiet after all those awful roommates. I still can’t believe they had sex in your bed.” He makes a face, as if he’s just bitten into an unripe fruit.

“Nasty,” you agree. “I hope they get chlamydia.”

Your cousin blinks. “Err…”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm of unpacking the rest of your things. A playlist of Ast Rickley’s most popular hits plays on your phone, his soulful voice crooning to every corner of your apartment. When the final cabinet is shut and your mattress is no longer bare, you let yourself collapse onto the cheap floorboards with a sigh.

A draft whispers under the door — a reminder that autumn is here, and that heating is expensive. You make a mental note to stock up on heat tech the next time you head into town.

Phainon’s face suddenly looms in your field of vision, upside down and grinning. “Mission accomplished,” he announces with a salute, back from where you’d dispatched him to stow your pots in the overhead cupboards. “And I’m starving.”

You push his head away, and your fingers come away damp with sweat. Yuck. “You can take whatever you want from my fridge.”

He makes a show of peering into the barren appliance. “Your fridge is basically decorative, idiot.”

“Right.” You never got into the habit of cooking, even when you’d first started working. Long nights and overtime had been the norm, and by the time you stumbled home from your previous job, you’d barely had the energy to get undressed, let alone prepare a meal. “Starve, then.”

You let your head fall back to the floor with a thud, but Phainon grabs your arm and hauls you unceremoniously to your feet. “I saw a minimart downstairs,” he declares. “Let’s get popsicles.”

“It’s literally autumn, Phai.”

He shrugs, thoroughly unbothered as he practically manhandles you towards the door. “And since when have we let something like that stop us?”

And five minutes later, the two of you are back upstairs, backs against the lumpy couch. The only sounds are the rhythmic whir-click of the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above, and the quiet, sticky noise of two adults eating rainbow popsicles side by side. You remember sitting on the curb outside Phainon’s childhood home and staring up at the ichor-rinsed summer sky. The synthetic fruit flavour tastes exactly the same as it did twenty years ago.

For a long time, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching the fan blades slice through the cooling late-afternoon air. The cold sweetness melts faster than you’d like, dripping down your fingers in sticky rivulets. You stick out your tongue to catch the drops.

Phainon’s voice is quiet, cutting through the hum of the fan. “I missed you.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps his eyes on the spinning blades, as if he’s commenting on the rainy weather or a store in the new shopping mall downtown. But the weight of his words fill your small, empty apartment, sugar clinging to your tongue sticky sweet, heavy with everything else he’d been careful not to say.

You take another slow bite of your popsicle, and nod.

“It’s good to be back.”

You have a special hatred reserved for job interviews.

It’s ironic, actually, considering the role that you’re interviewing for — Marketing Strategist, Strategic Content Department. You can craft a narrative for a product, a service, even an entire corporate vision with believable enthusiasm, but turning the camera inward to talk about personal strengths and career journey feels nauseatingly vulgar. You feel the same way as you sit in that sleek, intimidating conference room at Kremnos’ headquarters, expecting to fumble through your usual corporate script.

The only thing that’s keeping you grounded is your phone. Or, more accurately, the messages that have been blowing it up all morning. First, a joint text from Stelle and Caelus, featuring a poorly photoshopped picture of your head on a muscular bodybuilder. The caption “GO CRUSH THEM!!!!” had been followed by several bicep and fire emojis. Next had been an offer for a last minute practice run from March, who’d then volunteered Dan Heng for a good-interviewer-bad-interviewer drill.

“Why am I the bad interviewer?” Dan Heng had messaged, sounding completely offended even over text. “Well, am I the bad interviewer, then?” March had sent back, equally incredulous, and then the chat group had proceeded to devolve into absolute fiery, meme-slinging chaos.

Much to your surprise, however, the interview defies expectation. The panel skips over the glaring gap in your resume from a year ago entirely, and instead focuses on having you walk them through a complex case study — one, coincidentally, that mirrors a project in your own portfolio.

Before you know it, your mental script has been discarded. You’re leaning forward, hands animated as you dive into the gritty details and trade-offs that shaped the corporate vision you once helped bring to life. The interviewers nod along, their questions feeling less like an interrogation and more like genuine curiosity. Almost scarily similar, you think, to a real conversation.

One of the interviewers, a lady with gold spun hair, shakes your hand on your way out. “I was very impressed,” she says, and your heart thumps, despite the fact that she probably says that to every interviewee. Her grip is firm. “I hope we’ll see you again soon.”

Well, that’s wasn’t completely terrible is a thought you allow yourself as you step out of the elevator. A tentative sense of optimism trails you into the lobby and you swat it away, superstitious about giving it too much space to grow. No expectations, no disappointments. You’d learnt your lesson the hard way, the first time.

You root around in your bag for your phone as you weave through the midday crowd. Phainon had been pestering you all last night, insistent that you update him the moment the interview ended. You glance up to search for the exit.

And you see him.

He’s standing about thirty paces from the revolving doors — immaculate in a tailored suit that probably costs more than your monthly rent, sharp lines sculpting his powerful frame. He’s speaking with a circle of important looking businessmen, and even from this distance, his presence radiates authority. Gravitas, so natural it’s almost tangible, obvious in the way that they nod attentively, leaning in to catch his every word.

He looks nothing like the man you’d met in Carmitis. That man had been a surfer with a penchant for chasing sunrise waves, all golden eyes and sun kissed skin. He would sigh but let you braid his hair back, regardless — doesn’t it keep getting into your eyes, De? — before pulling you after him into the surf. His wardrobe had consisted entirely of faded tank tops and salt-stiffened bermuda shorts. That was the man who’d — if only for a brief while — loved you.

What is he doing here?

You don’t know how long you stand there, feet rooted to the floor, unable to tear your eyes away. But it’s too long — because then he’s tilting his head to address an associate standing at his side, lifting a hand to emphasize something important. The shift in angle brings his eyes directly to yours.

For a single moment, the busy lobby and all the people in it fall away. The two of you stare at each other through the moving crowd — a pair of flies suspended in amber. His gaze is blank at first. Almost like he doesn’t quite recognise you, or he can’t believe that you’re here. And then the cool indifference on his face fractures all of a sudden, right down the middle, to give way to shock.

His mouth forms a word. You can’t hear it from here, but you don’t need to. You’ve seen his lips form that name a thousand times — curled at the edges with a laugh, panted into the crook of your neck, murmured against your lips like a prayer.

Helena?

Your heart stumbles in your chest, and you take an instinctive step back. Your heel catches on the floor.

At your reaction, something in Mydei’s reaction shifts. The shock hardens into sharp, focused purpose, and he starts moving — doesn’t even spare the men around him a single word of excuse — all without breaking eye contact, cutting directly through the crowd with single minded intent.

Towards you.

That shatters your paralysis. You spin on your heel and begin to walk in the opposite direction with your head down, as quickly as you can without breaking into a sprint.

“Wait!”

His voice cuts through the crowd, sharp and desperate. You don’t dare to look back, shoving through a group of startled office workers. You can feel him, the way the air parts as he pushes through the same crowd, his longer strides closing the distance between the two of you. A panicked breath catches in your throat.

You duck behind a pillar, hand skimming the cold surface. Your eyes scan desperately for an escape route. There! The universal symbol for restrooms. You lunge, shoulder connecting with the heavy door to shove it open, and you manage to slip inside just as rapid footsteps round the corner. The door clicks shut behind you.

You fumble the lock with shaking fingers before pressing your back to the door, chest heaving and lungs screaming. For a long moment, there is only the faint mechanical hum of the ventilation system and your own heavy breathing. Your heart beats a frantic rhythm in the cage of your chest. Did he see you? Did he see which way you went?

It feels like an eternity before you hear the frustrated pound of a fist against a wall, from the other side of the door. It’s followed by a low, muffled curse — Mydei. There is a long pause, then another familiar voice, murmuring a few words you can’t quite make out, and then the footsteps turn around and retreat, fading into the distance.

And then, nothing.

Only after everything is silent do you let yourself slump fully against the door, grasping at your knees as you try to make sense of what just happened. Mydei was here. In this very building. Just on the other side of this door. And now, he’s gone.

You’ve lost him again.

Outside, Mydei stands alone in the corridor, his hand stinging from the impact with the wall. He’s breathing hard, and the tie around his neck suddenly feels like a noose. He yanks it loose with a frustrated movement as he scans the empty hallway.

Nothing. It’s almost as though you were never there. You’ve disappeared as completely as you had the first time.

Doubt washes over him like a tidal wave. Did he really see you? Or did he hallucinate it? Has the memory of you become so blurred, that his mind had to paint you into the crowd of his own workplace?

“Mr. Mydeimos!” One of the Grove associates catches up to him, shoes squeaking on the polished floor and his face a picture of bewildered alarm. “Did something happen? Is everything alright?”

Mydei doesn’t know what to say. I just saw a ghost of the only woman I’ve ever given my heart to. The confession rests on his tongue, absurd and unprofessional. He runs a hand through his hair, realises it’s trembling, and lets it fall to his side, helpless.

“I don’t…” he begins, voice cracking and he swallows. “I just thought… I saw someone I used to know.”

Mydei spends the rest of the day in a daze, moving through his roles with a mechanical detachment. The hours blur together — briefings, presentations, polite smiles — all passing through him like static. And when he finally stumbles out of three back-to-back meetings, he collapses into his office chair and stares at the dark screens until Phainon calls to drag him to the pub.

The battered fish and chips are still as good as they were back in his university days, but Mydei can barely taste a thing. Phainon keeps the conversation afloat, as usual, and Hyacine shares stories from the ER that border on fictitious — “A what up their ass? Seriously?” — as Cipher shamelessly swipes pieces of breaded calamari off Castorice’s plate. It’s an easy, familiar atmosphere that used to pull him out of his head — warm, noisy and grounding.

But tonight, Mydei can’t focus on any of it.

After nearly an hour of dissociating, Cipher finally elbows him in the side. “Hey. You leave your brain back at the office or something?” Her grin is sharp with its usual mean-spirited edge, but he catches the worry eddying underneath. “You’ve been out of it all night.”

He looks up to see Hyacine and Castorice staring at him with varying levels of concern. He lifts his cup to his lips in an attempt to avoid their eyes.

“It’s nothing. Long day.”

“Bullshit,” Phainon says, cutting through the pub’s chatter. “Every day is a long day for a big-shot CTO like you. This is different.” His blue eyes narrow, and not for the first time, Mydei wishes Phainon were more like the carefree joker he appears to be and less like the perceptive psychologist he actually is. He holds the whiskey in his mouth for a few seconds, letting the smoky peat spread across his tongue before he swallows.

Hopefully, the burn will do something to steady him. It doesn’t.

“This afternoon,” he begins, resigned. “At the office… I thought I saw her.”

Hyacine’s toothpick stills above a french fry. “Her?” The way she says it makes it clear that she knows exactly who Mydei is talking about. “Where?”

Mydei hesitates. The memory still feels raw, like the delicate skin beneath a freshly picked scab. “In Kremnos’ lobby,” he says, at last. “I was sending off some associates from the Grove when I looked up and she was just… there. Across the room. I think she saw me. And then she ran.”

Cipher exchanges a loaded glance with Castorice. “So,” Castorice says slowly. She looks like she’s choosing her words with extreme care. “Do you know if it was actually her that you saw?”

He presses his lips together. “No,” he admits.

Phainon runs a hand through his hair. The sound that escapes him is a mixture of disbelief and pity. “Mydei, come on. You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you’re really going insane. I’d suggest another surf trip, but…” He shakes his head helplessly, gestures at him. “I don’t get it. You’re usually a great judge of character. I don’t know how you fell so hard for someone like… like that.”

The words spark a defensive fire in Mydei’s gut that’s almost reflex. “You don’t know her,” he mutters, the words coming out sharper than he intended.

“Neither did you, apparently.” When Mydei shoots him a half-hearted glare, Phainon presses on, his tone softening despite the frustration. “Look, she has you completely wrapped around her finger. It was a summer fling, but it’s over now. You need to let it go.”

He opens his mouth to argue back, but Hyacine leans forward first, hands folded neatly in front of her. “This isn’t healthy, Mydei,” she says, in that gentle doctor-tone of hers. Castorice nods. Even Cifera — who would normally be the first to cheer on any stupid decision he or Phainon makes — just looks at him.

The sympathy in their eyes grates at him — partly because he wants to insist they’re wrong, and partly because he knows they are right. A sun-soaked summer. A two month long fling that had caught alight in the blink of an eye and fizzled out just as quick. He knows he’s not the first one to fall for something fleeting, and he won’t be the last.

But gods, he’s still burning.

Once, Mydei had prided himself on being a man of reason. It’s foolish to still be hung up on you. He knows that the logical thing to do is move on.

But he still remembers the last time he’d ever seen you, and the memory of it haunts him like a ghost.

Mydei had flown back first. He’d known that the time apart would feel endless after the privilege of waking up in your arms every day, and so he’d stolen every kiss, every moment he could — from the second he’d opened his eyes to the drive to the airport. Even then, it hadn’t been enough.

“Two weeks is too long,” Mydei had muttered against his lips, and you’d laughed, arms winding around his neck to pull him down. He’d let go of his luggage handle to wrap his arms more securely around you. Other travelers in the airport stared as they passed the two of you, but Mydei couldn’t bring himself to care. “Should I just take another month off? Stay with you until the surf shop lets you go?”

“Don’t be silly,” you’d replied between kisses, sounding breathless. You’d smiled at him then, so sweetly that he never would have guessed something was wrong. “Your big important job needs you back in Okhema, doesn’t it? It’ll just be two weeks.”

Two weeks was nothing. If he could go back, Mydei would have quit just to stay by your side. But he hadn’t. “I won’t be able to contact you in the meantime, though,” he’d sighed into your hair, tugging you tighter to his chest. You’d giggled. “Seriously, can’t you let me buy you a phone? I really don’t know how you’ve survived a whole summer without one…”

“And that’s quite enough of you lording your wealth over me, Mr. Rich Man,” you’d scolded, poking his nose, and he’d relented with a quiet sigh — as he always did. You’d refused every attempt from him to buy you a phone, as inconvenient as it made communication for the two of you. “It’s been nice, actually, disconnecting from everything. I’m kind of dreading getting one once I get back to Okhema.”

And then you’d smiled at him so brightly, and just like before, every excuse — as absurd and silly as it was — had completely slipped his mind. Don’t worry. I’ll find you. It’s more romantic that way, right?

He’d kissed you again, dreading the distance. A lingering press of the lips, slow and indulgent, when the watch on his wrist had buzzed. Ten minutes until his gate closed.

You’d glanced down before your eyes widened in panic. “Ten minutes!” you hissed, pushing lightly against his chest. “You’re going to miss your flight!” You tried to step out of the circle of his arms, but he only pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair, inhaling the scent of salt and summer one last time. Two weeks.

“You remember, right?”

“How could I not?” You’d laughed then, your face softening with fond exasperation. “Eight o’clock on the first Saturday of the month, at the stepping stones by the Janus bridge. See?”

“You’ll be there?”

“Yes, yes.” Your voice had been gentle but sure. You’d squeezed his hand, a comfort and a promise. “Of course I’ll be there.”

Mydei had stolen one last kiss (or two, or three, or plenty more) before sprinting to catch his flight, your words clutched tightly to his chest as he stumbled through the gate. Two hours and fifteen minutes, a thousand miles. That would be the distance between the two of you, for the next two weeks.

Every second had felt like torture. But he’d spent the time productively, clearing a generous space in his closet for your chaotic array of clothes, hunting down that obscure brand of coffee you insisted on drinking and buying softer pillows that he’d noticed you liked. He’d called his mother and told her all about you. You’ll love her, Ma, he’d insisted. Gorgo had just laughed, her amusement palpable even over the phone, and said, any girl able to ensnare my son like that? I’m sure I will.

Mydei had blushed.

And on the first Saturday of the month, at exactly seven thirty in the evening, Mydei had showed up at the stepping stones next to the Janus bridge with a bouquet of flowers he’d carefully arranged himself, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. And he’d waited.

And waited.

He’d waited until the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its final, dying rays of light across the city. He’d waited as the evening grew cool and the lights began to glitter on the water, and a light drizzle began to fall, soaking into the wool of his jacket. He waited until a cold, hollow realisation had settled deep in his bones, a truth he could no longer ignore.

You weren’t coming.

You’d never shown up. And that, Mydei thinks, is the real reason he will never be able to move on. Because the true agony wasn’t in missing you, or mourning the time you’d spent together. It was the way that things never truly ended. Perhaps it would have been easier, to let go of things if the two of you had fought. But you’d woken up early that morning and made him those uneven pancakes with too much syrup that he secretly loved, kissed him probably a hundred times between the beach and the airport, and sent him off with a smile.

“Go,” you'd mouthed, waving vigorously from the departure gate. You’d been smiling, that wide and unrestrained grin that he’d fallen in love with. “I’ll see you soon.”

What happened? Mydei had asked himself in the days, weeks, months that had followed. When did things start to go wrong? Was it something that I did? What did I do wrong?

He's replayed every moment, over and over, searching for an answer. But he never finds one, try as he might. And that is, perhaps, the cruelest torture of all.

Phainon looks at him again. For a moment, it almost seems as if he’s going to speak, before his shoulders slump forward, defeated by Mydei’s stubbornness. He tries one last time. “You need to let it go, Mydei. For your own sake.”

Mydei knows that he’s right. That he’s pining after a summer long gone, the memory of a ghost who exists only in his memory. But his thumb finds the cheap metal band on his left hand, and suddenly, the illusion of rationality vanishes like smoke.

“I can’t.”

The click of your apartment door locking behind you is impossibly loud. You lean against it for a moment, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the almost frantic heat still racing beneath your skin. The image has seared itself onto the back of your eyelids — Mydei in that sharp suit, his face a mask of stunned realisation. Recognition. The determined, almost desperate that he had cut through the crowd in his attempt to reach you.

Helena?

You don’t know why you’d thought that you would never see him again. It had always been a possibility, of course. Okhema might be big, but it is still only one city. But you’d always avoided that park and that river, like it was the plague — still cowardly, still afraid, nothing at all like the bold and bright facade you’d worn in Carmitis.

Helena.

You push off the door, movements stiff. Dropping your bag on the floor, you make a beeline straight for the kitchen sink to splash some cold water on your face. It doesn’t help. The adrenaline is still coursing you, leaving an uncomfortable, hollow unease in its wake.

You need to know.

Your laptop is still sitting where you’d left it this morning and you grab it, dropping to the floor to sit with your back to the sofa. The device whirs to life too slowly for your liking, its glow a small window of light in your dim apartment. You type two words into the search bar with shaking fingers.

Mydei. Kremnos.

The first result on the search engine reads ‘Kremnos Engineering: Leadership’. You swallow, but click on it anyway. The link takes you to the company’s official website, and the page is filled with professional headshots — a gallery of important looking men and women in immaculate suits. You’ve barely scrolled down once when you see him again.

In the photograph, his hair is shorter, just slightly more tamed. The suit is expensive, but it’s the authority that he’s wearing — with the effortless ease of someone used to wielding it — that really makes him stand out. You aren’t looking at Mydei. This is the CTO of Kremnos Engineering, a multinational corporation worth hundreds of billions of dollars.

A complete stranger.

But his eyes are the same. The same ones you’d kept your gaze fixed on, even as you’d clutched at the surfboard under you, terrified by the lack of balance and control. He hadn’t laughed, or even teased — just grasped your hand, his touch an anchor amidst the waves. Keep your eyes on me, he’d said, voice calm amidst the rolling crash of seawater. I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me.

CTO of Kremnos Engineering. You repeat the title in your head, testing its weight. Some part of you had guessed that he was successful — it’d been evident in the way he’d spoken about his work, how easily he’d spoken about staying another month with you. There had always been a laser sharp intensity about him, but it’d been buried under his laid back, unbothered exterior.

Mydei never went into depth when speaking about his job, and you’d deliberately chosen not to pry for details. He hadn’t brought it up again.

After a second of hesitation, you click on his photo, eyes scanning quickly over his bio. There is a laundry list of awards, acquisitions, accolades. The chasm between the man here and the one you’d known feels as deep as the ocean itself.

You shut your laptop. Something aches quietly in your chest.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself. We’ve gone our separate ways, now. None of this matters anymore.

The dark screen just stares back at you, silent.

The email arrives a week later.

You stare at the notification in your inbox for a solid ten minutes, a bomb nestled between spam emails and subscription notices, before you finally click on it. Your heart is racing in your chest. You brace yourself for polite rejection — the standard “thank you for your time, but unfortunately we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate” response — but you don’t see it, much to your surprise. It isn’t a rejection.

It’s an offer.

A generous one, at that. You read the numbers once, then twice, almost in disbelief. The salary is substantial, the benefits comprehensive, and every review you’ve read points to a positive company culture. It feels almost too good to be true.

Yet, one detail casts a shadow over it all.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you try to think of an appropriate reply and come up with none. You end up delaying your response for a day, torn between hesitation and practicality before the fear of them rescinding the offer wins out.

You accept, of course. You have to. It’s the most promising, stable career opportunity you’ve ever had, even compared to your past jobs. You will seize the opportunity, carve out a new chapter of life for yourself, start over the right way this time.

And you will never, ever let Mydei see you.

The strategy is simple. You arrive early and leave late, timing your movements to avoid the main flow of human traffic. You learn where the back stairwells are, the floors accessible by the service elevators. Your desk is on one of the lower floors, far from the executive suites at the top — a comfortable distance, or so you tell yourself.

Still, close calls are inevitable.

The first time happens in the main lobby, a week into your new job. You’re stepping towards the security gantry, looking forward to heading home after a couple hours of overtime, when you see him. The lobby is empty, and he’s coming straight towards you. Your heart lurches into your throat.

You drop your head, pretending to be completely absorbed in fumbling for your access card in your bag. He passes through the gantry next to yours, the electronic beep a sharp punctuation to your panic. The moment he’s clear, you lurch out of the building, the cool autumn evening doing nothing to slow the frantic race of your heart.

The second time is worse.

You’re running late for a meeting, moving full speed towards the elevator just as the doors begin to slide shut. You lunge forward, manage to catch them with an outstretched hand, and stumble inside — breathless and triumphant — until you see who’s already there.

Mydei is standing next to the lift panel, phone pressed to his ear. The doors close behind you. It’s too late to escape.

Fortunately, he doesn't seem to pay much attention to you, brow furrowed as he speaks. He sounds like he’s in a serious conversation. You clutch your folder like a shield and retreat to the far corner of the lift, desperately digging in your pocket for your face mask. Your hand shakes a little as you yank it on, all too aware of his presence in this small, enclosed space.

Only after the lift begins its ascent does Mydei end his call. He tucks it in his pocket, glances at the panel. The silence is deafening.

“Floor?” he asks, and you nearly jump. His voice is still that low, familiar timbre, but you’ve never heard it so detached or professionally polite before. It’s… strange.

You blurt the first number that pops into your head. “Thank you,” you mumble, hoping that you sound believably congested behind your mask. He presses the button for you without a comment, just a nod. And the moment the doors open, you’re gone — fleeing into the corridor before the thought of looking back can even form.

It’s a cat-and-mouse game, one that only you are aware that both two of you are playing. A draining, constant vigilance, but for the job, the stability — you can endure it.

Even if it means having to see him again.

The city at night has a different rhythm — a quieter pulse you’ve grown accustomed to during your covert comings and goings. Walking home takes fifteen minutes longer than the bus, but it’s a good time to get some steps in and also decompress, to shed the tension of a day spent hiding in plain sight.

You cross through the park near the city center, and turn into a narrow side street lined with small late-night shops. You’re passing by a dimly lit bar —- the kind that spills warm light onto the pavement with muffled jazz tunes coming from behind closed doors — when a familiar silhouette behind the window catches your eye.

Your steps falter.

Slumped over a wooden table and surrounded by a small army of empty shot glasses is Mydei. You barely recognise him like this — head buried in his arms and shoulders slumped over as if in defeat, golden hair spilling over his shoulders. His jacket is discarded next to him. He looks nothing like the poised and decisive CTO of the company you now belong to, nor like the man you’d spent the most beautiful summer of your life with in Carmitis.

You stand there for a long moment. The Mydei you’d known had barely touched alcohol. A single beer in the evening, sipped slowly as the sun set, had already toed at his limit. He’d always said that he liked to keep his head clear — though the underlying stiffness in his tone had always hinted at some negative experience with it in his past. So, for him to be here in a bar, in this state…

Before your mind can catch up, your hands are already pushing open the door, your feet carrying you inside. The air is thick with the smell of whiskey and old wood. You move cautiously, afraid to disturb the stillness surrounding him, and slide into the chair opposite.

He looks like he’s out cold, his breathing deep and even. Up close, he looks closer to his age than he usually does — the sharp lines of his regular expression softened by sleep, a hazy flush to his cheeks from the alcohol. Your eyes drift to his hand, resting loosely on the table. A breath catches in your throat when you see it.

The ring is nothing fancy — just a simple, cheap band, its finish worn and scratched. But you find yourself staring at the little silver accessory, a painful lump forming in your throat. Slowly, as if pulled in by a magnet, you find yourself reaching out. Your fingers hover for a moment, hesitant, before they graze over that cool, familiar metal — so gently it barely counts as a touch.

The moment your finger brushes the ring, though, Mydei’s body stiffens. You freeze like a deer in headlights, your own recklessness crashing down on you like cold water. What are you doing? This is a line you will never be able to uncross.

But it’s already too late. Mydei stirs, a slurred sound escaping him as he sits up, a little unsteady. His eyes are heavy lidded, swimming in a thick haze as they scan the table in front of him, before they finally settle on you. You swallow hard, bracing for the inevitable.

He doesn’t startle. Instead, Mydei just squints at you — your boring work clothes, your dull haircut, your unsmiling face — for a few, agonisingly long seconds. Then he lets out a weary groan and drags a hand down his face, fingers scraping roughly against the stubble along his jaw.

“Another dream,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. You watch as his gaze drifts to the scattered shot glasses littering the table, his brow furrowing as he struggles to count them. “Fuck… how many did I have this time…”

The casualness of his statement undoes you. “What are you doing here, De?” you ask softly, careful not to break the fragile spell. Mydei stares at you for a moment with that stilted, unfocused gaze, before looking down at the table again as if the glasses hold the answer.

“I was waiting for you,” he says. The words are slightly slurred but simple, matter-of-fact. Quiet dread pools in your chest.

“Waiting for me where?”

“At the Janus bridge,” he answers, looking almost offended — as though it should have been obvious. “We agreed to meet at eight o’clock on the first Saturday of the month, at the stepping stones next to the Janus Bridge.” He recites all of this, a mantra memorised by heart. Then he glances down at his watch, squinting, before looking back at you, expression bleary. An unsteady laugh escapes him. “It’s… it’s not Saturday today, though.”

You draw in a breath you don’t quite feel. “Mydei… that was over a year ago.”

Mydei nods slowly. “I know.” He blinks, looking utterly lost. “The first time you didn’t show up, I thought maybe you’d just forgotten the date, so I came the next week. Then I thought maybe you’d forgotten the time, so I came in the morning. And then I came the week after that, and the week after that…”

He trails off, his brow furrowing as if he’s reaching for a thought that keeps slipping through his fingers. “But you didn’t show up.” His voice turns soft, almost fractured. “Not for the last twenty three times.”

The number hangs in the air between the two of you. Twenty three Saturdays. Twenty three times he had gone to that riverbank, waiting for a meeting that would never come. For a person who didn’t exist.

His words send a sharp ache through your chest. You hear your own voice even before you know that you’re speaking. “Mydeimos,” you say softly, almost pleading. “Can’t you just forget about me?”

He looks up at you then — eyes unblinking, unfocused, stripped bare by the alcohol — and it’s like staring straight into the festering wound you’ve left in him. “How?” he asks, and the word comes out raw, almost like a plea. “How do I do that?” He tilts his left hand, the cheap band there glinting dully under the bar’s dim light. “Look. We got married. I’m yours.”

“We did that as a joke—”

“No.” The denial comes instantly and Mydei lurches forward to glare at you, the look in golden eyes almost fierce. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “No, it wasn’t a joke to me.” His voice drops to a whisper as he presses his hand to his chest, fingers clenched into a fist. “I’ve never taken this off. Not even once.”

“Why?” Why keep wearing that cheap token? Why continue clinging to the ghost of a promise that should have long since faded? Why do something so ridiculous?

He looks at you as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you said not to,” Mydei answers. “Because you said it was important.”

The memory, hazy and half-forgotten, crashes into you like a breaking wave. You had said it. Laughing, tangled in the sheets of his trailer bed, tracing the ring on his finger. “Don’t ever take this off, okay? It’s important. It means you’re mine,” you’d laughed, kissing him on the nose. You’d meant it as a flirtation, a possessive joke in the heat of a perfect moment. Okay, he’d answered.

Mydei had taken it as a vow.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words feeling woefully inadequate. “I’m a terrible person.”

You are, by every definition of the word. You’d dragged him along on your silly adventure of make-believe for two months, then discarded him the moment it ended. No explanation. No contact. You’d left your courage behind in Carmitis — along with the name Helena. And because of that, you’d convinced yourself that Mydei would get over you quickly. That he might worry at first, then grow angry when he realized the truth (you wince at the thought), but he would eventually let go and move on.

You couldn’t have predicted that he would be so stubborn about it. So unwilling to let the memory of you fade. If you had known he would be like this, perhaps you would have done things differently. Not ended it sooner — you were too selfish for that, even then — but perhaps in some other, kinder way.

Mydei stares at you for a long, heavy moment, his hazy eyes searching yours. Then he gives a single, slow nod.

“You are.”

The confirmation is blunt — stripped of malice, worn thin by exhaustion. He picks up the last shot glass and downs it in one motion, wincing as it burns its way down his throat. When he looks back at you, his smile is a wry, defeated thing — lopsided and sluggish, like a man trying to remember how to wear one.

“So, Helena,” he slurs slightly, “how have you been? Have you been doing well?”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening around the name. “Here and there.”

He presses his lips together. “Good,” he says after a beat — then shakes his head, the pleasant facade crumbling as fast as it was built. “Actually, I hate it. I hate that you’re doing okay.”

You manage a watery, broken laugh. “That’s not very nice.”

“I can’t sleep,” Mydei says bluntly. The words tumble out of him like a confession. “When I do, it’s not well. I look at the sky and think of how you used to point out their shapes. I try to surf, and I remember teaching you to catch the waves. I bury myself in work, and I can’t focus.” He meets your gaze, and the pain in his eyes is so raw it feels like it wounds you just to look at him. “I hate it. I hate you.”

Your mouth twists, searching for something — anything — to say. Instead, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down your cheek. Mydei watches it, his expression a miserable cocktail of hurt and regret. The anger drains from him as quickly as it had surfaced, leaving only a profound helplessness in its wake.

After a few seconds, his face crumples. He reaches out, his hand unsteady, and with a clumsy thumb wipes the tear from your cheek. “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I’m sorry for saying I hated you. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t cry.”

The gentleness of his touch, so at odds with his harsh words, undoes you completely. Even drunk, even heartbroken, his first instinct is still to comfort you.

A sob breaks free before you can swallow it back, then another, until you are crying in earnest, your shoulders shaking. His fingers wipe clumsily at your tears, but they only make them fall faster, rolling down your cheeks. Mydei looks utterly helpless as he stares at you, his own pain forgotten in the face of yours.

“Hey… no.” His voice is hoarse with a mixture of drink and emotion. Before you can process it, his hand is at your elbow, tugging gently, coaxing you up from your chair. You stumble around the table and he gathers you into his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

You collapse into him, your face buried in the familiar scent of him as you cry into his shirt. His arms are a solid anchor in the storm, one hand patting slowly at your back while the other strokes your hair.

“Don’t cry,” he says again, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles on your back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. Don’t cry.” The words are a knife, twisting between your ribs. None of it was his fault. None of it is his fault. But the truth sticks in your throat, lodged somewhere deep, impossible to dislodge.

So, you don’t speak. Instead, you just cling to him — the man you’d hurt, the man who still embraces you like you’re something precious — letting him hold you together, despite being the one who’d broken his heart.

A hand on his shoulder shakes him awake.

Mydei looks up blearily from the polished wood of the table. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, and there’s an incessant throbbing in his skull. Phainon is standing over him, arms crossed and face set in a mask of concerned frustration.

Mydei just groans, tries to lower his head back down. “How did you—”

“Someone called me from your phone,” Phainon mutters, dragging him upright and slinging one of Mydei’s arms over his shoulder. Mydei’s vision swims a little. “Said you were ‘out of it’ and needed a ride home. Didn’t give a name.” His friend shakes his head in disbelief as the two of them exit the bar. “What were you thinking, drinking alone like this? Look at the state of you.”

Mydei lets himself be steered to the car parked at the curb, his mind a foggy mess. A vague memory tugs at him — a familiar voice, strained and wet with tears, fingers curling in his shirt. But try as hard as he can, it remains just out of reach, like a phantom that he can’t quite touch.

Phainon bundles him into the passenger seat unceremoniously, the lecture continuing unabated even as he rounds the car to get into the driver’s seat. “... and you’re lucky it was a decent person who helped you and not some thief or scammer,” he mutters as he starts the engine. “What would you have done then, huh?”

Mydei presses his cheek against the cold car window, watching as the streetlights streak past, each one a blurry smear of orange against the dark. Phainon’s voice continues, a steady, grumbling drone from the driver’s seat. “…a whole year, Mydei. It’s not healthy. You have to let this go.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mydei mumbles, the words slurring out before he can stop them. “Haven’t you and your partner broken up, like… eleven times already?”

Phainon’s hands still on the wheel. The car falls into a sudden, suffocating quiet, broken only by the hum of the engine.

The haze in his mind clears, just enough for guilt to seep in. Mydei opens his mouth to apologise, but Phainon beats him to it. “Twelve, actually.” He lets out a soft laugh that’s tinged with wry defeat. “She broke up with me again last week.”

Phainon doesn’t say more after that, but he doesn’t have to. Mydei presses his lips together and turns to stare out of the window, affording his friend the privacy of his own silence. What a pair of fools they make, he thinks to himself with bitter humour. One clinging on to a summer long gone, and the other to a love that never seems to stay.

His eyes drop to the ring sitting on his finger. The two of you had been walking along the beach hand in hand, when you’d spotted a couple posing for pre-wedding photos, a photographer directing them against the setting sun. You’d squeezed his hand tight and laughed. “A wedding would be fun,” you’d said, your tone light, joking. “Just us. No fuss.”

He’d kept his voice equally light, not wanting to scare you off with the sudden, fierce intensity of his own longing. “We could do it tomorrow.”

And so you had. You’d worn a simple, flowing sundress, the colour of the sea at dusk while Mydei had put on the only nice shirt and trousers he’d packed, feeling both ridiculous and more serious than he ever had in his life. The rings came from a souvenir shack — simple, silver-coloured bands that would probably turn your fingers green. It didn’t matter.

You’d stood before him, with the waves crashing behind you and the gulls crying overhead, and spoken your vows. Ones that you’d come up with the night before, written onto the back of a dinner receipt — to kiss him whenever you wanted to, to steal every single one of his shirts, and to love him until the sea no longer touched the shore. And in turn, Mydei had promised himself — every part of the man that he was — to you.

“I’m yours,” he’d said. And the second he’d slipped the ring onto your finger, he’d kissed you — not a chaste peck, but a deep, claiming kiss that had tasted of you’re the one and I love you more than words and forever. You’d melted against him, laughing, hands clinging to his shoulders as if you never wanted to let go. A group of passing tourists had whooped and cheered, but he had barely even heard them. In that moment, there was just you.

Only you.

“It wasn’t a fling.”

Phainon glances over, but Mydei doesn’t elaborate. He just stares ahead, closing his hand into a fist, and lets the familiar shape of the metal band etch itself into his skin.

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